Snowshoeing, tobagganing, ice climbing – jaded skier Lucy discovers a wealth of alternatives as she abandons the traditional skiing holiday
As a child, I was one of those skiers who had to be dragged, boots first, off the slopes in the evening and was ready to go when the first lift opened the next day. But over the years my enthusiasm for whizzing downhill has waned. A penchant for lie-ins and hot cheese has taken its place, and I’ve become – shock horror – a bit bored with the average ski holiday, mostly because my skill level has plateaued at ‘intermediate teenager’. The time has come, I finally decide on a recent trip to La Plagne in France, to either go up a gear and focus on my technique (unlikely; I can barely afford the holiday, let alone lessons), or to change gear completely.
I plump for the latter and make it my mission to try as many non-ski or snowboard activities as possible. My friends are flabbergasted; here we are with the vast Paradiski area to play in. That’s 425km of pistes, 235 downhill runs, three snow parks, three boarder cross areas, four boardergliss, two half pipes and two big airbags, all of which I won’t be using.
Thus far, my experience of staying in a ski resort and not spending most of the day on skis is confined to one humiliating afternoon’s snowboarding and one morning in bed courtesy of the local tipple, Genepi. So it’s best to start with something relatively sedate, and I embark on a half day’s showshoeing in Peisey-Vallandry.
Day one comes to a close, and – reunited with my speed-demon friends, who lounge in the hot tub of our affordably indulgent Au Mont d’Eden chalet in Montchavin Les Coches, overlooking Mont Blanc – I report back. But they are hardly enthralled by my description of a guided trip through the woods, far away from the frenetic slopes and back to an era, before cars or snowmobiles, when locals strapped these large soles to their feet and just walked and walked and walked. Perhaps they’ll be more impressed by speedriding, I suggest, explaining that the snow sport (developed in 2005 by Les Arcs local Francois Bon) involves off-piste skiing with a parachute and potential speeds of up to 75mph.
Yes, they like the sound of that, apparently. But there are two problems here. Firstly, speedriding is aimed at very capable skiers with a good understanding of off-piste technique; secondly, it doesn’t exactly fit with the ‘non-skiing’ challenge I’ve set myself. And besides, speedriding is a serious business that requires both time and money. Tuition and the hire of kit starts at €90 for a half day. Really, a five-day course and total immersion is best – but I’m after a quicker fix. I want something that’s good value, but more exhilarating than yesterday, so decide on Les Arcs’ 3,000 metre-long toboggan run which, at €7.50 a go, is significantly cheaper than speedriding, but is also far less peaceful. I’m run off the tracks by squealing children with no respect for their elders, who laugh as I smash, several times during the 400-metre descent, into thick walls of snow.
Sod sledging, I decide, and that afternoon go to test the big daddy of all toboggan-related contraptions, the airboard. Lying face-first on an inflatable board a bit like a lilo and pointing yourself down the slope, airboarding is a big kid’s dream. It also sounds more dangerous than it is – one foot firmly in the ground and you’ll stop – though shooting down empty slopes after the final lift has shut doesn’t feel that easy.
When hot tub hour arrives on day two, my chat thankfully raises a few eyebrows, and by the third evening there’s even a hint of jealousy amidst the bubbles; this time I’ve been on a bobsleigh in nearby Albertville.
“It was just brilliant,” I tell my friends, casually, hoping they can’t see the terror I’m feeling as I recall the 90-second ride down the 1,500-metre track (€41 per person), at speeds of up to 50mph that left me and the other three in our four-person bob raft screaming for it to stop. “I might try the speedluge next time.”
But now I’m worried because (I think we all know, really) there’s no way I’ll be doing that (it costs €107 and hits speeds of 90mph), and we’re approaching the end of our short trip. I need to up the ante. After some deliberation – there are still the options of dog-sledding or dining (€49) and sleeping (€99) in an igloo village – I decide on the next activity: ice climbing.
The 45-minute journey down the mountain to the Champagny en Vanoise National Park is fraught with nerves. I’m less concerned with the act of climbing itself than with my tricksy, vertiginous head. And now a 22 metre-high, man-made ice tower awaits and I’m clad in boots with crampons, a helmet, harness, gloves and told to do whatever my guide, Damian, says. He doesn’t say much, if truth be told, but he’s strong, steady and promises he’s holding that rope (and the belay) really tight as I set about climbing the very wall that will host stages of the Ice Climbing World Cup next year (as it did in 2012).
Hack into the ice with your pick. Kick into the wall with your boots, and use your legs much more than your arms – these are the instructions I’ve received. Surely it can’t be so difficult? But, ten jittery minutes later, my muscles ache, everywhere. My heart is pumping, too, but it’s my mind that’s really causing problems. What if I crack my knee against the ice? What if Damian stops concentrating just at the moment when I falter? Halfway isn’t so bad, I reassure myself. After all, the two others in our group have tried, and failed, to reach the top. What would be the harm in calling it quits?
But one thought of the hot tub, and my friends’ faces if I tell them I only got halfway, and my legs begin to move again. I gather momentum, moving up and up until finally I can touch the top. Looking across at the snow-dappled peaks all around, I take a deep breath before abseiling joyfully down. Then it’s time to try it again, this time on an adjacent, slightly trickier, face. It’s much tougher, but I make it. This story is a keeper, I think, grinning. It’s the summit of the wall, the peak of my non-ski achievements – and the definite high point of my hot tub conversations.
