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Adventure Girl: skiing the Dolomites |
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Written by Megan Michelson/special to the World
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Tuesday, 03 April 2007 |
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Near the top of the pass there’s an old, wooden lodge that smells like fresh bread and a wood burning stove. Behind it is a jagged mountain range so sharp it makes the Sierra look like the plains. The wooden sign posted out front says “Cucina Tipica.” Denver, Colorado-based pro telemark skier Eben Mond skis up next me and reads the sign.
 “Welcome to Italy,” he says. “Where a place like this is typical.”
We’re here for the Scufons Telemark Festival in Moena, Italy, in the heart of the Dolomites. It’s a week-long festival with five days of backcountry touring and resort skiing that culminates with a freeskiing and big air competition and a gap jump over a pile of cow dung.
Right now, however, we’re skating out a ridge to carve turns down a low-angle pitch dusted by snow that fell two days ago. Although Italy is having a dry snow year, our guides, Paulino and Icaro, have found us sweet spots — couloirs and open bowls and thick glades filled with knee-deep Italian sugar. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon, and we’ve been hiking and skiing nearly non-stop for most of the day.
“Now is time for birra,” our Italian friend Barbara says. I don’t need her to translate that.
We ski to another lodge lower down the mountain and the band is already playing. Within minutes, plates piled high with sausage, lasagna, and penne pasta, along with steins of beer, are placed in front of us. The sun sinks in the sky and the beer keeps flowing. Everyone dances in their ski boots to an Italian band playing covers of American classics like “YMCA” and “I Will Survive.”
 Herein lies the lesson I learned on my trip to the Dolomites: For the Italians, ski trips are as much about skiing as they are about celebrating.
Earlier in the week, we set out on a cold, drizzly day. After skiing no more than two or three runs in snow so wet it pours over my goggles, we stop at a tiny log cabin at mid-mountain. The door is locked, but our guide pulls a key out of his pocket like a magician.
“What are we doing?” I ask, to nobody in particular.
“We are a having a briefing,” Barbara says, with a wry smile. “You will see.”
 Inside, the cabin has a stove and a wooden table with benches. Twenty of us crowd in, and our dampness makes the place as moist as a steam room. Icaro lifts a giant capped carafe of red wine, plus bread, cheese, and salami, out of his pack. More magic tricks, I think. We drink until our lips are red and our clothes are dry. It is 10:30 in the morning.
At the end of the week, my friend and I enter the big mountain competition just for fun. It’s on a bony, steep ridge underneath a Squaw-like tram. Forty people have entered; five of them women. I wait my turn in blustering winds and finally the timer counts me down. When I’m skiing, I could be anywhere — Tahoe, Europe, the moon. It simply doesn’t matter. All that matters in that moment is your breath and the snow underneath your feet.
 Four minutes later, I’m at the bottom, heart racing and legs burning. It is time to drink more birra.
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Last Updated ( Tuesday, 03 April 2007 )
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