“Ok so what you can see behind me is the Valhalla Couloir?”
I look behind and see what can only be described as a vertical drop with only rocks to cushion my fall. We had come off the Madloch chairlift out of Zurs and were dropping and traversing our way towards Lech.
“In order to get down we need to begin my sliding horizontally down this narrow passage”
I look down, I can see no passage, just rocks and my imminent death lurking menacingly behind. With a little more investigation I see patches of snow which I assume are to be skied upon.
“You are more than competent for this Rosie, so you just have to trust me”
Its not that I don’t trust his ability to get down there alive, its more my confidence in getting to the bottom without triggering an avalanche, or a mountain goat, irate for dropping in to his quiet place uninvited.
“I have assessed the avalanche risk and I have decided that this is the best time for us, it is the morning and the snowpack looks sufficiently stable”
How about my bowels? Because I can tell you for one that they are the opposite to stable and the risk of them cascading down the couloir is high.
“So just follow me and do EXACTLY as I do, and enjoy it”
“Enjoy” it, ENJOY it!! Ha! Now that is not a word I often here used when people describe their near death experiences, the level of pleasure or enjoyment whilst trying to breathe and not defecate all over oneself is not one of my priorities.
Then we go, leaving the safety of the piste behind us, we drop down and edge cautiously into the wider part of the couloir. By the time we reach this I am feeling slightly more at ease of skiing this back country, which is so far beyond my comfort zone that I would need GPS to find it again.
It is undeniably stunning but this is not something you can truly appreciate when you are concentrating on staying in complete control of your skis on this ungroomed and sketchy terrain. Avoiding the rocks dusted with snow , crevasses and carcasses of skiers-from-years-past takes a huge amount of mental and physical attention. With this in mind you feel like you are skiing, all your trust is on your noble ski equipment, on your muscles, on the mountain and most importantly, in your own ability.
With the bitter alpine wind in your face, your calf muscles burning, your heartbeat racing, you use every tip and advice from previous ski instructors, to successfully descend down this steep and hostile back country. When you reach the bottom of the first section, unclip your skis, throw your hands above your head, turn around and thank your lucky stars that you have made it down alive. It is only when I reach the bottom that I can inhale the enormity of what we had just done. I had never doubted that I was capable of skiing but I had concerns and doubts about our safety and whether or not we could be considered as negligent and reckless.
Once you stop hearing your blood pounding you realise the only noises in the valley is the wind whipping across the peaks. We just stood for a while, watching and listening, gathering our breath back (I hadn’t bothered with breathing after I first looked down from the piste at the top), then clipped back into our bindings and continued.
The last part of our route took us alongside a stream and so the skiing was non demanding,and you could let the gentle gradient take the strain, a welcome break to our burning muscles. The only concentration required was to not ski straight into the stream, after the mental and physical exhaustion it would be no surprise to me if I allowed my attention to slip and thus find myself waist high in a refreshingly cool alpine stream.
The route continues down towards the small and sleepy village of Zug. There is little in Zug, blink and you’d miss it, but a small bar with dog walkers and posers is all that you need to have a sit down and a beverage. The perfect opportunity to study the piste map and plan your next adrenaline rush.
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