High life | 3 March 2012

Gstaad

It’s early in the morning and very still in the silvery light of the heights up here as I look out my window. A company of wispy white clouds hide behind the surrounding mountains — a reminder that a perfect dawn makes for a perfect day’s skiing. The clouds play games. They wrap themselves around the peaks like snowcaps, then are chased away by the sun, only to return and play headdress again. Someone once compared the movement of ice to the passage of a soul to heaven. I watch the glacier across my house daily, but have yet to feel the movement of a soul, but then I’m not that spiritual. Glaciers are great to look at and wonderful to ski on — they’re flat and fast — but as far as their passing a soul to heaven goes, I ain’t so sure. Yes, man is vile and nature sublime, and the latter makes one meditate on the workings of memory and time.

I used to schuss these mountains non-stop, showing off to the slowpokes making parallel turns behind a ski guide. No longer. I am now lassoed to a female guide called Fear, who keeps reminding me that in this high-altitude world wretched excess pays a very steep penalty. Youngsters schuss past me leaving me green with envy and sorrow at what a coward I’ve become. Ah, the distilling process of memory and yearning for what once was. Never again, Taki old boy, says Fear, and I listen and follow her instructions. Turn, brake, brake some more, turn again, and so on.