Flat-footed in St Moritz

GO SWITZERLAND:Recognising that there are a great many ski-phobics and rabid anti-skiers, more resorts are now offering snow-shoeing as a safe alternative to the thrills, spills and double fractures of downhilling, writes KEVIN PILLEY

MAKING SURE that my bottom was nice and “clean” and that I was “on the broom”, I pushed away from the hack. Thankfully my lead stone was no hog. However, at the moment of release I forgot to release and I slid along the ice. My stone and I parted company and, as my mouth filled with ice shavings, the stone veered left in an out-turn rather than an in-turn and “wick-ed” viciously off my instructor’s left boot. Hopscotching in pain, he lost balance and fell backwards into a 3ft snowdrift. Shortly afterwards he was taken to the hospital in St Moritz to have his broken toe dressed.

Consequently, I am not expecting a phone call from the Royal Caledonian Curling Club offering me a wild card invitation to one of its top bonspiels. Nor will be competing in the Jackson Cup or any of the other curling majors on the continent. I won’t be “drawing through port” for a long time to come. I learned an important lesson in Switzerland: curling is not as easy as it looks and curlers are born not made.

I detest skiing because I am abysmal at it. I am congenitally unable to enjoy a skiing holiday. After five attempts I have discovered that there is little any ski instructor in the world can do for me except look at me as if I am an aberration of nature. The mind, keen for endorphins, is willing but the lower torso refuses to co-operate. Being such a chronically unco-ordinated winter sports person, I was desperate to find some alpine activity that would allow me to remain vertical for more than two minutes. Curling seemed like a good idea.

St Moritz has five ice rinks and is considered by many to be the home of European curling. Most hotels, like the magnificent Suvretta House, offer introductory curling breaks. Mine was sadly abbreviated through my instructor going lame.

So I decided to flat-foot it instead. Recognising that there are a great many ski-phobics and rabid anti-skiers, more resorts are now offering snow-shoeing as a safe alternative to the thrills, spills and double fractures of downhilling. And extreme sports like curling.

Leo, who has choreographed ski stunts on several James Bond films, is a snowshoe safari guide in the Engadine mountains. He teaches people the joys of being flat-footed. “Snow-shoeing is very chic,” he says as I walked a little like Pinocchio behind him into the winter wonderland. “Listen to the silence. You have the mountain to yourself. On skis you are too wrapped up in yourself. You ignore the scenery. Snow-shoeing is the most relaxing winter pursuit there is. You are at one with nature. Enjoy the peace.” So I trudged on through my Jack London-meets-Marks Spencer frontiersman fantasy up into the mountains.

Several routes are available around St Moritz. Walks range from 5km to 15km, half day to full day depending on your speed and how many times you trip over your outsized feet. After about 500 gruelling yards and feeling the first manifestations of bunion sickness, I saw a mirage. “It’s a Yeti, it’s a Yeti,” I shouted, pointing towards a hairy figure in the distance. “It’s the abominable snowman,” I screamed, for a moment forgetting I was in Switzerland and not Tibet. Snowshoes can play cruel tricks on a man’s mind.

We made our way through the deep snow towards the figure. As we got closer I realised that it was neither a Yeti nor a yak but a bearded man holding out some wine glasses.

“May I introduce Renato,” said Leo, as we accepted some chilled Chianti and several slices of chamois salami. Renato has been hunting and curing wild animals in the Malojoa pass on the Swiss-Italian border since he was a child. His father taught him. He has also started up a profitable sideline of serving goat-like antelope snacks and refreshments to famished snowshoe excursionists from nearby St Moritz.

Thanking him for being such a St Bernard by providing much-needed aperitifs, we tramped off through the slush. The days of sticking a pair of wicker lacrosse racquets on your feet are long gone. Modern black canvas snowshoes are quite stylish although mastering a pair doesn’t quite give you the same adrenalin rush or sense of high speed adventure as skis do. Snowshoes aren’t for adrenalin junkies. They aren’t symbols of sexual potency either.

“Orgasmic” sniggered a sarcastic snowboarder as we trudged past. “Utterly awesome” chipped in another self-consciously “wicked” snow show-off as I made good progress in my debut snowshoe trek. “Ignore them” advised my coach, striding ahead through the sleet. “Most people treat snow-shoers as third-class citizens. But they don’t know what they are missing. Snowshoeing is cool. And just as good exercise as skiing.”

We put the Corviglia, Lagalb and Diavozza mountains behind us as well as all the yobs, the poseurs, the designer earmuff brigades, the terrifying draglifts that always wrench my arms out of my sockets and the awful mountain restaurants with their obscenely-priced obscenely-shaped local chitterling specialities.

Our next walk was up a toboggan run to the Renesse Tower, a belvedere folly built by a Belgian count in 1881. It was intended to be used as a bordello and casino before the count ran out of money and therefore women. Now it is a breather stop for stitch-stricken snow-shoers in the winter and a barbecue area for hungry hikers in the summer. “On a good day it has one of the best views in Switzerland. You can see the Bergell and Engadine valleys,” said Leo, looking out through the dense mist and his breath smoking in the cold afternoon air. “But today you will have to settle for second best. My profile.”

After waiting for my stitch to subside, we resumed our walk, slipping and sliding easily and enjoyably down the gentle gradients and up the not-too-taxing inclines of another well-beaten toboggan run. “Don’t click your heels. You are not a German” was the only technical instruction I received.

Leo’s breath smoked as he spoke and we marched on through a mountain forest. “Snow-shoeing is infinitesmally better than skiing. It is more social. You can talk. On skis you are too wrapped up in yourself and too keen to get down the mountain as fast as you can. Here you can stop and enjoy the scenery. Snow-shoeing is the most relaxing winter pursuit there is.”

Leo interrupted the eulogy to give me a help to conquer another small hillock. “Skiing is like using the subway,” he continued as I followed behind in his footprints. “You are queuing all the time and going through turnstiles. You have none of that out here. Flatfoots have nature to themselves. They are at peace with themselves and the world. And they don’t have to pay for ski passes either.”

There is a choice of several snowshoe routes including a night time walk to Isola over the southern Grisons valley. Leo also leads walks to the Morteratsch glacier with views to peaks of Bernina and Palu. He rhapsodises about the area’s ice caves. There is also a walk down the railway track from St Moritz through the valley of Bever to Spinas. From Sils you can walk to Silvaplana and the Fedoz valley. The Albula Pass and Puschlav valley are also accessible to flatfoots.

I am a convert. Snow-shoeing is a good workout but without the irritations of skiing. Snow-shoes don’t fall off. There is no dreaded T-bar to clamber on or off. You don’t feel your life is in danger and you are endangering the lives of others. You don’t cause pile-ups with people crashing into you as you slide and slew your way knock-kneed down the mountain. You don’t fall over and remain in the same place for a long time as you do on skis. It is a sedate and sensible way to enjoy winter.

“These are the real Alps,” said Leo in a tone implying that, for some, skiing seems a demented impulse.

Setting off from Schweizerhaus, the birthplace of painter Giovanni Segantini, we walked up the Piz Abris where the prehistoric glacier was halted by Malojoa. There Leo showed me the giant holes bored by glaciers. Locally, they are called marmitte dei gigantior giants' cooking pots.

We returned to base camp. For some après-feet. The Suvretta House Hotel was where Nijinsky danced his last dance. Being in St Moritz it even has a heated car park. Although still popular with the designer earmuff brigade and the odd billionaire padding about under a cashmere toupee it is not intimidating. The old posey image of St Moritz is outmoded. The exclusiveness just isn’t there any longer. The days of decadence are done. Nowadays St Moritz is a popular package holiday destination. The bargain hunters outnumber the heiress-hunters.

These days in St Moritz you no longer feel like someone on a FBI witness relocation programme trying to fit into a completely different world by pretending to be something you are not. In other words, rich.

At 6,000ft above sea level the Engadine Valley is now a fairly down-to-earth place. Things have changed. It’s reasonably inexpensive. Now you can delight your family and amaze your friends by saying you have been on holiday to St Moritz. Without breaking an arm and a leg in the process. Just somebody else’s big toe.

* engadine.com

* stmoritz.com

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