A dodgy time in Kitzbuhl

We’d enjoyed a perfect full morning’s skiing on slopes blanketed with deep, fresh powder, under a cloudless blue sky. Exhausted but exhilarated – you can cover a lot of miles with just three of you at the same ability level, and skiing hard – we stopped for a late lunch.

Lunch was never really a big issue with us - just a matter of taking out half an hour for a swift beer or a coffee to wash down the ubiquitous spag bol or a sandwich before getting in some more ski miles.

This particular day, high above the pretty villages of Kitzbuhel and Kirchberg, it was no different. We stripped off some outer layers and unclipped our boots before clomping into the dark depths of the mountain restaurant to queue for our food. When we re-emerged some ten minutes later, balancing our trays and taking exaggerated short steps to avoid falling on the wet tiled floor, the blue sky had all but disappeared and a cold grey blanket of cloud materialised in its place.

We could still eat outside on the terrace, but not before putting our ski jackets back on to protect us from the sudden temperature drop.

Refuelled, we snapped back into our skis and launched ourselves back onto the piste. I shot off into the lead with the others twenty or thirty yards behind. With my Walkman providing rock music accompaniment, I whizzed over the sparsely populated piste. Life can get no better, I thought to myself.

After a few hundred metres, the trail split into two. I was confident of my familiarity with the terrain, and knowing that either direction brought us to the required chairlift, I headed right. A few seconds later, shouts from the other two penetrated my Chris Rea inspired reverie. I stopped to look back up the slope to see them gesticulating that they were heading left. Fine, I thought, I’ll see them down there and raced on.

I cut left and carved a symmetrical row of sss’s across the open virgin snow. It’s very quiet here, I mused, while revelling in the sheer pleasure of speeding through the soft powder.

After a couple of minutes, I thought my surroundings were not looking overly familiar. I should be in sight of the chairlift by now, shouldn’t I? I contemplated, without undue concern, because after all, it was great skiing.

The open bowl, a modest red in grade, was funnelling down more steeply towards a dense line of conifers. In the corner of what was obviously a summer pasture, I could see a barbed wire fence fringing the heavy dark forest. I was not on the piste anymore.

Switching off my sounds to take a more realistic stock of my situation, I noticed that wispy flakes of snow were falling from the increasingly grey blanket of cloud overhead.

I was not where I thought I was. Should I go back a couple of kilometres or more, uphill in thick snow to find the pisted areas and a chairlift? Or I could try to find my way down to Kirchberg - it couldn’t be that far as I was already at the tree line?

The latter course of action was preferable because the prospect of the uphill climb seemed daunting. I preferred gravity helping me.

I skied on to the corner of the field to the barbed wire boundary line. Beyond the fence was a dark and extremely dense forest of conifers sloping steeply down towards I knew not what. Hopefully to the sanctuary of Club Habitat, my temporary chalet home. Oops. What now? I considered my options. Still not liking the uphill one, I pressed on. This was looking like an adventurous, nay, foolhardy option.

The slope was virtually sheer and the trees so densely packed that I had no option but to remove my skis and slide down on my backside for five or ten metres before crashing into a handy tree with my boots to stop my momentum. Where the trees were more sparse, my acceleration was frightening. I continued this mode of descent for fifteen minutes, taking my time to avoid unnecessary risks.

As time went on, the gathering gloom wrapped itself around me. I had limited daylight left. Little more than an hour. I realised I was in a bit of an iffy situation. The gently falling snow deadened the already limited sounds and, in the all-enveloping, dark, still, embrace of the forest, I felt quite lonely. I was beyond the point of no return.

I realised that if I should fail to arrive back at base, my companions could show would-be rescuers where they last saw me, but finding me in such a densely forested ravine would be almost impossible. Even a helicopter search would be next to useless in such an inhospitable and impenetrable landscape.

At the base of yet another tree, I rested and thought things through. It was down to me. I had to remain calm, keep my spirits up, but above all make sure I avoided any accidents. A broken leg or concussion would be terminal here, as hypothermia would speedily set in.

Hypothermia. This was another consideration. My heavy-duty ski gear protected me well, but it was getting colder. I had to make sure I kept my body temperature up, as hypothermia is gradual and insidious, creeping up by degrees, leaving sufferers confused, weary - and - eventually dead.

I didn’t know whether it was wise or not, but I took a swig from my hip flask. The smooth, warming Remy Martin certainly lifted my spirits, whilst the modest amount consumed hopefully didn’t affect my judgement. I needed to keep my wits about me.

Slip-sliding from tree to tree, I was making steady progress when suddenly I heard running water. I was close to the bottom of the gorge. Just follow the watercourse downstream and I’ll soon be safe, I comforted myself.

This was to prove easier said than done as once down at the valley bottom, a jumbled morass of snow, ice, rocks, and fast-flowing water confronted me. The terrain was treacherous, and I had to proceed slowly and carefully. Rocks covered in ice and snow, bridges of unsupported snow and smooth steep bluffs two to three metres high had to be negotiated. I used my ski sticks to probe the snow before venturing forward. The danger of injury was even more real.

The twisting mountain stream seemed to defy gravity and plunge uphill, but I stuck doggedly to following its course. More than once, even though I was exercising deliberate caution, I crashed through the snow to end up gasping with cold, thigh-deep icy water swirling around, threatening to unbalance me completely.

Another swig of brandy was called for - luckily I didn’t need a St Bernard - I had my supplies.

I was concerned about the cold getting to me, but after several immersions - one to chest height - I was feeling relatively comfortable. It was probably a combination of my ski gear acting like a wet suit and the cognac warming me from the inside.

I pressed on. The dusk was closing in and progress was slow. It was increasingly disconcerting but then I rounded a blind bend, a tall, smooth river cliff forcing me to wade, and the valley opened out to reveal treeless pastures and a couple of farmsteads.

Beyond the farms, over a couple of snow-covered fields, I could see the road through the murky half-light. It was presumably the Kitzbuhel to Kirchberg main road - I was as good as home.

The fields sloped gently down towards the road, but I could ski down. It was such relief to move at a reasonable rate. I reached the road and trudged off wearily toward Kirchberg without knowing exactly where I was.

My luck was in, however. As I reached a bus stop, the free Skibus arrived and soon I was amid a cheerful crowd of returning skiers chatting and joking animatedly about their exploits on the slopes. Little did they know what one particularly damp and exhausted skier had been through that afternoon.

Scandi Escape Part 1 - Stockholm