It was bitter cold, but I don’t remember freezing or being cold. Hemingway wrote that the air was so cold when you took a breath it was like drinking water. We travelled by train, then we walked through the cold streets, no bus was running, we had to hustle to catch the last ride up the mountain, then it was up to the mountain, bundled up in two thick woolen blankets with the snow showering us. It was warm looking out of the peep hole I created, flying up the mountains sitting on the last ride of the day.
The guys on the ski lift slowed so on the embarking I could jump on. In those days it was all open seated, no warm and heated cabin. Naturelle was the norm.
Then we skied down to the lake, my dad with the heavy load with a pipe his brother machine welded in the city shop strapped in his backpack. He always carried the loads since he was as strong as an ox, my cousin and me. The winter nights were here, the landscape was just as fresh as a picture book, and the valley was covered in silver sparkling light greyish. Stars were bright covering the landscape from one end to the other. The evergreen trees were covered with fresh snow which the mountain shed plenty. Not a sound could be heard.
On the way the valley had a few houses before we descended into our world, with shimmering lights coming from the houses. Thick white smoke rose from the chimney poking through the snow. But no one could be seen. The only sounds were made by us making it through the snow pressing a track in the fresh snow.
Breathing the cold air my nostrils froze up. It did not bother me because otherwise I was happy as a camper. Thirty minutes passed by, before we entered the warmth of our destination, the Hütte, so I knew what was before me.
Spread out in the valley was the frozen lake, and a few huts that were not occupied by anyone. We were the first ones to occupy a house. The rest of the huts stood empty and cold. There was the forest “hunter” on the left who went in the valley below during the winter months, close to the house mountain in the back. Two more huts were between the state forester and us.
On the slope up on the right was another hunting lodge, and although never in my life I have seen a living soul in this hideout overlooking the salt path, the lake and the gaggle of huts.
Halfway was one hut, by now usually completely snowed under only to make a ramp, invisible to the untrained eye. The valley ran up against a wall of granite, hard cold stone, snow and wind. I paused, and I could hear the roaring of the winds against the high walls of snow and ice. Clear, ice-cold nights, stars blazing from the sky and silence. Pure silence.
Skiing into the valley we disturbed the peace. Hollering and yelling as we went down the steep alley, not seeing if anyone was before us. But my dad was easy to recognize. He had a freaking pipe sticking out of his backpack. As we were slaloming down the narrow gully, the “star gully”, named after some unlucky bloke, a bone shattering yell.
A fading shouted obscenity followed by a thump and…. silence. Rushing to the aid the poor soul, my mind racing, a picture of despair presented itself with the head buried in the snow, the gravity of the backpack did what Newton has predicted, and the pipe pointed in the sky like a mortar ready to launch.
Examining the scene, combing the parts thrown around the snow, gloves, thrown about by said angry human, sticks, a pair of skis, unbroken, human, no harm done, stove pipe, not bent, father angry, swearing like a sailor on shore leave, my indignation was laughter. Star gully had found a new victim.
The revenge of the snow under roof. My dad managed to ski jump the only roof in the entire gully, launching off the roof like a rocket. Laughter, a good tale was in the making. Getting tucked in the house, I spent some time outside, smiling to myself about what we just survived. Wondering about the thousand of stars that overlooked our little merry band.
Standing in the cold night, glittering and watching in amazement the star-studded sky, my father popped his head around asking “You wanna come inside?”
“In a minute”, I said turning my attention to the sky. He smiled, in a way only old guys can do, “It is Christmas”, he said with a smile.
My father has sadly passed away. He is gravely missed; he was a man of few words and a great member of the community. A dry wit, grumpy, stubborn, but loved his grandkids.
It’s Christmas, so he said. And it was.