Skin Up, Skid Down

There was a definite hint of trepidation as I clicked into my skis at the beginning of the tour. A Sunday morning, early, the day after the perfect storm that never arrived. I had woken up at 7 to clear blue skies, and at that moment it became certain. I was going to the mountains. Call Rodrigo, Ciro - shall we take the skis? I stepped out onto the balcony as I hit the call button on my phone. It was a little too warm for 7.15 in the morning. Rodrigo isn't taking his skis, Ciro is. One all. I finish my cup of coffee and pick up my ski boots. I might as well take them. After all, I can always leave them in the car.

I arrive at Plaza America 15 minutes early to find some slight confusion. Nobody knows if there's space or not, and the bus has gone to the wrong place. It arrives and people jump aboard, Rodrigo and I are last - we didn't sign up after all, and it turns out there's no seats left. Never mind, that's why I brought my car. Rodrigo gets in the passenger seat, with the usual comments about how much discount I got for having the steering wheel on the wrong side. Plug in the Ipod and Eric Clapton is singing Layla. We look at the cloudless sky, look at each other, and smile. This is going to be a good day. Down the motorway, into Quirós, and then up the pass towards Puerto Ventana. There's not much snow, but the temperature is dropping. Soon we catch up to the bus, and start climbing. Patches of snow start to appear. Another fifteen minutes later and I'm driving slowly, a good distance behind the minibus, wondering if I'll make it to the top of the pass without getting out and putting chains on. We made it. Just.

We get out of the car. "Joder" - Rodrigo breathes in sharply."Fuck, it's cold!". And it is cold. Cold enough - and snowy enough to get the skis out. And so after a little discussion and a few jokes, we're standing on the snow, skins on, ready to head off up the mountain. The target is El Ranchón, a summit of about 2100m. There's still some way to go, but as I stride past the others, gliding over the top of the snow they are sinking into, knee-deep, I start to think that I've made the right decision.

Heading up past the walkers

Two hours later I'm struggling up an icy slope, watching the walkers in crampons filing past. I really need to buy some ski-crampons. They certainly would make life easier in these conditions, but a month cross country skiing in Norway has taught me a thing or too about skiing uphill, and I manage better than the more experienced skiers think I would. There are even one or two words of praise. "You're brave, coming up this without them" comments one of my companions. That's one word for it, I reply, thinking to myself that perhaps stupid or stubborn might be more appropriate. The ice steepens and steepens; It's alright when it's textured by the wind or breakable, giving me something to dig the edges of my skis into, but as Ciro and I approach the top, it starts to get really tricky, and the last 15 meters take me about ten minutes, laboriously side-stepping my way up. "It's all worth it when you're up here" he shouts down to me.

Heading up behind the walkers!

On the peak, a swig of water and a bite to eat, then I peel the climbing skins off my skis – without taking the skis off, much to the surprise of Ciro. "How do you do that?" he asks. It's good to know that I learned a few things in Norway that I can teach to people over here. Ciro is still eating, and besides, I suppose I should go first for a change. "Right, I'm off", I tell him. I slide towards the edge of the summit, and my earlier worries become more concrete. I look down at the 60º sheet of ice below me, with a few rocky islands sticking out here and there, and realise that the days I spend skiing on-piste in Andorra won't help me at all here. But there's no way i'm coming all the way up a mountain with skis on my feet and then taking them off to go down. Count to three. One. Two.

Getting ready for the off.

Three. And I push off, sliding sideways down the first few metres through a gap in the rocks only just wide enough for my skis. "Faster is Easier. Faster is Easier", I repeat to myself, the advice I got from pretty much every experienced skier I asked. I point my skis downhill, and start to pick up the pace. Lean left, lean right, and lean forward. Ski aggressively. Oh my god, it's working, I'm going, I'm not on my arse! I see someone at the bottom taking photos, and realise I have remained on my feet for the whole steep section. I start to cruise towards Alberto, his camera still trained on me. I look up from the snow in front of me, smile, and my ski tip drops into a hiker's footprint. Before I know what's happened I'm in a heap on the floor. I burst out laughing. So do the spectators. "And it was all going so well", I comment. I get myself back on my feet, and continue on down, sightly flatter now. The next descent seems easier at first, but I hit a patch of ice and cartwheel down the hill, hearing my left shoulder crunch as I go over. A quick yelp, count to three, and back up again. It'll get better by next weekend, I think to myself. I'm right-handed anyway.

Ovidio at the beginning of the walking part.

As I approach the beginning of the next downhill section, someone calls out. If I want to get back to my car, I need to put my foot down. I cruise down the last downhill section, flying past all the hikers until I take a final comedy bail into a snowbank. This time I stand up unharmed. Ovidio is standing, waiting for me, looking amused by my enthusiastic incompetence. We ski to the bus together, two perfect examples: one of how to ski, and one of how not to ski. I'll let you guess which was which. The final couple of kilometres we have to walk, carrying our skis. We arrive at the bus, and the weather is closing in. We're all onboard just in time, and the doors close as the cloud, wind and snow arrive. Back up to the car, a quick repack, and Rodrigo and I are on our way down, wondering where the bus got to. As we arrive at the bar everyone is stopping at on the way home, we still can't work out how it got down so fast.

In the bar I continually decline the cider I'm offered, choosing cecina and chorizo instead, nursing a lemonade. This is the price you pay for not signing up for the trip in advance. Chatting away, I am always amazed by how keen all these people that I have just met are to help me. "I've done the bike-ride you're doing this easter," says Alberto," I'll see if I can dig out some maps and stuff". Last week, Miguel, who is sitting opposite us, lent me a pair of bicycles for the trip. I think back to England, and wonder how many people would lend be a bike after I'd known them for a fortnight. Not so many, I think to myself. More jokes about my backwards car, and finally everyone is rounded up and it's time to go. Rodrigo and his fiancée María José pile into my car for the ride back to Oviedo, and I'm not sure I'll be able to wipe the smile off my face for the next few days. I drop them near my house, and we say our goodbyes. "So, I'll call you next weekend then," says Rodrigo, "and let you know what we're up to. There will probably still be snow in the Picos."

Living for the weekend. This is my weekend.

I've cleared my diary.

Related posts:

1. Winter is coming…
2. A busy few months
3. Let it snow
4. Junkie