Photo: Gregor_y

The snow had been pouring down for a day and a half. St Anton was more or less buried. Gigantic bulldozers shovelled enormous amounts of snow into the river, with no discernible effect. Everything was covered with several metres of powder snow. According to the forecast on the local radio, only the bottommost cabin lift would be open. And the weather really wasn’t fit for skiing. The mountain tops were enveloped in storms, and down here in the valley the snow was still coming down like there was no tomorrow. The visibility approached zero.

Nevertheless, there we were, a small group of skiers, with 5-7 centimetres of snow already covering our caps and helmets, waiting for the lift to open. This was more of an instinctive reaction than any kind of belief in a day of fantastic skiing. Then the door opened and we scrambled into the cabin. On the way up we regarded each other with a maybe-we-should-have-stayed-at-home look on our faces. Nobody said anything, but I think we all regretted our decision. The wind was howling and the cabin shook, rattled and rolled and hit the masts on the way. Yikes!

Photo: Gregor_y

Then we stood in the snow outside the halfway station. Nobody said anything, because it would have been impossible to hear anything anyway. It would be no good to attempt a run down the piste, which was exposed to the raging elements. And we would most likely get lost at that. Then Søren, who previously had worked as a guide in the area and therefore knew his way around, waved at us, turned around and disappeared over a truly terrifying ledge. We slowly approached the abyss and looked directly down onto the top of a dense spruce forest. Through the howling wind we heard Søren screaming, not from pain, but from something that sounded suspiciously like joy.

Photo: Gregor_y

One by one we let ourselves slip over the edge (which wasn’t as dangerous as it had seemed initially), and after a couple of sightless seconds with snow whipping into our faces, we found ourselves standing together in a forest so dense that we seemed to be indoors. The wind was suddenly almost inaudible, and before us was metres upon metres of the finest powder snow ever (at least in Europe). The run through was forest was steep – very steep. The silence of the forest was broken by seven simultaneous exclamations. Each of us set off with screams of joy. We flew downwards, downwards through the trees, and we only paused when leg muscles or throats became overheated and needed a break.

Photo: Solarthermeinator

Once in a while I, or one of the others, did lose control, of course, and hit a tree. But with a blanket of to metres of newly fallen snow beneath (and to a certain degree over) our skis, it didn’t matter. The snow we pushed in front of us worked like a natural airbag – a soft impact and a lot of laughs from the others. We went up again and again. And suddenly the storm was on our side, because every time we emerged from the halfway station, our tracks were covered. Nobody could see where we’d run. We had the secret forest all to ourselves. We whooped and laughed like small children building a fort for the first time. Only our fort was a kilometre long, steep and filled with fabulous snow. I don’t remember eating lunch that day. We just went up and down like seven foolishly sniggering yo-yos. And every time we stood in the lift on our way to yet another run, we tried to come up with new superlatives to describe our happiness.

If this story must have a morale, it must be something like this: The weather doesn’t have to be picture postcard perfect in order for a ski trip to be a success. Even storms, fog or snow may contain the potential for a fantastic experience. There is just one requirement: Do not engage in stormy off-piste runs without the proper equipment and good friends. Especially the latter is vital – both in terms of joy and security.

By Thomas Uhrskov

Go further: Read here about how meditation and tai-chi make you a better skier and click here to find out about the best ski resorts for the Christmas traveller.

In the fall of 1971 a group of young locals climb through the fences overtaking an abandoned military site and proclaimed it the Free Town of Christiania in protest against the acute housing shortage in Copenhagen. Christiania is in that sense a product of the sixties revolutionary youth and squatter movement. The government was somewhat baffled about the whole situation, but in 1973 Christiania was labeled a ‘social experiment’. During the years Christiania has been an arena of contest between supporters and opponents, but somehow it has managed to survive for more than 30 years, in no small part because of a wide support from the public.

Christiania 

Photo by Morteno

Written by Ulla Sauerberg, editor of the book The CPH Guide

For two years I worked as a tourist guide showing visitors all the splendors that Copenhagen has to offer. The blockbuster of the tour was never The Little Mermaid or New Harbour, but Christiania: A place (in)famous for being a social experiment of alternative lifestyle but especially for its main attraction, Pusher Street, due to the hundreds of stalls openly selling hash.

Photo by Morteno

Nowadays Pusher Street no longer exists. The hash stands were torn down in January 2004, and Pusher Street has been sarcastically renamed Copper Street because of the many raids and the number of police men present. That’s not to say that you can’t buy cannabis, the market has just become much less open.

Although the character of its main street has completely changed, Christiania is still well worth a visit because it is - and always has been - so much more than Pusher Street.

Photo by Ulla Sauerberg

In Christiania you’ll find everything from the minimal wooden shack to circus wagons built together and even a house built like a UFO. Unsurprisingly you can buy several books on Christiania’s alternative architecture, its “shabby chic” interior design and plenty of information on its long and colorful history.

Photo by Ulla Sauerberg

When going to Christiania, just remember that it isn’t Disneyland. It wasn’t built to satisfy tourists. This is a place where people actually live and work. On my guided tours I’ve experienced visitors complaining that the locals are unfriendly and unaccommodating. But it’s important to understand that sometimes the locals get slightly annoyed with tourists invading their private space or taking their pictures as if they were animals in a zoo.

Photo by Ulla Sauerberg

Please don’t take photographs in Christiania, at least not around the main streets or of the people without at least having the common decency to ask for permission. As one Christianite put it, it’s not so terribly fun coming out of the communal showers only to find 15 tourists taking pictures through the windows …

Is it safe? That’s a question I’ve been asked a lot. Yes, in my humble opinion. At least I’ve never experienced any unpleasantness as long as you respect the given boundaries. If anything, people are just stoned and thereby pretty harmless.

Photo by Morteno

It is important to stress that Christiania has always been highly controversial. To the supporters the community is a symbol of social latitude, creativity, openness and an alternative way of life. To the opponents Christiania mocks the rules of society (and many are perhaps displeased with the fact that it sits on such a prime piece of Copenhagen real estate?).

Photo by Ulla Sauerberg

In the spring 2004 the Danish Parliament passed a bill stating that Christiania should be “normalized”, which among other things means that many of the odd self-built houses on the embankments are to be torn down. The negotiations between Christiania and the state have been going on for more than four years now, and nobody knows exactly what the future will bring and how many houses are to be cleared.

Photo by Morteno

One thing is for sure though: If you want to experience Christiania before it becomes too ‘normalized’, then take a day off to explore the area.

There is an official guided tour every Sat-Sun at 3pm, daily in the summer period, that leave from the main entrance. The tour costs 30 DKK (approx.4 EUR) and is mostly concentrated around down-town Christiania.

www.christiania.org 

Extract from the book The CPH Guide edited by Ulla Sauerberg and published by Nyt Nordisk Forlag. 

On our way down the gently sloping hillside’s pristine powder snow, we suddenly meet two other skiers. For several days the weather has been overcast, with snow and fresh breezes, but today everything is picture postcard perfect.

“What a lovely day, and such wonderful snow!” I say in my less-than-perfect French. “Yes, but Sainte Foy is always like this,” one of them answers. “And no other people at all!” “True, but don’t tell anybody. We’d like to keep it to ourselves,” he grins and scoots off in a series of impeccable little turns through the deep snow. I never get the chance to reply, and therefore I’m not obliged to keep the secret of Sainte Foy. I’m free to write these lines.

Right in the middle of France’s Olympic ski resort near Albertville, surrounded by Val d’Iséré, Tignes, Les Arcs and La Rosière, a tiny town complete with a small ski area can be found. Both are named Sainte Foy Tarentaise. Anyone who has been to Val d’Iséré or Tignes has driven through the little town, situated a mere 15 kilometres from Val d’Iséré.

Photo: Gliesh

But just driving through is a shame. To be perfectly blunt: it’s stupid not to spend a day or two in the Sainte Foy-area, even though the number of ski lifts is quite limited. Everything else is found in abundance, however. Charm, well-kept pistes, amazing off-piste possibilities (do not leave the pistes without a guide, though), no waiting in line at the lifts, and even more charm.

Allow me to return to the matter of lines at the lifts: when the lift operators aren’t taking in the wonderful view of Mont Blanc and the national park La Vanoise, they are rather bored. There isn’t a whole lot to do, as a matter of fact. On a beautiful off-season day there may be 50-60 skiers in the entire area, an area with ample room for 50 times as many.

As for instance the two pisteurs who enjoy the sunshine at 2620 metres, where the uppermost four-seated chair lift ends: we’ve passed by and said hello a dozen times, and it’s part of the ambience in Sainte Foy that people take the time to chat. “Weren’t you here last year?” one of the lift operators ask. “Yes, but only for a single day. Amazing that you remember that, but that’s probably because of the limited number of skiers here. Do you ever get lines at the lifts?”

His face fills with laughter lines as he answers: “Well, we did have a day with people waiting in lines – that was great! We really enjoyed it.” It should be mentioned that a ‘line’ in Sainte Foy is defined as a situation with more than two or three skiers waiting for the lift at the same time.

Photo: Gliesh

But what is the reason for the absence of skiers? The primary reason is that most ski tourists go for the big, exclusive and above all well-known destinations. That’s where the travel agencies let the tourists off the busses. Moreover, Sainte Foy is too small a place to become widely known. Environmentalists and conservationists have obstructed plans for additional lifts. A blessing in disguise, because that’s precisely why Sainte Foy has been able to retain the charm and simplicity that the larger, commercial ski resorts have lost.

Two restaurants are situated where the first lift ends and the second commences. That is, they’re called restaurants, even though ‘cabins’ would be a more appropriate term. Stone, wooden beams and hard work created ‘Les Brevettes’ and ‘Chez Leon’ several years ago. If one of the places is fully booked, try the other one. The food is splendidly prepared and very good, and if you contrary to expectation aren’t satisfied at the end of your meal, second helpings are available.

By Thomas Urhskov

Go further: Read here about how meditation and tai-chi make you a better skier and click here to read about Marko's life as a ski bum in the Alps.

Twenty years ago, when my temperament was fiery and my thigh muscles were stronger, I loved freestyle skiing on really humpy pistes. I still do, as a matter of fact; I’ve just become more careful. Back then, in the mid-1980’s, I suffered from the youthful misconception that quantity mattered more than quality. That meant that I scrambled up and down the pistes incessantly. I often ate my lunch on the lifts in order to squeeze another run or two out of the day.

Photo: Fcappe

Even though I worked as a ski instructor and skied every day, I couldn’t get enough. But then I met Bjørn. A weird, awkward man, who thought we had all lived before. He was on first-name terms with the stars (those in sky, that is), he did tai-chi exercises in his room, and claimed that I would benefit from “being more present in the moment”.

I smiled, but regarded his words as pure drivel. Skiing and meditation have never had anything in common, I thought. And then I stopped thinking about it altogether. The next day was a Saturday, a day off for me. As usual I was waiting impatiently for the lift to open so that I could spend the day on my favourite freestyle piste.

The day was perfect. The sun had the sky to itself, the snow was light, the temperature was minus three Celsius and the freestyle piste before me was, as usual on a Saturday, more or less empty. My entire body tickled when I set off. And on this Saturday twenty years ago I had the run of a lifetime.

Photo: Loutron Glouton

At high speeds I danced and tumbled rhythmically down the slope. Perhaps it sounds silly, but I became part of the mountain. The rhythm came from a place within me. I didn’t think, I just let my body work. It felt as if I was outside myself; I simply floated in the air, watching myself ski. There was no one else on the piste, but for once I didn’t care about the lack of audience.

When I stood at the end of the run gasping for air, I was practically ecstatic. My first impulse was of course to dash back up and have another go, but I didn’t. Maybe that was because of Bjørn and his talk of meditation, but without consciously wanting to, I pointed my skis downward, toward the valley and the nearest restaurant. There I sat sipping a café au lait for hours. When I closed my eyes, I relived my run again and again. At exactly because I didn’t rush back up immediately, that particular skiing experience became one of the most memorable of my extensive skiing life.

These days I have long since been convinced that true skiing takes place in your head, your heart or your stomach. Technically it’s no harder to learn to ski than it is to learn to walk, and most of us do that effortlessly. To me, the conclusion of that day is that the more you practise feeling, sensing and experience your skiing, the more joy you’ll derive from it. People who only think of measuring themselves against others or their own previous achievements run the risk of missing the tremendous thrills hidden somewhere beneath your skis.

If you think this all sounds somewhat contrived, try to remember two instances from earlier ski holidays. One in which you’ve just had an argument with your spouse, girlfriend, boyfriend or your children, and one in which you, for whatever reason, have been happy. I’m willing to bet you a ski pole that your technique was vastly superior the day when you were happy. So: If you want to improve your skiing, forget about technique and focus on being happy and present in the moment. It’s as easy as that.

Written by Thomas Uhrskov

Go further: Read here about Marko's life as ski bum in the Alps.