Early the first morning a friend cried bluebird and it was a perfect opportunity to charge out and explore the mountains. Unfortunately, a major miscommunication left us standing at the tram station with no lift passes and the frantic decision of which of the three key ingredients we were going to have to exclude from our budgets, skiing, booze or food. An hour later we boarded the tram and headed for the Peak of the Gemsstock. Our wide eyes gazed upon endless possibilities that surround the main Peak on the Gemsstock. The only sane exit option being a snaky long groomer that winds down the main gut back to mid station.





The lines that were available would take some work and some nerve in getting to, and with clouds moving in, naturally the boys picked out a beautiful looking mini golf line that was easy access and only meters away. Although it was easy access it looked to be about the only line that hadn’t been skied in the entire area? There it was! our first smooth move of the trip! Orry Grant dropped in to a mandatory 30 footer as the tram passed simultaneously overhead. The massive metal tram tower made a noise that resembled that of a Gong as the curious audience watched from above. Orry was eaten up immediately by a massive school of sharks hiding just underneath the surface. Fortunately Orry was ok but his skis fell victim to the predators. Both bindings remained attached to his feet as his boards continued their adventure down the mountain without him. Realizing the snow was a little thin we made our way back to mid station only to be enveloped in a blinding defining fog that lengthened what should have been a five minute affair to a three hour tour.




Jet lag quickly became a factor as day one drew to a close and my personal decision was to ration food equally with beer. I hadn’t traveled all the way back to Europe just to ski; I was after the full cultural experience. Wandering down the street in Andermatt we found a locals pub were the working men of the village seemed to gather after work. At first we attracted some stares and laughter but the beautiful hostesses kept us put in our bar stools and before we knew it we were sharing stories with the locals. It was told that Andermatt was a major military station at one point but these days there are less troops holding fort in the area and there just isn’t much going on to drive the local economy. A foreign investor sees opportunity in the local mountains. A gentlemen named Freddy shared his side of the scoop saying that the investor is about to put up 3500 or so new beds in the area. It would seem that the locals are poised to welcome the boom and get things rolling again in Andermatt. After many beverages it was decided that we would meet up with Freddy again same time, same place for post work cocktails the following day.




On day two the weather cleared after a good sciffing of snow. We had hopped that some lost baggage would have arrived that was keeping a few shovels and a probe out of our day packs. This missing gear proved to be the deterrent from venturing off into some of the gnarlier lines in the bluebird. Instead we headed up one of the smaller mountains in search of some pow and some fresh looking Swiss ladies. We found a pow covered farm field, literally! There was actually an active farm on the mountain. It seemed that the cattle were restricted to a small area for the ski season but just under the snow pack was a grassy smooth slope that became evident with the odd washed out turn. Every minute in Andermatt seemed to be bringing about some sort of new experience. We hopped on the train and headed towards Desentis to look for a rail. The train wound through giant endless backcountry terrain. The odd time you would see a pair of tracks marking a long chute or a speckled face. The wonder of who, when, and how those tracks came to be was inviting and intriguing.




With no more snow in the forecast and little budget left for the Swiss portion of the trip we found pow in places that the locals weren’t looking. We made turns in town on steep slopes, between buildings and were rewarded with blower face shots and the most fun and creative lines that my buddy Romer and I had shredded since our time in Japan years ago. Again and again we found ourselves washing the wear of the day away with our new found friends at the pub. By now our true livelihoods had been revealed and I awkwardly found myself giving Freddy golf lessons in the corner of the bar, using a broom handle to correct his backswing. I think that somewhere in the haze of jet lag and gargantuan glasses of beer I may have mentioned that I was a bit of a ringer on the links. Although I think I may have fixed Freddy’s grip to accommodate for more of a draw I may have tweaked his backswing a little too much?

As classic Canadian hosers we drew ample attention at the night club by joining some of the young troops in rounds of snuff and then attempting to tend to the ladies without knowing that we all had typical amateur snuffstaches. Never the less the nights were long and fun, and the days the same.

We met some people who spoke great English and had been living in Andermatt for years. Their take on the area was that it’s a local’s venue. It’s far enough away from major centers that it’s not over saturated with rich tourists. Andermatt is a place for the core of the ski culture. It’s for the early riser who is determined to make a day out of bagging that one distant face that parallels the train tracks far between villages. Seclusion is heaven for those who make their bed there.

As Andermatt drew to a close I was reluctant to leave, knowing that more snow was on the way. I felt comfort in that we had met great people and seen new terrain that I still frequently dream about skiing. We packed our gear and made the arduous walk to the bus station in the early hours of a cold, cold morning. Our bus driver showed up 3 minutes late yelling and screaming at everyone to hurry up and get in. His French accent stood out and it seemed that maybe he was a little angry that he was stuck in the German part of the country. After chucking our gear violently onto the van we began the journey back down the winding valley. Every turn was a white knuckle handle grabber and as some feared for their lives I couldn’t help but fear for Freddy’s sanity knowing that he was only a few months away from hitting the fairways of Andermatt and realizing what Scheiße the golfer from Canada has put him through.