The following day, Tuesday, dawned... warm. Everyone had been covered in snow the first day we were in Interlaken, but over the next 48 hours the temperatures climbed and the snow melted until there were only scattered patches of snow. But we were told that there was still snow up on the mountain and were damned if the weather was going to stop us from skiing. Clutching our skis and wearing our boots, gloves, coats, snow pants, and goggles (all rented), we stumped over to the train station. We were going skiing by train. What an authentic experience. It quickly became less authentic when the twenty or so Asian tourists on board our train car wanted their picture taken with the two real life skiers, but still. The atmosphere endured.
The train dropped us off at the foot of a cable car, which hoisted us to the top of what I now believe to be Mannlichen (with an umlaut over the "a"). Unfortunately all of the pictures of that day are Becca's camera, so I cannot share any right now, but eventually I hope to be able to, mainly because my prose can only be so descriptive. Suffice to say that it was phenomenal--arguably the most naturally beautiful place I've ever been, and I've been to Glacier National Park, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Galápagos Islands.
(Did that sound arrogant?)
Anyway, yeah; it was pretty. But we weren't there just to marvel at the ridiculous scenery--we were there to do the skiing equivalent of shred the mountain.
But here's the thing; the mountain didn't want to be shredded. It saw the two Americans coming into town and fortified itself with a topsheet of ice that glazed the hill like a caramelizer. Those of you familiar with skiing in warmer temperatures are no doubt familiar with this phenomenon; when snow becomes sleet and ice and greatly increases the degree of difficulty. I've been skiing many times in my life, and this was absolutely the worst snow I've ever skied on. There was nothing for the skis to cut into, so turning and stopping became processes instead of events. I'm a pretty good skier--not great, but I can hold my own (to quote Tom Cruise)--and these hills, 2s, 3s and 4s out of a possible 5, were giving me all I could handle. On more than one occasion I had the thought, "Geez, if I don't this exactly right, I could die." I wasn't taking undue risks, you understand, wasn't trying to bomb any of the hills (which surely would have resulted in death), just trying to weave my way down the mountain at a sufficiently timely yet safe pace.
This isn't to say I didn't enjoy myself; I had the time of my life. Living in Michigan doesn't make for the most difficult skiing and it was nice to be challenged again on the slopes. The vistas were breathtaking and neither of us really cared that the skiing itself wasn't ideal; we were in the Alps, that was what counted. I checked off two of my oldest bucket list items--ski in the Alps and ride a gondola for skiing purposes--in one day. Except for the hour and a half in the middle of the day when I lost my wallet, I had a marvelous time. Even the wallet turned out better than I possibly could have hoped; we went down to where I thought it might have fallen out and it was there. How often does that happen? There were never any lines at the lifts, the restaurant at the top was not more expensive than the rest of the country, and when we got tired we rode the gondola all the way down to the town of Grindelwald and back to the top. It took an hour. It was a great day.
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