The Magic Mountain
By Alan Behr, Globe Correspondent, 1/10/99
Alan Behr is a freelance writer from New York City.
NTERLAKEN, Switzerland -- It's not a typical ski vacation you begin by
introducing yourself over the phone to the chief oncologist at the leading
hospital of Switzerland. My wife, Julie, was in the middle of chemotherapy
after surgery for breast cancer. Her doctor in New York, a man of both
eminence and wisdom, had counselled her not to go abroad while under
treatment. ``I'm going,'' she told him. ``Let's figure out how.''
In cancer therapy, as in much of medicine, a positive attitude is integral
to healing. So, with a letter detailing Julie's treatment, and with a list of
telephone and fax numbers of the Swiss doctors and nurses I'd contacted, away
we went. The question was, could Julie ski Switzerland without developing
serious complications?
The Victoria-Jungfrau Hotel stretches across the main street of
Interlaken, on a plain between two lakes. The town is only two short train
rides from the ski slopes of the Jungfrau region and five minutes by foot from
three patisseries. The local hospital is good, and we could be at the
country's top facility in one hour. The hotel has a gourmet restaurant, a
spa, an indoor pool, several saunas, and a steamy saltwater whirlpool that
could be taken outdoors in winter. We wouldn't lose even if we didn't ski.
Indeed, rain was falling on our first ski day. Visibility was so bad, we
lost the view from our hotel windows of such distant but substantial objects
as the Jungfrau, an alp cresting at 13,642 feet. The concierge, a prudent man
and avid snowboarder, politely suggested we take a swim and book a masseuse.
Julie responded the only way she knew how: She broke out her foul-weather
goggles and ordered a private ski guide.
Two years before, Ueli Schick had given up a career in life insurance to
return to his first loves: carpentry (in the summer) and skiing. As a master
carpenter, he was certified to build an entire chalet; as a guide and
instructor with the Swiss Ski School, he was certified to take a cancer
patient and her husband along slopes covered with clouds so dense, you could
see only one or two traverses in front of you. He loaded our skis into his
car and drove us to the cog train that carried us skyward.
The Jungfrau region is composed of three ski areas: Grindelwald-First,
Kleine Scheidegg-Maennlichen, and Muerren-Schilthorn. The latter was
difficult enough for James Bond and party (in the film ``On Her Majesty's
Secret Service''). Grindelwald had proved just difficult enough for this
intermediate skier to crash and dislocate his right thumb (in 1990), resulting
in a hard-learned lesson on icy conditions and a notably cranky travel
article.
That left Kleine Scheidegg, where, Ueli assured us, the snow was now the
best in the region. We started from the lifts on the mountain terminus of our
cog train. The rain of Interlaken was falling here as snow. On each run,
Ueli went down first, cutting a path through the powder for Julie. I took up
the rear so I could reach Julie quickly if she fell. She didn't. She was
great.
I was dressed too warmly and had chosen a heavy set of parabolic skis
before the storm had hit. Turning in them in new snow was like lifting
barbells attached to my legs. Three times I slid into deep powder; on the
last occasion, Julie and Ueli had to wait while I dug snow like a hound dog in
turf, searching for a buried pole.
By the late afternoon, I had grown so fatigued, Julie had to come to my
aid, skiing behind me in case I fell, carrying my poles to the train. Ueli
bought me mineral water and a package of raisin sugar supplements -- for fast
energy.
The next morning, the western sky was royal blue, fading into a wisp of
white over the mountains to the east. Fir-tree branches bent under loaves of
snow, and the cog train chugged past the flour-white village of Wengen. The
man next to me saw it as a painting: ``Wengen in Snow,'' he called it.
I was on regular skis this time, the slopes were nicely groomed, and I
wore less clothing. With that patience and skill uniquely Swiss, Ueli worked
with Julie, and her form noticeably improved. I got through the day upright.
The cooperative weather brought skiers from all over, leading to
bottlenecks at the lifts, where, each time you board, you have to bend over,
stick the ski pass around your neck into a validator, and waddle ignominiously
through a turnstile. Fortunately, the runs are long, topographically varied
and, on this occasion, were perfectly covered in freshly packed snow.
Two days without mishap made us so confident, we gave up our comfortable
room at the Victoria-Jungfrau, bade a pained farewell to its whirlpool and
saunas, and moved to Wengen to be closer to the slopes.
It was the British who, in the 19th century, made the area a travel
destination. The desk clerks at our hotel, the Regina, were British and
Irish, as were the guests, many of whom, in groups of between six to eight,
come annually. The house pianist was a Scotsman who played clever medleys of
Beatles, blues, and variations on a theme from Beethoven's ``Fifth Piano
Concerto.''
Every evening, after dinner, the regulars turned the lobby into the living
room of a country house. They filled the numerous comfy chairs and love
seats, playing cards and board games, reading, stoking the fire, authoring
phrases like ``Please, could I have another gin, but no tonic'' in perfect
Oxford accents -- every ``h'' voiced, every ``girl'' pronounced ``gairl.''
A Scotsman showed up on ``gala night'' in black tie and kilt, inspiring a
husky Englishman to draw near and declare, ``I just have to tell you, that is
so smart.''
Julie and I were the only Americans. The two Swiss couples sought us out
and made friends: Together with a brace of taciturn Japanese men, we were a
``foreign'' contingent.
In the Victoria-Jungfrau, the sign on the main sauna said to ``enter
naked,'' in which state two Englishwomen had gotten as far as the door until
they realized it was mixed sex. The sauna at the Regina played by British
rules: Bathing suits or towels must be worn at all times, please. That
satisfied the many Englishwomen but imposed upon the Japanese and Swiss -- and
my wife, who is confident in her beauty, cancer or no.
With Ueli to guide her each day, I could see Julie making that transition
from beginner to intermediate skier: The movements grew fluid and came with
that ease which betrays second nature -- as when a toddler begins to walk like
an adult.
Ueli took us higher this time, to Maennlichen, which is served by four
lifts. It is crowned by an enormous restaurant and by an open patch for
helicopters and for yellow airplanes that perform a free-fall stunt to please
masochistic passengers, then land uphill on skis. The Dutchman sharing our
table at lunch said he'd gone flying on skis, breaking his collarbone. We
overheard the names of two celebrity ski fatalities, Michael Kennedy and Sonny
Bono, mentioned in hushed German dialogue.
But for the final day on the mountain, Julie said goodbye to Ueli. It was
time to brave it alone, she said.
The snow of the early week was melting now, turning to slush in the
afternoons -- to water in patches. Something had come over Julie, however,
and she skied better than I have seen her ski in three years on the Alps.
Was it the mountain air? The exercise? The Dole wine and the dessert
buffet? Perhaps. I think, however, they were only contributing factors. The
engine driving Julie's recovery was her spirit.
It was Fasnacht -- carnival -- when we arrived in Zurich. I remembered the
Mardi Gras of my New Orleans adolescence: festive, licentious, and, by the
end, just plain filthy. In Zurich, parading musical groups dressed as
goblins, flowers, and sprites, peppering onlookers with sweets and
biodegradable confetti. They entered the restaurants at night; at the
normally staid Kronenhalle, I fulfilled a childhood Mardi Gras wish by playing
along to Dixieland on tambourine. In nine trips to Switzerland, I'd never had
so much fun.
After a week of skiing and Carnival, Julie was finally starting to show
fatigue. We took our quiet, final meal at our hotel, the Spluegenschloss, and
were greeted by the owner and his amazingly pretty Austrian wife. In 36
hours, Julie would be back in chemotherapy. ``How are you doing?'' I asked as
the dessert cart wheeled closer.
She eyed the tiramisu with approbation and gave me the thumbs up.
That's the spirit.
