27.01.26

    It's a little over an hour south to Adelboden where they hold the downhill slalom World Cup each year and there's snow on the way. We've just returned from Zurich where I was covered in little needles and had suction cups placed up and down my back. I was already a little low after the holiday sugar-fest and a fairly epic hike up the Weissenstein a day before which left me in a state of moderate dehydration and now I'm beginning to slip into a surreal stupor as we pack everything into the car. Fortunately everything was laid out the night before, but as soon as we're on the road my brain checks out. I passively watch streaks of light in the melting pools of snow in the road. Little villages and town centers and their glowing afternoon shopfronts flash by as we skate the roundabouts and make our way into the Alps. All I know is that we've got an old cabin through a friend so we don't have to navigate the the traffic and noise in town. We meet our mates in a parking lot but decide we'll give it a go instead of carpooling to the cabin because the roads aren't too bad yet. We bought chains the week before when it was getting questionable around the farm and they're tucked behind the passenger seat so off we go; up up up into the foothills, stopping once at tiny shop for a toothbrush (oops) and a pastry. 

   The weather is holding as we take a sharp left out of the canyon and begin the ascent toward the cabin and it's instantly apparent that front-wheel-drive isn't going to cut it. We've got the coordinates so they go ahead while we dig out the chains. My patience is wearing thin and I have to stop myself from making all the snappy comments I want to make while my fingers slowly go numb and we're handing each other opposite ends under the wheels and the snow melts around our knees and we're figuring out how to release the release-thingies and snap them back into place and...then it's done after twenty minutes or so and we're crawling up over the snowy cliff edges and meeting again at the last turn (which will drop back down a kilometer into a little nook) so we can caravan the gear and I am so, so tired as in disassociated tired and bringing all the backpacks in and getting little fires going in wood stoves and finding the raclette oven and I'm thinking the only thing that is going to make this evening bearable is a little red wine even if it means I fall straight to bed so I am made the official wine-person as the apéro gets going and the stoves begin to fill the little rooms with ambient heat and a little music comes out of a corner and then yes...ok I can handle this. This is good. Maybe I'm beginning to fell better anyway. 

   I scope out the dimensions of the cabin. A gravity toilet. A bucket under the bathroom sink to catch a persistent leak. Rows of ancient cutlery and dishware and glasses and pots and pans of all sizes and degrees of usefulness. A vinyl floor worn through and repaired and worn through again by hundreds of après-ski occasions. I picture all the parties and songs and pots of this and that coming through with enthusiastic announcements banging the door frames and toes kicking thresholds and on and on. We are only one of many groups but we are fairly low-key and when the rooms finally begin to heat up, the vibe is just about right. There's lots of places like this dotting the mountains. Multi-generational former farms that might still use the bottom floors for cows in the summer, but the Swiss take skiing very seriously and Marco Odermatt is a national treasure by anyone's standard so I reckon it's the national sport at the end of the day, which means many of these farms have been remodeled and recommissioned as rustic getaways. It's all very reminiscent of the the hostels along the PCT. A stack of board games collecting dust in a book shelf. A hodgepodge of domestic amenities that harken back to some golden age alpine life. This is a place where people come together, enjoy each other's company, and disperse. I am slow on the uptake, but I'm beginning to understand something as I grow older and as I try to maintain coherence between sneezes over the next couple days: It's not about the World Cup. It's about us together, now in our forties and fifties at the World Cup. But we remember the old days as well.

    Somehow we find a playlist of all of Phoebe Buffet's ridiculous "Central Perk Classics" with such hits as "Sticky Shoes" and of course, who can forget the timeless "Smelly Cat"?  This functions just fine as our middle-aged aprés ski singalong and why not.  Soon enough we're all full of melted cheese and pickled things and questionably courageous (by Swiss culinary standards) combinations. 

    I fall asleep on one of two twin beds that we've pushed together which looked identical at first glance, but mine is actually two inches lower. I have a series of those marvelous fever dreams which are half-lucid battles with parallel conscious and unconscious thoughts. I feel like I'm fathoms below the other bed, struggling to figure out why one side of my nose is dripping more than the other, fighting with a pillow, getting gently nudged when I actually manage to fall asleep and immediately begin to snore loudly. Fun...

   And in the morning I jolt up and crawl over the edge of the bed and shake my head and go into auto-pilot mode, unsure exactly where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing. I'd say I'm at five point five out of ten but the more aggressive symptoms are gone. I'm coming into lucidity and grabbing frying pans and breaking eggs and a plate full of onions and herbs comes my way and I've got a decent appetite. The room starts to fill with bacon and coffee and simmering onions and the old wooden dining table is loaded with cheese from different cantons and juice and fluffy bread and butter. We've got an Aargau cheese which is advertised as "light and creamy" but it's about halfway between either of those adjectives and I'm told Aargau is actually more famous for its carrot cake, which I file away under the endless list of Things To Try and add more Tabasco to my cheese, which has become a source of mild amusement to everyone. A few weeks before I was told that if I try that in Italian restaurant I run the risk of being banished for life. You've got to weigh your odds with these things. Italians have a way of doing food; even more-so than the Swiss. What's an American to do? I've been putting Tabasco on everything since I was three years old and it belongs on all known forms of cheese in my humble opinion but let's be perfectly honest: It's the heat, not the flavor. The heat opens up the olfactory senses; not dulling them, but rather enhancing the palette for me. Yes, Tabasco is overtly strong but it's a very straight-forward taste and something you can build a confident relationship with. If I don't have Tabasco on hand I'll reach for anything that provides a kick. Some people understand. Others are baffled, very few openly offended, but Switzerland is a country of regular contrasts that routinely meets along social lines. Any conversation I'm part of will tend have a lot of "How do you say in Deutsch/English?" "Ah, ja ja." And Tabasco? It's just a talking point...more like "How are you physically enduring that?" rather than "How can you do that do a perfectly good piece of Aargau cheese?" 

   But we've got to get going here. Everyone takes a kitchen duty and we slide into the base layers and pack the essentials walk up the little bluff where we parked the car (because we didn't know if we could climb back out of the driveway in the morning) and we are back in the main road of the valley, curving into further recesses of the mountains under a cloudy sky until we reach our spot and make the short walk up a wooded sidewalk to the competition area. 

   Already booming through the PA, the announcements are coming fast and shrill next to jumbo screens, splitting the mountain air and echoing across the canyon. All at once it seems like an affront to the alpine village and perfectly Swiss. Big, bright, and calculated to the second. Then again, I'm standing slightly askance at the world through sniffles and huffs and puffs. It's race one of two on the giant slalom and Odermatt has positioned himself well, as expected.  It's just after 10 am and the glüweine and tee schnaps are already having their intended effect on the revelers which only becomes more pronounced throughout the day. For safety's sake, throngs of buses will shuttle people from designated parking lots ten kilometers below up to the event which allows for such things, but in the morning hours it's all the expected joviality of multiple countries and cultures coming together for a day of world class competition. When the races end, the same sidewalks return and split off into the streets above where rows of shops and restaurants offer any number of appetites a warm bit of respite.

   At this point however, we're more interested in finding good purchase on the side of the slope where we can get a decent look at things. Even when you're relatively close to the race, you've still an extra line of fence outside of the official course and since we had a slightly late start, this is going to be a challenge...or you can just look at the screens and enjoy the morning. Quite honestly, it all becomes a bit blurry here because my situation did not exactly improve...and while I remember dozens of skiers flying past in bright colors I also remember feeling like I was in tow of a procession that didn't really have my name on it. I followed behind and told Hanne "Look, I'm sorry. I'm just not here today so you have to help me out a little." Something with the acupuncture and cupping session had released or instigated something on top of the sickness and I was beginning to feel like a pair of eyes bobbing up and down on a body that was making its best attempt to shuffle through the snow and mimic the others when I saw hands clapping. It was a very strange feeling that I couldn't quite describe to myself or anyone else so I was "there" but not as intended. This was frustrating because I'd been looking forward to the event for more than a few weeks and brought the Nikon and was very excited about the prospect of the cabin and actually seeing Odermatt and Mellard whom we'd seen hundreds of times over the years but never at an actual event. What can you do?

    After the second run was finished (and Odermatt had claimed victory once more), everyone thought it best to return to the cabin and regroup before the closing ceremonies. I could use this window to get a little nap, and see how I felt. Good idea. I endorse this message. Fine fine. Where is the the car? Ultimately it proved fortuitous for my situation and I bounced back with vigor after some strategic hydration and little shuteye. Maybe it was just toxins releasing. A sort of Herx reaction. I've had that experience many times before after colloidal silver or deep joint stretching. Whatever. I was back to a five point five out of ten (maybe even a six) and I could at least enjoy the rest of the evening with everyone. 

    We returned to our spot and walked back up the snowy trail and down into the main stage where the winners would be given their official cowbells, offer their customary speeches, and the various national anthems would be played to a crowd that was now brimming with enthusiasm. It was a sight to behold. Skiing is truly the Swiss national sport and I felt lost in a sea of dancing red and white flags flying back and forth in front of the screens, punctuate by cinematic bass drops and choreographed lights. I thought back to the days when I played around fifty shows per year. Sound systems. Songs. Silhouettes. What you experience and what fans experience is a very different thing at the end of the day. After every race, they'll make a speech and thank everyone from the organizers to the staff to the town itself, but this is on a different level. These gestures aren't compulsory, but rather heartfelt. I can't imagine not feeling the vibe no matter how many stages you take, and everyone seemed authentically moved and acknowledged the fans as intrinsic to the experience. Maybe Lucas Braathen was even holding back a few emotions as he described his time in Adelboden as a child. It's hard not to get swept up in the moment while people are getting a little bit tipsy and the fervor grows. Walking out of the ceremony we find a little spot outside another DJ tent and take in the night and have a little glüweine and dance a little ourselves. Strangers come into our circle and twirl around with us and take pictures. Through the air you hear "Odi! Odi! Odi!" He's got to be right up there with Federer at this point. Well, who knows. I'm not Swiss enough to know these things, but he is a BIG deal. 

    The original plan was to return to the cabin where I would make my famous spaghetti and meatballs but after a long day it's decided that there's an Italian restaurant up the street which will have us seated in twenty minutes. I'm hungry. Everyone is hungry. How we secured a table is a mystery but yes. Pizza. Let's do this. So, we head back onto the path through the woods and at this point people are slipping and sliding and a girl crashes through us and does what looks like a face-plant a few meters ahead but apparently this is a legitimate attempt to slide all the way down the path. She makes it about ten more meters on the icy snow, which is impressive and gets back up laughing at the whole thing. A bit down the way we come upon a man who is doing his absolute best to simply stand for more than a few seconds and further down from that a group has surrounded someone who has actually had a bad fall, but he's back on his feet with a little help and dusting himself off and "Jajassssschgweht".  

   The dance music fades as we turn through the streets and make our way up to the restaurant which is already buzzing with people. Some are tourists. Some are skiers. Some are coming from the competition like us, kicking the snow out of our boots and shaking off the jackets and then it's warm and it smells incredible and it's "Grüezi mitenand!" and a bottle of red wine appears at the table with a little bread and spicy oil and my back, still recovering from the nonstop shoveling of Snowpocalypse '23 and three winters on The Mountain, is ever so grateful. My right shoulder is still having issues and that is one of the reasons we went in for the acupuncture. It actually started with a deep massage on that shoulder...makes more sense that there was a lot of release going on. Anyway...I try not to make the comparisons. I hate doing that, but you know what: I cannot for the life of me, find a wood-fired pizza that actually tastes like this outside Italy (or restaurants run by actual Italians.) I'm no Michelin Star chef. I just know my own experiences. Throughout the course of the evening it's like watching an art-form. A type of dance. A hand appears and deftly empties the rest of the bottle and disappears into the noise. I finish my entire pizza. Perfection. I make tiny pools of the spicy oil and swab it up with the last piece of crust. Heaven. I want to be that guy who offers overwrought compliments to the owner, the kitchen, and our server on the way out. There's a guy standing against the wall a meter from our table staring and smiling ear to ear. He's happy. Is he happy because we're happy? I think everyone's just happy because they are here tonight. Together. Odermatt has the gold. There's another day of racing tomorrow. Alles gut.

    We head back toward the cabin but the snow has been coming down and we decided to park at the first turn about one kilometer away just in case they haven't plowed yet. It's a crisp cold night and the visible cabins on the other side of the canyon are just glowing yellow dots in the distance. We put on the head lamps but quickly change to red light so we can see the rest of the evening views. There's a layer of snow and a layer of ice beneath that. It's a fairly steep grade but not jeep-trail steep. We manage back down and cross dozens of little animal tracks zig-zagging through the fresh powder. Everyone is full, exhausted, and ready for some deep sleep. It's going to be an early morning to catch Mellard and the slalom from a checkpoint station further up the hill. Heat on. Teeth brushed. Goodnight.

       And on Sunday I'm feeling maybe like...a six point seven. It's better. My head isn't so foggy anymore. I've got more general energy and I don't have that weird body fatigue as I jump into the kitchen, grab more eggs, take another plate of onions, mushrooms, and herbs and start frying. The old wooden table is set with more cheese and bread and juice and I pile the eggs up on each plate, proud that I've figured out the 1-6 heat-to-egg ratios on the stove. These ones are nice and fluffy compared to yesterday's fried bricks and everyone else got decent sleep as well so the energy is high. Vibes are good. Dishes are done. We trudge back up to the car and off we go again. Back to the same little spot. Back up the same icy forest path, but this time we take a hard right and make our way toward a big tent just alongside the course about a third of the way down from the start. After that it drops straight down and out of sight. It's the steepest World Cup course in the world actually and even more daunting in person. I took to snowboarding and Nordic style skate skiing over the years but I never had the stomach for all-out downhill. Flying down mountains at 70 km on a road bike is still within my comfort zone for some reason, but I was never really good at skating or surfing or anything that requires me to stay upright on an unpredictable surface. These guys were winning Jr Cups a long time ago and they make it look easy. Even so, there's plenty of disqualifications, minor crashes, and slip-ups that are critical in the 100th-of-a-second stakes of downhill skiing. We purchase some tea in the tent, bring out a long bench that no one seems to be using, and perch on the side of the course with an epic view of the finish line before Adelboden below. It's something else. Before the event officially stats we're all asked to take a minute of silence for the terrible events at Crans Montana a couple weeks ago. It stunned everyone and answers are not coming easy. Camille Rast, a downhiller who had an excellent year is from the region and offered her tribute after a recent victory while more tributes continue to pour in.

     Of course, being into landscape photography for so long, I have nothing resembling a telephoto lens for the Nikon; not even a basic 50/50, so each shot I get is an huge postcard pano of the Alps with a tiny skier carving through a checkpoint. When I get these edited I'll just say it's all about "exemplifying the scale of winter sports next to their environment" Something like that. It still looks amazing. When things are moving around, I just keep it on auto. Sun on snow with dark wet mountains in the background is tough. It takes too long to dial in with extreme contrasts like this. I take some good photos of most of the competition. Mellard comes in fifth with a solid run. Not bad with one more to go. When the sun really comes out it gets unbelievably bright. I've got on a pair of dark sunglasses but they aren't up to the task. We're on the west side of the track facing east and it's just blinding amounts of bright, but we enjoy our bench and some sandwiches that we packed and just take it in. 

    For the second run we moved down to the finish line area and watched as everyone came through. Little red and white flags waving frantically every time someone crested the last slope and shot down through the crowd. It was a lot of energy, the announcer heralding at 90 decibels and the selected audio which was supposed to pair with the skier's home country. Some interesting choices there, but it's all about the "Event", which is a live crowd / televised production that runs seamlessly from its various corners and bluffs and positions. The cranes overhead and the drones that follow behind the contestants with their high-pitched hum. This is live alpine sports. This is fondue-cheese-covered hot dogs with fried onions.  This is lager-soaked aprés ski anthems and caravans of families, tourists, and friends in waves of energy that undulate in colors and cheers and when Mellard threaded a pole on his second run my hands went to my head with a great "Ahhh F***!" with the rest of the crowd and well, that was it. 

    After the second run we walked back to the car, made our way back toward the cabin and stopped by another ski area for a couple hours so half of us could do some easy runs while the other half stayed in the lodge with warm apple cider, gazing lazily out the big windows talking about life. What are we doing back here after all? After 5,000 or so miles underfoot. Building, dismantling, victories, and lessons. There are little moments...like car camping in the Tacoma down a dusty dirt road next to a great open field of dry grass outside Camp Verde watching the sun go down. Like walking into Oracle after losing the trail in a freak snow storm on the AZT. Like discovering the Blue Dot route amidst the late afternoon boulders on the side of Elden. There are things humans always pine for and they tend to be "The Firsts" and someday I will miss the feeling of being at my first World Cup event in Adelboden. 

   I watch the Alps out of the window with something droning on the car radio and we course the winding road back down and set upon cleaning the cabin with focus. Cutlery goes back here and the beds go back like this and sign the guest log and double-check everything and head back up to the cars and remove the snow chains back at the main road and part ways with some hugs and I promise not to be under the weather at the next World Cup.