The Purpose of Nature · 2006-03 Switzerland

Nature gives at times the impression of having been arranged for our benefit. Evidence of God, you might think, but Kant says it is just human cognition ascribing purposiveness to nature in order to make sense of it. Here, for example, I am looking out the window 10 000m and my immediate impression is of a place purpose-built for skiing. Never mind that skiing hadn’t even been thought of back when the massive collision pressures between the African and Eurasion landmasses created the Alps some 20–30m years ago.

Genève is the perfect gateway to this paradise, because it is situated at the confluence of two rivers that flow from the Alps. The Rhône originates in the Swiss canton of Valais and then pours into the Eastern side of Lac Lemán (Lake Geneva) where it drops its sediments before emerging clear and pure here on the Western side. The Arve, flowing into it here, has its source in the French département of Haute-Savoie.

Heading up along the lake, and following the Rhône upstream, I reach Sion, capital of the Valais, and home town of my friend Frédéric Favre, who I hope will teach me the essential nature of skiing. A true Valaisian like Fred will tell you that despite the idyllic appearance of this place, existence in this rugged mountain valley has been a hard struggle for centuries. I’m skeptical. Having 121 ski resorts in a canton half the geographical size of Sydney doesn’t sound like struggling to me.

Here at Crans Montana we are testing the pleasure-interpretation of skiing. Catch the lift up; maniac back down the mountain; repeat. A banal, Sisyphean, status-seeking affectation of the bored European upper class? No. It’s pure pleasure.

Slopes and skiing conditions turn out to be quite acceptable. Surely this—a pure and healthy pleasure, exhilarating speed and natural splendor, mountain air, pleasant exertion—is what skiing is all about. It’s ennervating. The feeling is that there is nowhere you would rather be, (almost) nothing you would rather be doing.

Fred doesn’t disagree that this is fun, but he seems to know something I don’t. My inclination would be to say that this is the essence, that there is nothing better than this, that this is the whole point of the mountain. But Fred grew up amongst these mountains. He knows their inner secrets. He knows that this isn’t the true mountain at all, that we are just children here, playing in a kindergarten which we take for the real world.

These are the ski slopes of Nendaz, in the Quatre Vallées. We could spend a day on these slopes, doing what we did yesterday. But we won’t. We have something else in mind.

From the top of the ski resort, we head off the slopes into the untouched nature of the mountains. Our first major task for the day is then to climb this slope. On the full-size picture I have drawn arrows to indicate where you can see two people up on the mountain, one on the way up the track, and one already at the top going over the pass. Once you locate these two specks you get an idea how long these hills are. How do we walk up a hill like that? Ski-touring skis look and function superficially just like normal downhill skis, but the binding can switched such that our heels are freed and raised, like a cross-country binding. Underneath our skis we have to attach a sealskin (no longer made out of real seals) which is like a strip of carpet, with the pile pointing backwards, so that the ski can slide forwards, but not back. Gripping the snow like this, we can slide straight up the mountain.

I was expecting this first climb to be difficult, but it surprised me. The sliding motion is natural and easy, and very efficient because it uses the powerful muscles of the buttocks and hips, rather than the thighs. At the top, I am still with Fred, and feeling in good shape. I don’t realize that this is just the beginning.

Once you press on into the heart of the mountains, the first great mystery of ski touring reveals itself: the majesty of unspoilt nature. There is nothing manmade here, and no humans in sight. Stillness, silence, grandeur. This is a magical place, the most stunning example of the sublime in nature. Both pure and elevating.

But nature is not just sublime; it is deadly. We are skiing not on stable rock but on a glacier. This indentation in the snow indicates a crevasse, a fissure in the ice that could be deadly deep. Judging by the traces, some of those who have been skiing down on the other side have come uncomfortably close. Without Fred to guide me, it would be easy it run into difficulties up here.

Here is the third, longest, and final climb of the day. Fred, who you can see in the middle of the picture, has set off in front, not because he is rude, but because he is pushing me to keep up the pace, so that we can get back down the mountain before sunset. We’ve been heading up the mountain for over 3 hours, and now this last climb is more than an hour of continuous uphill. 3 000m is not particularly high for experienced mountaineers, but my heart is pounding furiously as it tries to pump enough oxygen around my body. Here the second great mystery of ski touring opens itself to me: the opportunity to discover one’s physical limits in a confrontation with the mountain.

Meanwhile, Fred takes a picture looking back down the mountain at me, alone amongst the mountains.

When I see Fred reaching the summit of Rose Blanche, I am wondering whether I am going to be crazy enough to climb on top of that peak myself.

You can’t see it too well from the picture, but just on the other side of the snow to my left, the mountain falls away sharply into nothing. Climbing my way up this last part, on snow and rock, in ski boots, is not really like anything I have done before. And here is the third and final great experience of the day opens itself to me: the sheer terror of falling off of a mountain. I take off my skis and start the final ascent, but on the final rocky part, where the mountain becomes disconcertingly thin, I find myself frozen with fear, sure that I am going to tumble into an abyss. I cry out to Fred, who is on the summit, chatting to his girlfriend on his mobile, pretending not to hear me. Eventually he shouts down to me some ancient Valaisian wisdom on how to scale dangerous summits: Bon courage ! This seems to fix the problem. Confronting death, I take the leap of faith, and stumble to the top.

This is what I look like when I have just spent 4 hours climbing mountains on skis, stretched to the limits of my physical endurance, short of breath at 3 300m and have just been scared witless by climbing onto the summit of a mountain for the first time in my life. Mountains in Australia are much older, which means that they aren’t pointy any more. Standing on a Swiss mountain is like standing on the tip of a pencil, and there is are no stairs leading up to the top, and no safety railing. The only concession they make is to plant this strange metal thing on the top, so that there is something to hang on to if it gets windy. Although there is no wind, it comforts me to hang on to it anyway.

There is a magnificent view from the top. In this shot you should be able to pick out the Matterhorn.

Our only remaining task for the day is to ski back down this valley.

Fred is considerably more relaxed than me about standing on top of a mountain.

Unfortunately for me, the most difficult part of the day is still to come. Going down is worse than going up. This descent is much more unsettling in reality than it appears in the photo. Fred, bless him, holds my feet most of the way down.

And now for the easy part, skiing down the valley. Skiing on deep powder takes some getting used to, but this is the best place to practice. You can see Fred down below me at the end of those trails in the snow. By letting Fred show the way and then following precisely in his tracks, I can avoid dying horribly by falling into crevasse or setting off an avalanche.