Not Ireland Vol. 7: The Dweeb’s Guide to Skiing in Switzerland (Part 2)

I’ve never done a two-part blog post before so to be honest, I don’t really know how to begin this. What I do know, however, is that it has been three whole weeks since I posted Part I of the ski extravaganza so at the very least I owe you a thoroughly informative and entertaining synopsis. If you are feeling really ambitious, you can read the whole thing for yourself here: Zermatt Pt. I.

If you’re not (and I can’t blame you if not), I will try to get you up to speed. Let’s see here:

A Thoroughly Informative and Entertaining Synopsis

1. I convinced (coerced?) my friends to go to the Matterhorn with me in Switzerland for a ski trip

2. I accidentally reserved a very fancy, fully electric rental car

3. We almost get stranded at night in the mountains due to said electric car

4. We arrive in Zermatt at 4% car battery and a very sweaty, anxious Megan

5. We skip the bunny hill (unbeknownst to me) and do our first run from the top of the mountain

6. I slowly and painfully make my way down said mountain

7. Megan and Co. miss our gondola stop and almost end up in Italy

8. Megan and Co. embark on an adventure to find the elusive Hennu Stall ski-up bar

And I think that takes up just about to where we left off. What were the words I ended on in the last post? It was Difficult Pifficult Lemon Squifficult? 

Yeah that sounds on brand.

Difficult Pifficult Lemon Squifficult

So to set the scene: It is late afternoon, we (IrishJacqui, Curd Thief, and myself) are a group of three inexperienced skiiers, we just spent the last two hours lost in a maze of gondolas, we can’t find the start of the run we need to go down, and even once we do find it, it’s more difficult than any run we’ve been on before. I can’t possibly imagine how anything could go wrong from here.

We finally find the correct path and, well sports fans, it doesn’t look great. She’s narrow, she’s steep, and she’s shrouded in just enough clouds that she could take us straight to a cliff’s edge and we wouldn’t know until we were Coyote running off a cliff in hunt of the elusive Roadrunner. So what I mean to say is that the path was hard and we were scared. 

While in reality we probably could have easily made it down, the exhaustion of locating where we were supposed to go with the uncertainty of what we were about to face and the stress of losing daylight made everything seem far more intimidating than it actually was. One look at Curd Thief and IrishJacqui and I knew we were of one mind – we would be making our way down this mountain, but it would not be on skis. We unlatch, pick up our French fries, hoist them on our shoulders, and embark on our journey. 

Curd Thief and the Path to Nowhere

IrishJacqui and I were trying to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible right off the main skiway. We weren’t trying to cause any collisions because a) that would hurt and b) we’ve seen the Gwyneth Paltrow memes all week, we weren’t trying to go to court too. Curd Thief, however, had another idea. She identified a walking path off the slope and decided to follow it, despite the fact that it led the opposite direction of where we were trying to go. I don’t know if it was blind faith or debilitating desperation, but she followed that path like I follow Noah Kahan’s music – religiously with a slightly manic attachment. 

At this point I should also mention morale was pretty low. Not only were we beaten down and more than a little anxious, the more we stewed on the situation, the more we realized we were kind of annoyed that we were in that situation to begin with. Negativity breeds negativity and let’s just say it was a fertile breeding ground. 

Curd Thief and the Path to Nowhere, cont.

So IrishJacqui and I finally make it down the steep part and have completely lost sight of Curd Thief. We take a look at the setting sun and the seemingly never-ending path ahead of us and our moods continue to deteriorate.  

Then, out of nowhere, like a mirage of palm trees in the middle of a desert (except in the winter in Switzerland so really nothing like that) we see Curd Thief just appear as if by magic on top of a hill about 50 miles away.

Yards, not miles. 50 Yards. Get it together Megan.

She gave us a little happy-go-lucky wave as if she didn’t have a care in the world before plopping down on her bum and bum-sliding all the way down the hill.

Things Take a Turn (and Not Off a Cliff)

I don’t know exactly what it was, her happy little face in the distance or the pure absurdity of it all, but in that moment all the tension that had been building up completely dissolved. IrishJacqui and I burst out laughing uncontrollably as our friend slid all the way up to our feet. With a renewed sense of determination, we continued on our trek.

Turns out, after all of that melodrama, we were actually really close to our final destination. Like embarrassingly close. 

A Happy Ending…

One last short ski later, we finally make it to the Apres, war-torn and exhausted. The Pros immediately help us with our skis and hand us each a beer, and, despite how convinced I was to be grumpy about the whole situation, I ended up having a blast. Because when you are in the freaking Swiss Alps with some of your best friends and a beer in your hand, how could you not be in a good mood? It was such a unique experience – people from all over the world, ski-suited up, dancing and singing to songs of all languages and genres. There was good music and good friends and I think that’s really all you can ask for. 

That night, we got greasy takeout pizza and retired our sore and achey bodies in hopes of a nice, deep slumber before Day 2. 

… Or Not

Except, that’s not exactly what happened. I will spare you the details but let’s just say dehydration from a day on the slopes, greasy pizza, and a small room with bunk beds and a heater on full blast set the scene for a traumatic night. The only person who emerged unscathed, somehow, was MAISIE who woke up in the morning completely oblivious to it all. 

All I know is that until the day I die I will hear the “squeegee squeegee squeegee” of Curd Thief’s water bottle in the pitch black night and she tried to find relief from our Sahara desert of a room. But I digress. 

The Matterhorn, Finally

Despite the trauma of the night before, spirits were high as we entered Ski Day 2. If nothing else, the clouds had cleared up, the sky was a crisp, well, sky blue, and today was the day I was finally going to see the Matterhorn in all its glory.

And while that sounds like the type of sentence I would write before diving into some long-winded story about how I didn’t get to see the Matterhorn, that was actually not the case this time. 

I did the thing. I saw the Matterhorn. And it was amazing. I swear to you, every single time I caught a glimpse of it (which was approximately every 5 minutes because the Matterhorn is the centerpiece of the entire resort) I felt obligated to make a comment because it just continued to take my breath away.

A Really Good Day

Sure, Day 2 was not perfect as far as skiing goes (we are the Dweebs after all). And yes, there was one unpleasant series of events that IrishJacqui, Curd Thief and I will take to our grave. But the beautiful mountain set onto of a backdrop of bright blue, cloudless sky made every second of the trip worth it. 

Then to top it all off, the three of us successfully made our way to a group of runs that were perfectly at our ski level. The sun was shining, the Matterhorn was there cheering us on, and we finally felt somewhat competent. It was the perfect way to end the trip. 

If only that was the end of the trip.

A Not Quite as Good Day

What followed was an extremely painful walk in ski boots through town to return our rentals, a 4am wakeup call, a 3.5 hour drive to the airport, a 3 hour flight, and then a 3 hour drive back to Sligo. But the thing is, Curd Thief, IrishJacqui, and I all wholeheartedly agreed that we wouldn’t change a single thing about the weekend. Sure it was slightly traumatic, but it was a complete adventure from start to finish and one of the most amazing things I have ever gotten the opportunity to do. We have stories to tell and memories to hold on to, and that is WAY better than a boring trip where everything goes smoothly. And at the absolute very least, it made for an eventful (two-parter!) blog post. 

While this story centered mostly around the three Dweebs, it is important to note that the Pros – Wayfish, Dayton, Handyman, and MAISIE had their own amazing weekend of stories and experiences, I just wasn’t there to witness a lot of it myself (I was busy accidentally taking a gondola to Italy). See, unlike us Dweebs, they were not shockingly inadequate at every part of the ski experience. In fact, they were, well Pros. Maybe I’ll post a Part III written by them that is an actually helpful Guide to Skiing in Switzerland, not this misleading mess, who knows.

In Closing

So there it is – the finale to the very dramatic but ever-entertaining saga of how I was really bad at skiing in one of the coolest ski resorts (and just places in general) in the world. Was it traumatic? Sure. Would I do it again in a heartbeat? 10000%. Am I going to brag about this for the rest of my life? You betcha.