A Chamonix Story for the (almost) Insolvent!

By Fran Hardy

“Yes yes, everything is under control, even your reservation from the 10th to 17th April. Congratulations.”

This is not a story told from the privileged memory of a camper champion or someone revelling in the uncomplicated, lazy aftermath of snapping up the package deal of the century.

No, this is an example of the ‘hard (coz we worked hard to sort it), hungry and the homeless (coz these are what we would have been had the trip proved too expensive)’ looking for a snow fix!

A story of how the snowboard bums do things, (bums out of necessity, not choice). For example downloading and dining on the side of the road on bread et fromage to save a couple of quid over lunch.

People continuously and frustratingly enquired as to why on earth we were going to ride in April - the month when snow turns to slush, turns to crud almost before the eyes of its visitors. As if a cruel illusionary trick of nature on those who recoil at the prospect of there being seven, long months of a coloured, rather than their preferred white earth, to play with!

Why on earth experienced riders/seasonaires decided to neglect the fields of powder and go right at the season’s end, when instead of powdery magic the morning snow was hard and icy and the afternoon’s churned up slush?

I’m afraid to say it was nothing other than a money matter.

The same reason why, like some other less privileged riders, having grown up in a single parent family struggling financially, I was never introduced to the delights of nice ski holidays, even though my young, adventurous spirit yearned for that type of mend. It was for my 14th birthday and Christmas present from both parents that I got to sample the treasures, bountiful amounts of snowflakes revealed beneath their blanket.

Ever since, there was a calling on my soul to fulfil something that had been absent from my life and the only option to truly fulfil this unfathomable craving for snow was to go and live somewhere where riding was part of life.

I have marvelled at friends going on one, or two, or even three ski trips a season. I have never believed that they can be had without severe damage to one's bank balance.

We trialled my belief. With flights coming in high (once you’ve added on all the extras on a ‘bargain’ £16.99 flight) at £110 I had ruined expectations for a cheap trip, so trawled the net to find the cheapest accommodation…

Whistler is an example of a resort that becomes the affordable option when conditions diminish. As soon as the snow gets remotely cruddy, Whistler Blackcomb halves the cost of lift tickets and food prices and we were optimistic about this being echoed in the Alps.

It transpired that the French aren’t as understanding as the Canadians and lift prices were still soaring as high as they had been all season and pints of beer still retailed at 5 Euros each with no ‘locals’ haunts boasting local, workers’ prices at meal times.

Then there was the small and perturbing issue of the lift pass. At about 200 Euros a go, this was the moment I could bawl “I told you so!” to everyone ever, claiming that ski trips can be had for under £400!

We thought we would have to loiter at the bottom of the lifts to see if anyone finishing their week early wanted to flog the last few days on their pass.

We were spared this money-saving delight when offered a ‘buddy ticket’. A few of our friends were also visiting Cham the same time as us, all old seasonaires of the valley and we learned about the trend for ex-seasonaires to rent their passes out via a friend still in the valley, from the comfort of their couch back home, a business ubiquitous among ski bums…

Arriving in the Alps fulfilled our anticipation: Our eyes feasted on the beauteous kings and queens of the Chamonix valley, and at once our energy settled, the mania of our lives back home immediately set to rest. We were home!

The sky was a striking sapphire blue - the sun piercing through its mass and stabbing the earth with its supremacy…I wished I’d listened to my boyfriend and brought my spring jacket.

Our carefully considered gite was old, rustic, and of typical French farmhouse appeal, lugging our massive bags up to the only room pour deux in the gite, we lingered not, going straight out into the nearby village of Argentiere, where we spent the rest of our ‘down-time’.

For 25 Euros/person/night, for our own room, three course dinner and breakfast we reckoned this cheaper than staying at the hostel in the village which charged for kitchen usage, so at a total of 16 Euros/person/night!

We were quite prepared for mishaps happening, for when you choose to piece your own holiday together rather than opt for (the more expensive, in this case) package ‘deal’ and always opt for the cheaper option.

You gotta know you are leaving yourself open for the attack of misadventure, however it was rather irksome, having been ‘congratulated’ on our intended stay, meeting our hosts later that day who matter of factly and unapologetically updated us that we had to leave three days before the end of our stay as the 30+ Swedes we were sharing the Gite with, were Northbound and seeing off the closure of the gite in their wake.

After mild frenetic behaviour, we were kindly offered a room at the sister hotel of the kitchen charging hostel, for two nights but had to move again for our last night (as the hotel shut down for the season, and forever as it was being converted into three luxury apartments) into separate, stinky boot smelling dorms in a final bid to save a few bucks.

So there we were, lugging our kit twice more, both squeezing ourselves and our baggage amongst skiers on the short hop on the Chamonix bus up the road, and then lugging it 200 yards down the road in the heat of the day.

During such a short trip, this was nothing short of a large chubby nuisance. This was surely our penance for being such tight asses?

Accommodation fiasco aside, we rode these wee, tight asses off, making the most of the depleted snow conditions, finding natural jibs to hit and icy mogul fields to avoid, being forced, most days, into the first terrain park the valley had seen, obviously not a patch on the parks in parts of North America, but remarkably well kept for its first year.

The locals just didn’t get it though, it was riddled with pre-school kids and even experienced riders chilling on top of jumps, but we enjoyed an hour or so of clear runs through it late mornings.

Being keeners on holiday, we were up and ready to ride at 09.00am, whereas the locals were lying in with confident belief, that the conditions were far better after lunch when the sun had worked her enchantment. But really, when the masses came up to play, the park ruined in less than an hour. We revelled in this - our secret.

The penultimate mishap was when the UK-run airport shuttle bus service left us a message the night before our departure.

We woke to and welcomed in, the fresh morning breeze through the crack in the shutters and the message from the night before at 09.00am on the day of our departure, informing us our afternoon connection had been cancelled and we were going to be collected at 09.40am.

With 40 minutes to pack, we contemplated the prospect of spending our last day and last 10 Euros in Geneva Airport, instead of chilling in the mountains for our last few hours and having lunch with friends.

Alp virgins, we vowed only to return mid-season: It doesn’t suit when, as well seasoned riders, deprived of the wonder of snow for two years, and when the prices don’t compensate the minimal terrain conditions and unbeknown of our next trip, the torment of recognising the epically siiiiiicckkk potential of the valley when blessed with a decent snow covering was almost too much to bear.

Nevertheless, it’s always when you have struggled most, that appreciation becomes most powerful and your surroundings most blissful!