Switzerland

Zermatt has over 300 km of marked runs paired with an unlimited amount of off-piste for the adventurous. It also features on-hill dining that shames the usual $13 hamburger at North American resorts-think veal in mushroom cream sauce paired with a dry chasselas and a wicked view of the Matterhorn.

Like taking the kids to school in a Porsche 911, flying from Western Canada to ski in Switzerland seems stupidly luxurious. I’ll pass over Whistler, Lake Louise and untold other epic ski hills to get there. But in the grand scheme, it’s actually doable without much effort.

And once I commit to going, of course, I find myself steering conversations toward all things Swiss. I mention people’s watches, comment on the purity of Lindt chocolate-all in the hopes that I’ll be able to casually mention, "Maybe I’ll check it out when I’m there skiing next month." And live for the envy.

The country is lousy with ski hills-120 or so-and everyone has their favourite. As an Alps novice, I go with the classic trio: Zermatt, Wengen and St. Moritz, names practically synonymous with over-the-top luxury, mind-blowing skiing and a dash of James Bond intrigue.

When I arrive in Zurich in late March it’s a balmy 20°C. Legions of white-legged Swiss are running in shorts and T-shirts around the city lake. In the blazing sun the city looks great, smugly comfortable atop its World’s Most Livable City perch, streets so clean they look hand-scrubbed.

But the unseasonably warm weather can’t be good for the snowpack. I note that I’m the only one lugging skis as I board my train headed for St. Moritz. (One guy has a set of golf clubs.) But as the train heads south, then east, it begins to climb-slowly at first, then with some considerable effort as the grade increases. Fences disappear and the terrain becomes steeper, rockier and more inhospitable. By the time the train rolls into the station at St. Moritz, we’re back in the grip of winter.

The train station is a perfunctory, almost drab affair. It’s only when I step outside and see the line of Rolls Royce Phantoms waiting to shuttle skiers to their hotels that I realize I’m in a very different sort of ski resort. (Case in point: in a quest for the title of Mr. Excess, someone at the end of the queue has figured out how to attach a ski rack to the back of a Lamborghini.)

I’ve booked into the area’s most famous lodging, Badrutt’s Palace Hotel. Johannes Badrutt invented tourism in the area 150 years ago, so he had the pick of the valley when he chose a site for his castle-like hotel. It’s a five-minute walk from the station, so I lift my skis onto my shoulders and stretch my legs. From the horrified looks on the faces of the bell staff, I gather that I’m the first person to walk to the hotel since the invention of the internal combustion engine.

Early next morning I board the tram to Corviglia, the hill perched directly above the village. My guys at the hotel insist on driving me the 75 metres to the ticket window. On the ride up I note that among my fellow passengers, none have snowboards, but plenty have one-piece Bogner ski suits. I’m certain one woman has real crocodile skin on the top of her skis. I mistakenly assume we’re all up early to grab fresh powder, but even through the Esperanto that everyone seems to be speaking, I can still make out one word: corduroy.

We pile out atop the mountain to a moonscape utterly unfamiliar to the
average North American skier. We’re at 2,500 metres-well above the tree line. It’s nothing but bowls and faces and sheets of white, unencumbered by tree growth. Down the middle of this expanse snakes a number of triple-wide cat tracks. These are the runs-les pistes as the Euros call them-and notwithstanding the acres and acres of open, inviting terrain, no one diverges from this skiing equivalent of the autobahn. My tram mates all strap on their skis, which I now notice sport an exaggerated parabola shape, skinny profile and short (even by today’s standards) length. One after another, they set about snapping their little turns in some semblance of synchronization until they disappear from view. They are, in the parlance of the North American skier, bum-wigglers.

I self-consciously step into my mid-fat skis. I feel like a chump who’s showed up to a black tie wedding in flip-flops and cutoffs. I decide to make like a local and follow after them and before long I’m entranced by the crunching of the soft corduroy under my skis. I haven’t skied terrain like this in years, and I’m exhilarated by the speed and the precision needed to hold an edge with my ill-suited equipment.

But as the day wears on, the piste becomes more crowded and finding a line and skiing at speed becomes more tricky. Putting on my skis after lunch-I had veal-I spy a like pair of fat skis a few racks over, their height making them instantly recognizable in this crowd. I mill about waiting for their owner to return. He turns out to be an Australian living in his van and skiing around Europe. Surprise, surprise. We spend the afternoon sourcing some fresh snow and he gives me a primer on Swiss skiing. "Plenty of Swiss like powder, but Corviglia is more an on-piste crowd. There," he points across the valley to the neighbouring hill of Corvatsch, "is where the off-piste blokes ski. But if you’re really serious about hitting the powder hard, then head to Zermatt." Coincidently, my next stop. We say our goodbyes at day’s end-he departs for a space heater and a Vanagon, me for a room that has a perfect view of the town’s winter polo field.
The next morning I board the Glacier Express, a train that seems to have been
crafted for my Swiss fantasy. In practical terms it gets me from St. Moritz to Zermatt, which is more or less clear across this small country. In fantastical terms it does this by crossing 291 bridges, snaking through 91 tunnels and passing through snow-covered terrain so pristine, so white, that I have to shield my eyes from the glare.

Zermatt is a car-free village, so I step straight from the train into a bustling pedestrian village crowded with singing après-skiers, interrupted by the plaintive beeps of the electric golf carts that zip visitors around town. There’s nary a Prada store in sight. It’s late and dark and, exhausted from sitting in a supple leather train seat and eating off china all day, I find my lodging and crash for the night.
I wake up and the Matterhorn is looming right over me. I knew Zermatt was near the famous peak, but I didn’t know a), that near meant it’s right in the middle of the resort; and b), that unlike every other famous mountain I’ve seen, the Matterhorn is truly distinctive: rocky, craggy and jutting straight to the sky.
Zermatt is likewise above the tree line, so skiing off-piste requires nothing more than diverting slightly from the cat-track and you’re in largely undisturbed soft snow. I spend the days alternating between ankle-deep snow and schussing down the corduroy, often hitting both on the same run.

By the next day, I set out to ski into Italy-another thing that sounds infinitely cool to me as I tell everyone who’ll listen that’s my plan.

"Yeah, looks like I’ll be popping over to Italy just for the day, tomorrow."

"Okay," says the young fräulein who’s setting down the bread basket.

In reality it simply means taking another tram and a chairlift-presto, you’re in Italy. For the Swiss it’s the North American equivalent of driving from one side of Lloydminster to the other.

"The skiing is nothing special," a Milanese tells me on the chair, "but the lunch…" and he makes that finger-kissing bellisima gesture that only Italians can pull off. I’ve even brought my passport (though it’s unnecessary) so I can track down some
Italian border guard and force him to give me a stamp. But as we stop at the midstation, an announcement comes over the PA in four languages: high winds are forcing the closure of the chair to Italy for the next few hours. I’m crestfallen. I’m literally no more than a few hundred metres from the border, but they’re all uphill. After briefly considering a manly hike, I recall the scenes of those Uruguayan rugby players eating each other in the Andes and decide to slink back to the village and reward myself with a typical Swiss lunch of fondue and white wine.

Another morning, another gloriously on-time train trip that brings me to Wengen, near Interlaken in the country’s centre. Of the three resorts, I’m least familiar with Wengen-I recall it has the longest run on the World Cup circuit, but that’s about it. The Eiger towers over the town; this place is no slouch in the spectacular peak pantheon but after the Matterhorn, it’s the solid silver-medal winner. Five days in and I’m already blasé about the environs.

As I take a funicular up the hill I realize that, for the first time on my trip, my skis are the same length and width as everyone else’s. Of all the ski terrain, Wengen’s is the most spectacular. The area’s defining feature is a deep green valley-impossibly flat in these rocky parts-with sheer walls that rise straight up. The Swiss call this the top of Europe, and at 3,000 metres, it’s by far the highest elevation at which I’ve skied. The weather has stayed balmy, but at this height the snow is still crisp and deep and all it takes is a 15-metre detour off the piste and I’m in conditions that approximate cat-skiing back home. Run after glorious run pairs the convenience of chair-lift skiing with the hedonism of knee-deep powder.
I end the day with a cold RugenBräu at the revolving chalet that sits atop the mountain’s peak: Piz Gloria. The building starred as Blofeld’s mountain lair in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and it’s an oddly fitting locale to end the trip. After a week of the luxury, intrigue and skiing that is Switzerland, damned if I don’t feel a tad more like James Bond. WL