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St. Jacob |
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Walking to St. Jacob from St. Anton |
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Spring. St. Jacob |
After a more than
a couple sleepless nights spent listening to the howling wind outside, the
chimney popping to deliver brown dirt on the hearth, and horizontal rain
slapping the single glazing, it was nice to get back to work after New Year and
be greeted by the headline: “Is this the best ski season ever?” This, from the
Telegraph - the year after my ski season working in St. Anton
Austria, which turned out to be a year of mediocre, if very little, snow.
Bitter? Me?
Despite getting off to a slow
start this season, the storms and 100mph winds affecting England
and Scotland
at the start of the year were apparently the European Alps’ gain, with some
resorts having more snow in just 10 days than the whole of the last season.
Indeed, Peter Hardy’s article reported that snow at the top of St. Anton’s
Valluga lift was inching towards nearly 600cm with 200cm in the town some 1507m
bellow.
Looking at my friend’s
photographs who are back doing another season now, it’s hard to believe that this
is the same place they arrived at the beginning of December. According to the
Mail, 2011 had been badly affected by the warmest and driest autumn in the Alps for 147 years. Worrying, but completely unsurprising
to me who left in April with a tan after sunbathing on our chalet balcony in
shorts and t-shirt. Yet, despite the lack of snow I had an amazing ‘ski’
season, and one probably a lot different to those that most seasonaires have.
Hit with roasting
temperatures in early March, a lot of skiers were complaining about the poor
snow conditions, yet we still managed to get out everyday and enjoy some good
runs after the morning ice had worn off and before the afternoon slush kicked
in. If it wasn’t for this then we wouldn’t have hit the snow park as much as we
did, literally and figuratively speaking, nailing a three-sixty and witnessing
some hilarious stacks on the rails in the process.
By the end of the month there
was barely enough snow for the new form of langlaufen that the boys had
invented - namely, avoiding gravel patches and scratching the hire skis. Used
to exploring off-piste, we swapped our ski-boots for trainers and went
wandering in the woods instead. Situated at the end of the resort, the winding
6km route through the Ferwall Valley and just beyond to the perfectly still
glacier-blue waters of the Ferwall
Lake was my first taste
of what spring in the mountains might look like. Breathtakingly serene in a
completely different way. We sipped hot chocolates at the inn at the end of the
road, hushed and contemplative, usually the end destination of rowdy off-piste
skiers who eventually arrive after dropping off the back of Moroikopf.
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Ferwall Lake |
Another more humorous
adventure was scrambling up the steep wooded hills on the opposing side of St.
Anton’s main slopes, much like the mountain goats we had seen from a chair lift
a few days before. After traversing for over an hour and making little headway
we stumbled across a deer farm and its startled inhabitants - nestled away in
the woods above the town. One flinch from us and they scattered, twigs snapping
under-hoof.
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Blurry, but definitely a deer |
As the grass
turned green, crocuses popped up. We pickned again with friends in their garden
in St. Jacob, the next village down, with goat guests who actually came
trotting over to us, bells-a-jingling, by the end of the season. Free-wheeling
down the valley on our bikes, legs stuck out like prongs was a feeling of
complete freedom. We dipped our toes into icy mountain streams in a steep rocky
gorge and walked across the trunks of fallen trees like a balancing beam.
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Cycling down the valley from St. Anton |
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Bach gorge |
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The gorge at Bach |
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Cycling up from Flirsch |
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Picnicking with the locals |
Cleaning our chalet rooms, I often stopped and gazed out of the windows at the opposing mountains above, my eyes always catching a glimpse of a little black square at the top of one of the peaks and a hairpin line of a path, snaking up towards it. Four days before the end of our season came most satisfying escapade - we hiked up to it. I liked to think I was pretty fit but walking up Kaiserjochhaus was hard. I can still feel my calf's burning now. Reaching the top at 2261m dispels all pain and sweat. We explored the Leutkircher Hut, an unmanned refuge for summer walkers with 6 bunk beds perfectly made out in gingham sheets.
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Walking up Kaiserjochhaus |
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Keep walking |
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Leutkircher Hut
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Picnic at 2261m |
I wanted to jump
under the covers and stay. As we picnicked with Bachensteiner cheese and stared
down on the town and the past six months below, the lack of snow really couldn’t
have been further from our minds.
All photographs by me and the other Kaluma Ski girls, Sarah Houston and Laura Higgs.