Odd as it may sound, the most exciting part of my first skiing holiday about two years ago was the transfer by coach from the airport. As the bus left the city, trees replaced office blocks and we climbed higher and higher, winding our way up treacherous mountain roads. And then we saw it. The first glimpses of snow on trees. Then on roads. More and more of it, until finally it was everywhere and we were immersed in a winter wonderland. We see so little of the stuff in Ireland that a frisson of excitement rippled around the bus, writes Michael Kelly
But this year there is no snow to be seen anywhere on our journey to the Tyrolese resort of Söll, which nestles in a valley between the majestic Wilder Kaiser and Hohe Salve mountains. When we arrive at our destination the dearth of snow causes a tangible depression on the bus, which is odd given that we are on a week's holiday. I recognise the feeling immediately from boyhood memories of snow melting away after a brief spell of delighted snowman-making, snowball-throwing, frozen fingertips and ruddy cheeks: an all-encompassing melancholy that my parents told me was childish. "Snow melts," they would say. "It's what happens." But resorts such as Söll are trying to bend these strict meteorological rules.
While the town itself is completely devoid of the white stuff, up on the nursery slopes and further up the Hohe Salve the local ski industry carries on in defiance of Mother Nature. This is made possible by a massive and mostly unseen operation which takes place while sore skiers head for the après-ski bars or retire half crippled to bed.
About half-way up the Hohe Salve there is a kidney-shaped water reservoir (there's no ice on it, incidentally, which tells you how mild the weather is). From here a pumping station carries pure mountain water to a battery of snow-making machines on the pistes. At night, when temperatures fall below -2°C, the machines crank in to action, blasting out compressed water which immediately turns to snow in the chilly alpine air. It is not quite real snow (it's wetter for a start) but it is not quite artificial either. Gravity-defying snow ploughs creep up and down the slopes all night smoothing out this fresh snow.
When holidaymakers climb out of bed the following morning to wrestle with hangovers, aching limbs and ski-boots that seem heavier than the day before, there is fresh snow to ski on. By day, the frozen ground underneath delays the melting of snow in rising air temperatures. Skiing in a balmy 12°C is an odd experience. We even see some skiers abandoning the normal bulky apparel and heading down the slopes in T-shirts. The slopes themselves look like small white enclaves surrounded by armies of green grass.
By mid-afternoon the snow bows to the inevitable and turns to slush, making conditions hazardous, especially for novices attempting inaugural snow ploughs and parallel turns. Then the temperature drops, night falls and the whole operation begins again.
Snow-making is controversial. While the machines are undoubtedly effective - operating all night, a single cannon can cover two acres in a foot of snow - they are notoriously inefficient. They use up to 400 gallons of water a minute and need enormous amounts of energy to run them. It's a vicious circle: global warming means a lack of snow, but the machines themselves increase CO2 emissions, thereby contributing to global warming and making the snow even scarcer. And that's before you count the emissions from the aeroplanes that flew all the skiers to the resort.
But before you go getting all judgmental about the snow cannons, bear this in mind: almost every house we saw in Söll had large south-facing windows and enormous solar panels. The local Volkshochschule has a grass roof. How many towns in Ireland can you say that about? For locals there is a simple fiscal imperative: snow cannons keep the skiers coming and the entire community employed.
We obsess about snow for the entire week. The lack of it. The quality of it. Rumours about it. A guy tells me that another guy told him that it might snow on Wednesday. Maybe. People huddle around optimistic talk as if it's a warm fire. In the event, Wednesday brings more bright sunshine and blue sky. People who were in Söll last year talk of a mythical time when snow was three metres deep on the roofs of houses. "Last year you could ski right down to the town centre from the slopes," someone told me as we struggled along in our ski-boots, carrying our skis and poles. An optimistic local told me that there was a winter even worse than this in the middle of last century. "The good times will return," he said, somewhat wistfully.
But such optimism is not well-founded. This year is not a freak. The past 15 years have included four of the warmest years in the past 500. The OECD warned recently that global warming could kill off as many as two-thirds of all ski areas in the Alps. A 2°C rise in temperature will make skiing at altitudes below 1,500 meters impossible (Söll's highest peak reaches 1,829m but most of the slopes are below the 1,500m line). Eventually it will be too warm even for the weather-defying snow cannons.
