Sea Legs to Ski Legs!

The current tourist literature for Valberg paints a glowing picture of the facilities offered by the resort but it was not always so.   Development of the area as a resort only started in the late thirties.  With the intervention of World War II, and its aftermath, development was still at a relatively early stage in the early fifties when our group visited.  “Our Group” was a dozen or so sailors from HMS Bermuda which was engaged in the task of “showing the flag” at various places along the Cote D’Azur in the early part of 1954.   The schedule for the ship’s visits was well known in advance and the “outward bound” organisers, anxious to impart new skills to their charges, chose to plan a week of skiing for those whose duties enabled them to participate.

So it was, that when the ship arrived at Menton the group boarded a coach to take them along the coast road, through Monaco, to Nice where it embarked on the special bus that would take them into the mountains.  From the sweltering heat of the Nice bus station it seemed very odd to be travelling in a vehicle equipped with snow chains but the reason was soon clear.  From the outskirts of Nice the road started to climb and in no time at all the bus was high above the coast and passing through cuttings where the rock faces were draped in icicles. 

So, for what seemed like hours we side-stepped up the slope and skied down with variable success, “snow-ploughing” on one run and turning to left or right on another.  Towards the end of the morning most of the group were performing reasonably well at the beginners school and so retired to lunch feeling quite pleased with themselves.  It was amazing how, in the warmth of the hotel dining room and fortified  by a few glasses of “vin chaud”, confidence in our prowess seemed to increase exponentially.  By the time lunch was over and we had emerged into the open air again there was a general consensus that we should try something more exacting in the afternoon.  Also it had stopped snowing, the clouds were thinning and the sun showed every sign of wanting to break through.  The entire group bought one ticket each for the ski lift close to the hotel.  In retrospect I have to say that I have no idea how many ski lifts there were in Valberg at that time, if indeed there was more than one, nor can I recall who it was that took the decision to use that particular lift.  Suffice it to say that we queued there, in anticipation, waiting to be hoisted up the mountain.

Clearly they all had different interpretations of what they needed to do and this became abundantly clear as one member after another of our group made a botch of the hooking on process and became detached or fell over within the first few yards.  After half a dozen or so had fallen off and returned to the end of the queue the attendant was becoming exasperated and, for those of us still awaiting our turn, it became important to try and recover the corporate dignity of the group.

At last it was my turn and I took the proffered pole, quickly positioned the pad in the small of my back, and hung on with steely determination.  There was a disconcerting jerk as we moved off but thereafter the forward progress was remarkably smooth.  I concentrated on keeping my skis central in the tracks, each of which was probably two or three times the width of a normal ski.   Between the tracks, and at either side, was about six inches of soft snow, the result of the morning’s blizzard.   Twenty to thirty yards from the lift terminal the tracks took a gentle curve to the left before commencing the steep ascent to the summit.  As they straightened up from the curve I risked a quick look over my left shoulder and saw that, after several more empty poles, there were a number of others from our group who had made a successful start followed by some brightly clad “real” skiers.  It was encouraging to think that I would not be without companions when we reached the top.   Although a large part of the journey passed through the trees, the higher we got the more dramatic the view became and it was natural that, as my confidence increased, I should be tempted to look around and admire the panorama.  Big mistake!  A hundred yards or so before we reached the summit, and in a moment of distraction,  the toe of my right ski dug into the soft snow between the tracks and before I could take remedial action the ski had swung to cover my left ski which turned outwards and dug into the snow at the left of the tracks.  There was no way that I could avoid falling and as I started to topple there was a sudden inspiration.  The summit was relatively close so, if I hung on to the hook – which by this time was pulling out from between my legs – I could avoid the ignominy of being overtaken by those coming up behind.  I quickly allowed the hook to catch in the crook of my right elbow and, linking the fingers of my gloved hands together, straightened my arms so that the hook was grasped between my hands. So there I was, suspended from the pole, being dragged towards the summit with much of my body weight on my right hip which was travelling mainly in the right hand ski track.

tracks.   That was when the open top of the trousers began to act as a snow plough and rapidly scoop up the central reservation snow and funnel it into the legs which filled remarkably quickly and compacted down into a solid mass.  But it didn’t stop there.  By now I was facing the ground, still hanging grimly to the hook, bum in the air, but with the knees and lower thighs taking the friction.  In this position the wedge of snow in the open top of the trousers scooped up snow even more rapidly, forcing my legs as wide apart as they could possibly go and filling the void completely with compacted snow.  The one positive effect of this was to lift my anatomy clear of the tracks so that my knees and thighs suffered no more grazing from contact with the icy surface.

To say that my lower half was cold would be a gross understatement.  But suddenly the ground levelled out as the summit was reached and I was able to roll sideways away from the tracks to begin frantically digging out the snow jammed between my legs and filling the trousers.   It was inevitable that I was unable to complete this before the next batch of lift passengers arrived and I was forced to endure the raucous guffaws of my group companions and the grins and giggles of the civilian locals following them.  There was some small comfort in the knowledge that my modesty had not been completely destroyed and that, by some miracle, my underpants had remained in place.  One has to be grateful for small mercies! 

Decency fully restored I joined my companions at the start of the run and gazed in horror at a snow field that seemed as steep as the side of a house.  The piste itself ran in a series of traverses across the snow field, perhaps half a dozen in all, with a fairly tight turn at the end of each.   At the bottom, where the slope became a lot less steep, the final traverse to the right headed off through a wide gap in the trees in the general direction of the lift terminal.   We looked at one another in dismay.  This was a far cry from the slopes where we had practised during the morning session.   No-one wanted to be the first to set off but, in my case, there was a degree of urgency to get moving before hypothermia set in.   Reluctantly agreeing to be the first to attempt the descent I shuffled forward to the start of the run.

Waiting until there was a lull in the activity at the top of the slope I pushed off for the first traverse and immediately adopted the “snow plough” posture in an attempt to limit my speed.  Of course it is one thing to “snow plough” on a slope where there is plenty of snow to plough and quite another to “snow plough” on a tightly compacted and rather icy piste.   By the time I had reached the end of the first traverse I was travelling far too fast for comfort when I attempted to make the tight turn to the right.  The combination of speed and inexperience ensured that when the turn was “complete” I was facing almost directly down the slope and matters suddenly became seriously out of control.  Memories of the next few minutes are like a series of stark images.  I recall an overwhelming sense of fear as I started to move directly down the slope.  Initially I was travelling through the soft snow between the traverses and I have a picture of a spray of snow surrounding me.  Then I was on the next traverse and my speed seemed to increase exponentially over the icy surface. I was yelling like crazy and I can see the other skiers desperately trying to get out of the way.  Then more soft snow and more spray and then the next traverse. I can remember looking at the tips of my skis which were vibrating so rapidly that they seemed blurred. Then more soft snow and spray and the knowledge that soon I would be amongst the trees and what then?  Nothing that I did seemed to have any effect on the rate of descent and I had in mind that if I failed to stop soon it was likely that I would come off the mountain in a body-bag.  Then I thought about the journey on the ski lift and the effect of friction.  I was soaking wet already so a little more would hardly make any difference.  I figured that if I was to squat down and let my bum rub along the ground it would enable a wedge of snow to build up and slow me down sufficiently to let me take charge of the situation.  And so it was that as the next patch of soft snow loomed up I gingerly lowered myself and allowed my bum to touch the ground.  The next few moments were like a nightmare.  There was a lot of pain and I had glimpses of sky, snow, and trees as I cartwheeled time and again until coming to rest, prone and facing down the slope a few yards before the first trees.  One ski had come off and the other was buried vertically in the snow as far as my boot.   I felt as though I had broken every bone in my body and just lay there, winded and gasping, as the pain washed over me.

Amazingly no-one came to offer any help and, after a few minutes, I gingerly began to move my limbs to see if they still worked.  It was quite painful to move but the fact that I could move at all seemed miraculous in the circumstances.  Lifting my head I took stock of the surroundings.     I was lying at the start of a snow ridge which stretched away to my left getting steeper as it did so.  It was difficult to determine whether this was a geographical feature or a steep sided drift of snow.   I twisted painfully round in order to free myself from the remaining ski when I heard a long drawn out yell of “look out”.  And there was another of our group, an engineer known as “Thommo”, heading straight down the slope in my direction.  Fortunately he was not following my line and I watched his progress with fascination as, red faced and with eyes and mouth wide open, he flashed past me about twenty yards or so to my left.   Almost immediately there was a crash followed by a groan then complete silence.  I looked back down the slope expecting to see him plastered to the trunk of a tree but there was no sign.  Then there was another groan and I raised my line of sight a little and spotted him suspended about two-thirds of the way up a pine tree.   Clearly he had become airborne having taken off from the edge of the snow ridge and intercepted the tree which was growing much lower down the slope.  Luckily it was a fairly small tree which was springy enough to absorb the impact so there were no injuries to anything other than dignity.  Despite my own difficulties I would have given almost anything to have had my camera with me.  After jointly recovering our composure “Thommo” and I gathered up our bits and pieces and decided that the rest of our descent would be on foot.  So we trudged back to the village through the soft snow at the side of the piste and made for the hotel, in my case to dry out and have a long soak in a hot bath.

I was not alone in deciding to take a day off from skiing and teamed up with a young National Serviceman from Lancashire whom I shall call Ernie.   In these days of political correctness Ernie would be described as being “vertically challenged.”   But what he lacked in stature he made up for in personality.  He was rotund and jolly with a great sense of humour and an infectious bellow of a laugh – a good companion for all situations.

Those of the group who chose to continue skiing had gone again to the nursery slopes for further instruction and practice so Ernie and I spent the morning moving around the group offering “advice and encouragement” and filming the activity in the hope of catching a good tumble or two for the record.   After lunch we took a right out of the hotel, past the après ski bar visited on our first night, then down the road into the unknown territory of the village proper.  We did not have to go far to discover that there was a second, inviting attraction on offer. Valberg boasted a number of toboggan runs two of which were quite close to our hotel.   Furthermore the cost of hiring a toboggan was peanuts so we decided, then and there, to have a go.   The two person toboggans were quite sophisticated with steerable front runners and a lever operated brake at the rear.  After my experience of the previous day the ability to control speed was of enormous appeal.

The toboggan hire shop was sited right on the edge of the road directly opposite where the toboggan runs terminated.   On the shop side of the road the snow had been completely cleared away but on the run side the snow, probably a metre in depth, terminated abruptly where the road had been cleared and we had to drag our toboggans to where a ramp had been cut giving easy access to the snowfield.  The smaller of the two runs, no more than two hundred yards in length, had been constructed on the open snowfield where the slope was relatively gentle.    The larger run was perhaps two to three times longer, significantly steeper, and started within the trees to add a little spice to the ride.  Although it was no Cresta Run there were two or three tightish curves in the track which had been banked so it looked an altogether more exciting prospect.  Both runs terminated in a wide, flat area extending thirty yards or so back from the road and across which was a single line of widely spaced, large trees.

In fact, at supper that evening, our enthusiasm persuaded a few more of the group to join us.  So the next morning saw four teams of tobogganers having a whale of a time and becoming ever more daring in the way the descent was tackled.  At lunch time the group as a whole were gathering outside the hotel when the bus from Nice arrived and disgorged a group of very attractive girls who, having collected their luggage, stood in the road giving every impression of not knowing quite where to go.  They were immediately surrounded by a bunch of gallant sailors, showing off their schoolboy French and eager to help out.  Amongst these was Ernie whose charm was clearly inversely proportional to his stature because he emerged from the melee carrying the luggage of an outstandingly pretty girl, with long dark hair, who was at least half a head taller than he was.   Later, at lunch, he told me somewhat hesitantly that he had invited his new companion to come tobogganing in the afternoon and that she had accepted.   Even more hesitantly he suggested that perhaps I could come along and film them in action – on the toboggan that is!  And so it was that we found ourselves, after lunch, standing on the snow field while Ernie explained the finer points of the toboggan to his new friend.  I didn’t understand a word of it but then my French was not up to much.  The girl, however, nodded wisely from time to time and showed all signs of having grasped the fundamentals.  So they set off for the long trudge up to the start of the main run whilst I stationed myself next to one of the trees close to the road.  The plan was that when they were ready to go Ernie was to wave and I would lie down to shoot the whole trip from close to the ground.   When I too was ready, camera wound and positioned, I would wave also and they would start the descent.

Everything went according to plan and they set off.  In no time at all they were travelling pretty fast and took the first tight curve quite close to the top of the bank.  I clearly heard Ernie’s distinctive Burnley accent as he shouted “brake” in English.  There was no tell-tale spray of snow from the rear of the toboggan and it gave a slight wobble as it rounded the second curve, again very close to the top of the bank. By this time the girl was screaming excitedly and probably drowned Ernie’s second bellow of “brake.”   The toboggan rocketed around the third curve and hats off to Ernie who managed to keep it on the run.  Through the camera viewfinder they seemed to be approaching very fast with the girl, now screaming continuously, clinging with both arms round Ernie’s shoulders and her hair streaming straight out behind her.   As the spectacle filled the viewfinder I rolled aside into the shelter of the tree and watched in horror as they roared past, still not braking, in the direction of the road.  Ernie’s last despairing cry “for God’s sake put the bloody brake on” came just before they flew off the metre high snow ridge.  Their momentum took them two thirds of the way across the road where they bounced once before shooting through the open door of the hiring shop.   From inside the shop came a splintering crash and several of us who had witnessed the event were running across to offer assistance.   The sight on entering the shop was unforgettable.  Just inside the door was one of those rotating postcard racks.  They must have clipped one of its arms as they came through the door and it was spinning crazily on its axis, spewing postcards in all directions.  Over on the far side of the shop Ernie and girlfriend were extricating themselves from the pile of toboggans into which they had crashed.  Amazingly they were unhurt, laughing hysterically and, apart from soiling to a few postcards, there was no damage.  The shopkeeper was not best pleased, however, and while he and the girl exchanged pleasantries the rest of us gathered up the distributed postcards, sorted them and replaced them in the rack.  A few francs for the damaged postcards brought the incident amicably to an end.

After that the rest of our stay in Valberg was fairly low key though none the less enjoyable.   All too soon the time came to return our hired equipment and board the bus that was to take us back to Nice and to our ship which had arrived there the day before and was anchored in the bay.

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