Before the Season

by Algernon Blackwood

Being in Switzerland early in December is like being behind the scenes during the preparation of a great winter pantomime. Five hundred hotels are empty, trains are empty, shops and streets are empty, too; but yet everything is humming and buzzing with excitement, like a hive. On the 20th the great exodus from England begins. Ask a porter for a bit of string now, and it will be forthcoming with a pleasant smile; but ask for it ten days hence, and he will look surprised, groan, mutter an excuse and promptly vanish underground.

Those are fortunate who were able to get out early this year, for the December weather has been most kind, with keen frost, plenty of snow and the mountain slopes unstreaked by the ugly network of ski tracks that mars their loveliness later. That is to say, above a certain height, and in certain places, snow is plentiful. Here, at Saanenméser, on the mountain line between Montreux and Spiez, at a height of some four thousand feet, skiing conditions have been as perfect as in an ideal February, and February is the chosen month of experts. Although every room in the excellent little hotel is booked weeks ahead, it has been empty for a fortnight, and the mountains have been unusually inviting. On arriving here on December 3rd, several feet of snow lay already on the ground, and after two days of blazing sunshine, a welcome wind rose out of the west, bringing a heavy fall that lasted without stopping for twenty-four hours. Keen frost followed. The snow shone and sparkled with those big erystals dear to every skier’s heart, running was swift and accurate, and the numerous expeditions that open in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel, made daily trips imperative, regardless of the staleness that invariably punishes too ardent zeal at the beginning. But then, Saanenméser lies in a valley that is a veritable snow-trap. A little below, Gstaad on one side, and Zweisimmen on the other, the valleys are still green and springlike. Saanenméser, like its admirable mountain hotel is unique. Railways help it on all sides⁠—to bring one home again apart from a dozen smaller “runs” of enticing beauty that start from the very door, there are two and three day trips in other directions, all easily accessible; and the great Wildhorn beckons just beyond the ridge⁠—the Wildhorn, whose head towers 10,000ft. into the sunshine, whose climbing means a lightning descent of some 6,000ft., and a night in a hut halfway up into the bargain. The cold, of course, is something to remember; so is the night on the straw when every available thread of clothing seems not half enough; the cooking of dinner and breakfast on a fire of wood; the wild desolation of winter that the moon shines on outside, and the sunrise in the morning that reveals a world the gods have just that very second turned out in marvellous, white detail.

It is difficult to believe that in a few days at most these little mountain villages will buzz with cosmopolitan languages, dazzling the eye of the native with the latest “winter costume” from London, Paris and Vienna; that there will be music and dancing every night; and that these rinks, now so busily preparing, will teem with hundreds and look like some parade of a fancy-dress performance. Fifteen years ago there were practically no private rinks at all; no such thing as ski went rustling and flying down these mighty slopes. In so short a time has this great winter industry sprung into existence, bringing health and pleasure to countless thousands, and leaving countless thousands, too, in the pockets of the hotel proprietors. In the first few years it was the proper thing to send to Norway for ski, ski boots, and all the rest, but now Zürich and Bern, seizing the opportunity, make as perfect articles as ever came out of Christiania, and cheaper into the bargain.

The work of preparing for this winter multitude is more than many, perhaps, imagine. The summer and autumn season has hardly gone before the army of workmen begin operations. Hotels barely close their doors at all now. There is little breathing space for anybody, and though the proprietors may grumble privately to you, they do not grumble in their heart of hearts, for their incomes have been easily doubled. Early in December the experts come to make the rinks, at salaries by no means insignificant. It is as difficult to make a really good rink as it is to lay a really good hard tennis court. All night long in the moonlight, at a bitter and freezing temperature, the man in charge stands spraying the surface with the hosepipe, aided by the glare of a large electric light swung across upon a wire. His gauntlet gloves get frozen solid, and he takes another pair. The sound of the hissing water follows one into dreamland. By sunrise he is there again, still scattering water over the uneven lumpy field that hundreds cut intricate figures on by Christmas Day. From the tourists he gets little thanks, the slightest inequality being blamed loudly, and laid at the door of his “abominable incompetence.” But it is no easy job to lay a proper rink. After the first heavy fall of snow the greater mass is carted off to build the enclosing walls, while the remainder is beaten flat by a score of workmen till it is smooth enough to take the first sprinkling of water. Once this is done, the probability is there comes another fall of snow, when the entire process has to be repeated⁠—till the final result represents hours and hours of labour, carried on in all weathers and at all hours of the day and night.

Besides the rink, there is the ice-run for toboggans, an enterprise calling for even greater skill. Its general “lay” and direction, its curves, its walls and the adequate watering of these so that they freeze into a wild, yet safe, descent, combine in a task that is not easily⁠—nor by any means always⁠—quite successful. Yet people grumble at the slightest thing amiss, and many grumble, too, because the hotels make an extra weekly charge for the enjoyment of these costly and elaborate “sports.” Indeed, the Swiss winter resorts now lay themselves out to prepare for their visitors as ambitiously and variously as any popular summer resort beside the sea.

There is, however, one serious drawback in coming out too early. Being first in the field involves making the first tracks. Later, up all the main ascents, others have done this for you. And the labour of making the opening track in deep and powdery snow for several hours in a blazing sun has to be known to be appreciated.