Slippery Slopes

My Misadventures in the French Alps

Photo by Maarten Duineveld on Unsplash

When I accepted a job in the French Alps, I had no idea what I was skiing into - as an Irishman whose idea of winter sports was drinking hot ports huddled around the pub fire, my most notable achievement on the slopes was being ski-patrolled off a mountain on a stretcher—not once, but twice. Needless to say, my confidence was as shaky as my technique.

The crisp Alpine air hit me as I stepped off the plane in Geneva. Heather from England, whom I'd briefly met during my unconventional "interview" in Australia, greeted me with a smile that hinted at her sense of humor. We were bound for Les Gets, a picturesque town nestled in the heart of Les Portes du Soleil.

"Les Portes du Soleil," Heather explained as we wound our way through snow-capped peaks, "literally means 'The Doors of the Sun.' It's a skier's paradise, spanning 14 resorts across France and Switzerland. Your ski pass is good for the whole area."

I nodded sagely, as if 'Les Portes du Soleil' wasn't just a fancy name for 'The Places Where Michael Will Repeatedly Fall Down.'

As we arrived at the chalet, the picturesque scenery gave way to the reality of my new job. Heather's explanation of my duties sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Rewind to my 'interview' with Heather in sun-soaked Australia. She'd painted a picture of chalet life that was all cozy fires and chauffeuring happy skiers. "We need someone to work in the chalet," she'd said. "You know, drive on the wrong side of the road, deliver guests to the slopes. Easy peasy." Little did I know I had signed up for the winter sports version of Survivor.

"So, you'll be doing errands and pickups and drop-offs. And of course act as ski guide for the guests," she said casually, as if she were asking me to pour tea.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, "did you say 'ski guide'? What does a ski guide do?"

Heather's brow furrowed. "You know, show people where to go down the mountain."

As Heather outlined my duties, a voice in my head - the optimistic fool - chimed in. 'I'm pretty good with maps,' it said. 'I should be able to fake my way through this.' I envisioned myself confidently pointing out routes on a trail map, then waving goodbye as guests glided off. I'd meet them at the bottom, rosy-cheeked and full of apres-ski cheer. How hard could it be?

"You did say you had skied before."

I had, but I never said I was good at it!

At that moment, I realized the gravity of my mistake. I'd somehow landed a job that required a skill set I spectacularly lacked.

To her credit, Heather didn't immediately send me packing when I confessed my inexperience. Instead, she arranged daily lessons with Rob, an English expat who'd traded rainy London for powdery slopes.

"Don't worry, mate," Rob assured me after our first session, during which I'd spent more time horizontal than vertical. "We'll have you carving up the mountains in no time."

His optimism was admirable, and it gave me some confidence. Over the next few weeks, I embarked on a crash course in skiing, determined to improve.

I fell into a routine as predictable as my face-plants. Mornings were spent with Rob, as I turned the bunny slopes into my personal comedy show. Afternoons found me at the chalet, trying to make myself useful at something I could do, and occasionally venturing into town to stock up on more wine.

After a few days of lessons, Rob decided it was time to graduate from the bunny slopes to an actual run. "You're ready, mate," he said, with the confidence of a man who clearly hadn't been paying attention.

We stood at the top of a blue run, optimistically named "Gentle Breeze." From where I was standing, it looked about as gentle as a tsunami.

"Right then," Rob said, clapping me on the back. "Remember what we practiced. Bend your knees, lean forward, and whatever you do, don't—"

But I was already off, propelled more by gravity and blind panic than any actual skiing technique. For a glorious moment, I thought I had it. The wind was in my hair, the sun on my face, and my skis were pointing vaguely downhill. I was skiing!

A group of five-year-olds were slaloming effortlessly down the slope, passing by me.

I tried to follow them, aiming for the swish, swish they were achieving as they flew down. I did something and lost a ski, tumbled into the snow and rolled down to the bottom without it.

Rob skied up beside me, executing a perfect hockey stop that sprayed snow onto my already frosted face.

"Well," he said, peering down at me with resignation, "at least you made it down the slope this time. Admittedly, not in the way we hoped, but progress is progress!"

After 3 weeks of daily lessons with Rob, I had improved from human snowball to something resembling a skier. I could now navigate around the valley without leaving a trail of fallen poles and lost dignity. We had had some guests, but they were mostly self-sufficient. I drove them to the slopes in the morning and arranged a pickup when they were done for the day.

Enter Susie, the chalet owner. She had made a fortune of money in English TV and the chalet was her winter getaway. The guests she invited were friends of hers and many had been there many times before. Susie arrived with all the subtlety of an avalanche, a force of nature in designer ski gear.

Her husband George trailed behind her, lugging their bags with a resigned smile, while their son Charlie bounded in like a caffeinated jackrabbit.

George had the air of a man who had long ago accepted his role as a supporting character in the Susie Show. "Welcome to the madhouse," he whispered to me with a wink as he passed, his voice barely audible over Susie's rapid-fire instructions about dinner preferences and room arrangements.

Charlie, on the other hand, I am pretty sure was on cocaine the entire time. "Yo, where can a dude get some real action around here?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room with an intensity that made me wonder if the 'action' he sought was entirely slope-related.

George sidled up to me in the kitchen. "She's talking about night skiing now," he confided, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I told her I'd rather cuddle up with a nice Bordeaux, but apparently that's not 'embracing the adventure'."

The next day as I was on the chairlift, I caught a glimpse of Charlie, a blur of neon and bravado, launching off cliffs that made my stomach lurch. That afternoon, he returned to the chalet with a GoPro full of footage and a grin that threatened to split his face. "Check it out, bro," he insisted, shoving the camera in my face. "I totally stuck that 720 off the north face!"

I nodded appreciatively, mentally adding 'learn what a 720 is' to my ever-growing list of ski-related knowledge gaps.

The dynamic between the three of them was entertaining. Susie would propose increasingly daring excursions, Charlie would egg her on with promises of "epic runs, Mom!", and George would quietly ensure that the first aid kit was fully stocked. I was trying desperately to keep up.

It was day five when Susie cornered me. "Michael, have you tried any of the off-piste areas yet?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with the zeal of a powder enthusiast.

"Not yet Susie," I replied, trying to mask my apprehension.

"Tomorrow we must go skiing, I'll show you some of my favorite spots," she declared, her enthusiasm leaving no room for argument.

"Absolutely Susie," I said with more enthusiasm than I felt.

The next morning was beautiful with a fresh fall of snow and the glistening mountain breathtaking in the sunlight. My momentary awe was quickly replaced by dread as Susie outlined our plans for the day.

"We'll start with Yeti," Susie announced, gesturing towards a slope that looked more vertical than horizontal.

"Yeti?" I gulped. "Sounds... friendly."

Susie's laugh echoed across the mountaintop. "Oh, it's a black diamond, darling. Nothing to worry about."

As we ascended in the lift, we started chatting about French cheese. I hoped my knowledge of Camembert and Roquefort might compensate for my lack of skiing prowess.

We got to the top and I launched down the slope, my skis chattering like nervous teeth, while my arms performed an interpretive dance titled 'Please, God, Don't Let Me Die on This Mountain.'

I made it down alive.

Susie, unperturbed by my flailing descent, suggested we try some off-piste skiing. "There are some great moguls over on this side," she said, waving her ski pole towards what looked to me like little peaks of icing on a Christmas cake.

"Sure, Susie," I replied, my voice an octave higher than usual. "Let's do it."

I watched in awe as Susie gracefully navigated the moguls, becoming airborne with the elegance of an Olympic skier. When my turn came, I too became airborne—but with all the grace of a startled elephant. All I could think of was Eddie "The Eagle" Edwards who had been a sensation in the 1988 Olympics, only Eddie knew what he was doing.

Time seemed to slow as I sailed through the air, my limbs spread-eagle, before plummeting into a snowdrift with a muffled "oomph." I found myself wedged deep in the snow, my skis at angles that defied physics and common sense.

I tried to get up but quickly realized that I was stuck. I wriggled and pulled, but my skis were embedded in the snowdrift. Susie had to dig me out like an archaeologist unearthing a particularly ungainly fossil.

After I was upright and had regained my composure, Susie said, "Let's do Tulip next."

Thank God! This was a red run that I had practiced on before.

It was on the lift ride that Susie broke the news. "I think we have a problem, Michael," she began, her tone gentle but firm.

I tried to play it cool, despite the fact that I was still shaking snow out of my ears. "I don't think there is a problem, Susie."

She sighed. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go. You can stay until the end of the week, but then I'll have to send you home."

In that moment, the absurdity of the situation hit me, and I burst out laughing. "That's no problem, Susie," I assured her, accepting my fate with what I hoped was charming self-deprecation. "I know."

And just like that, my career as a ski guide came to an end before it had truly begun. I packed my bags, nursing bruises on both my body and my ego.

I had faced my fears, stepped wildly out of my comfort zone, and learned to laugh at myself in the face of spectacular failure. The memories of my misadventures in the French Alps would stay with me long after the bruises faded.

In the end, I realized that sometimes the most valuable experiences come not from mastering a skill, but from embracing the journey, mishaps and all.

And really, isn't that what life's adventures are all about?