postcard 18: swiss miss

Skiing in Zermatt, après fondue and my 13th country🇨🇭

I am easily enchanted. There’s no way around it. I see magic in the angle of the sun or the way fall leaves float down to the Earth. I have to turn the music down when I see a big mountain and I will always stop to admire tiny mushrooms along the trail. I am easily enchanted, there’s no denying it, but as we make our way through the snowy streets of Zermatt, the giant pink suitcase we swore to only use on our return flight bouncing down the street behind Topher, the magic is palpable.

We’d left home 10 hours before, our cooler (backpack) packed with cheap Croatian charcuterie and cereal bars to balance this once-in-a-lifetime trip we were embarking on, on a random three day weekend. We drove out of Croatia, through the sliver of Slovenia required to cross into Italy and then across hours and hours of smoggy Italian highways, Michelle MacNamara’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark keeping us company through the speakers. The Alps had finally shown themselves, their faces growing snowier and snowier as we climbed up and over the pass that would lead us to Tasch.

Zermatt has always been a car free town, cut off from the rest of the world in its own paradisiacal valley. We parked the car in a massive garage one town over and scanned our tickets to board the 12-minute train into Zermatt. Hazelnut paid her half-fare and looked longingly out the window at all that snow we hadn’t yet let her play in.

Then, here we are. Swiss-style wooden buildings, brown and white, are starting to glow as the sun just begins to set. As we cross the river—glacial grey and perfectly clear—I stop in the middle of the road and call out to Topher. Amidst the fur coats and ski racing tights we for sure look like tourists. The frozen Ziplocs that we’d stuffed the cooler with are melting and Topher’s back is dripping. We’re each carrying a backpack and our hiking boots are muddy from the last adventure. The dog is bounding back and forth, back and forth trying to do zoomies in the snowbanks pushed up against buildings. The suitcase’s wheels are clogged with mucky snow. But I don’t care. In the dying light, there is the Matterhorn, stained purple and pink with sunset. I’ve seen thousands of mountains over the course of my life and yet, this one is different.

The little electric taxis make no noise as they come hurtling down the street and I jump aside to dodge one, the moment only slightly broken. Our hotel balcony has a perfect view of the mountain and I swing the doors open wide to take in the scene as we unload our things and bundle up to go out in search of food. It’s cold—only 12-degrees—but it feels colder than it should. I wonder if the mild Croatian winter has made us go soft and zip my coat up to my nose. After getting distracted by a Lindt store, we come up short in front of the crepe window I’d settled on for dinner. Closed today, come back tomorrow. On a whim, we poke our heads into a spot with rostis on the menu posted outside. Of course dogs are allowed, the waitress tells us and we coax Hazelnut under the table and order Swiss wine and plates full of potatoes.

Mine comes out hidden under a thick layer of cheese, dotted with ham and topped with a fried egg. It’s perfect and I don’t even care that I’ve just paid $30 for, essentially, a plate of hashbrowns. The cost, I’ve learned, is Zermatt’s singular flaw. The Swiss Franc is valued at 10% more than the Euro, which is 10% more than the dollar right now. Gone are the cappuccinos we pay with in change and bets on whether we’ll be able to break $50 on dinner (in Croatia we’ve only managed this once).

My alarm goes off much too early and Hazelnut and I set off for a long walk in the dark. The stars are still out and I can only tell where the Matterhorn is watching us from because of their absence in the skyline. We try to follow Google Maps to a trail I’d picked out, but the “mostly flat” indicator is a lie and halfway up the never-ending staircase that I’m fairly certain is leading to the top of the mountain, I give up, wanting to save my legs for the slopes. Now damp with sweat, we wander the streets of town instead.

We kiss her goodbye and beg her to be good before setting off towards the rental shop, stopping impulsively for croissants and cinnamon rolls along the way. The town really is small, but it doesn’t feel that way when you’re walking its length in ski boots and carrying sticks with heavy rental bindings. The off-brand helmets we picked up in Croatia are gapping hard and my skis won’t stay together and by the time we make it back across town to the gondola we’re setting off on, I know I look like a total Jerry. We pile in alongside a ski school group comprised of tiny German shredders and head up, up, up the mountain. The cherub on my right starts up a game of “Schnick, Schnack, Schnuck" (rock, paper, scissors) with her classmates as the Matterhorn comes into view.

On the tram we transfer to after the gondola we float above blue glaciers and craggy cliffs, landing at the highest lift station, Glacier Paradise, in Europe at 12,739 feet above sea level. At least we haven’t lost our altitude tolerance, we muse as we snap a picture and then take off down the perfect corduroy.

There hasn’t been fresh snowfall in several days, but the wide swaths of groomed runs across the glacier make up for the crunchy off-piste sections we’ve decided to avoid. We bomb run after run, only stopping to snap pictures of the Matterhorn against the cloudless blue sky. It’s cold, but there’s no wind despite the lack of any trees to stop it. My windburnt cheeks this evening will only be caused by our own speed.

We pop espresso-filled chocolates we picked up at an Italian gas station and a trio of Germans put the bubble on the chairlift down and “hot box” is the only word I catch. It makes me laugh. Snowboarders are snowboarders the world around. Finally, it’s time to start making our way back to Hazelnut. We could repeat our 45-minute gondola ride, but instead we opt for a long run that looks like it ends back at the base. Halfway down we click out of our skis and start trekking as the catwalk ventures uphill. By the time we make it to the last little village before Zermatt, we’re more than ready to collapse into the sun chairs and have a drink. I order a spiked hot chocolate and go sit down while Topher hits the restroom. The cup is piled high with real, thick whipped cream. On my first sip I inhale it and I’m spewing chocolate everywhere and choking when Topher returns. Send it, Jerry.

After collecting ourselves, we finish our drinks in the sun, gazing at the mountain and ski/schlep our gear back to the hotel. Hazelnut has been an angel, despite a surprise visit by housekeeping, and she curls up next to us in bed as we eat salami and pretzels and individual brie bites, working up the motivation to go back out while the sun is still up.

The walk is better in hiking boots and we board a funicular (a near vertical train) that spits us out at the second of the three ski resorts in Zermatt: Sunnega. The signs and maps have assured us that there’s hiking trails up here, but we’re definitely on a ski run—worse yet, the bunny slope. Hazelnut is entranced by the skiers and watches them slide down the mountain with unwavering focus. We stick to the sides of the slope and make a mad dash across it when we finally spot the hiking trail across the way. The snow is seriously deep and Hazelnut is in heaven. She runs down the groomed trail, leaping off into the deep snow on either side to circle back to us. It’s so deep we have to pull her out by her harness on the downslope and she quickly learns to stick to the upper side where gravity’s in her favor. I was worried a ski vacation would be no fun for a dog, but she’s having the best time ever. On the way back down the mountain on the funicular, everyone’s making eyes at her.

Dogs and fondue pots are an extremely bad combination (at least my dog, with her three and a half foot tail) so we leave her snoozing in the room and walk to a little restaurant tucked in a basement to fulfill a life’s dream—après ski fondue. Topher orders a side of cheese with his cheese and we watch as the half wheel of raclette is rapidly heated and scraped onto a plate alongside pickles and pearl onions. A pair of dogs come in and settle under the bench I’m sitting on, their little paws sticking out into the room. Our fondue comes out bubbling, the scent of cheese and wine engulfing us. I’m hooked from the very first bite. We dip potatoes and cubes of bread and pears in the house blend of cheeses and though we said we’d stop at the bar where the crowd was drunkenly singing Country Roads on the way home, we skip it and play cards in bed instead.

Another early alarm, another pre-dawn walk and we’re almost out the door when I can’t find my skis. There’s half a dozen pairs of the same rental shop skis in the hotel ski room, but the ones with my name tag are nowhere to be seen. Next to my poles are a pair of skis reading “Patrick deWaal". The receptionist can’t find his name, the ski shop can’t find his name and we miss our train trying to track down this guy whose accidentally grabbed my skis. Finally, Topher suggests I try the skis on and they fit. We hustle to the train station, totally embarrassed and feeling bad for cursing Patrick as we realize my name sticker must’ve peeled off the layers deep mass when we were skiing yesterday.

The cog railway takes us up the mountain to the third ski area—Gornergrat. We spy a chamois from the train, a brown and white Alpen mountain goat, and then the trees give way to the most expansive views. Glaciers slumber on every surface we can see and over here we’re treated to the more classic view of the Matterhorn. We ski for a few hours before stopping into a mountainside chalet where we order chocolate dusted cappuccinos and pet the restaurant dog.

We take a lift back over to to Sunnega side and on these valley slopes there’s more trees. We spy a mogul run from the chair and dodge the magic carpet and duck between wooden houses to get there. These are Topher’s first ski days since his knee surgery and I can tell he’s feeling good. He’s racing faster than I’m willing to go down the groomers and managed the moguls alright, so I float the idea of heading off-piste, to a section of trees I’ve been eyeing from the chair that looks like it’s laden with powder. He agrees and we veer off the groomer and into the woods. The snow is deep and fluffy back here and it’s immediately obvious that we did not rent the appropriate skis for this terrain. I miss my twin tips and the going is slow as Topher picks his way through the boulders and trees, going down once, twice. My basket-less pole disappears along with my wrist and I go down too, summersaulting in the deep snow to get back on my feet. I try to channel my dad’s endless patience as I wait for Topher to slip down section after section, my feet screaming in my boots. When we finally pop back out on the groomer, we agree we’re renting better skis next time and stay on-piste for the rest of the morning.

A storm’s coming in as we ride the funicular back up with Hazelnut in the afternoon. The Matterhorn’s summit is obscured by clouds and the wind picks up. We stand at the edge of the slope for 10 minutes, letting her watch skier after skier descend. I joke that we should get her snollerblades.

The crepe stand is open tonight and Topher waits in line to order while American after American comes up to Hazelnut and I and asks, enunciating every word “pet, can I?” assuming we’re Europeans. I take to responding with my best Midwestern “Oh, sure,” and watch their expressions when they realize that I, too, speak English. We eat ham and cheese (me) and chile con carne (Topher) crepes on a bench as it starts to snow.

Swiss skiing and rosti and raclette had been bouncing around in my dreams from the first few months of knowing my stepmom. She’s British, and spent two years as a ski bunny in Zermatt when she was a teenager. Her stories only fueled my desire to experience this place for myself. She’d found the address of the chalet she lived in 45 years ago and on our last morning here we try to follow Google Maps up the mountain again, a fresh dusting of snow underfoot. The path ends at the train tracks and we descend back to the street. On a whim, I start up a random staircase and as Topher’s trying to locate us without cell signal, I suddenly see it: the Bergfried. We climb to the top and gaze out at the view of the Matterhorn, partially obscured by clouds, and it’s surreal in the way seeing a place from a book is. Words brought to life.

We buy soft pretzels and croissants and a loaf of bread for the drive home at a bakery and pack our bags to once again schlep across town. By the time we board the train Hazelnut’s paws are coated in mucky snow and the suitcase barely rolls. We all look longingly out the window as Zermatt disappears from view.

The drive home from my 13th country is broken only by stops for gas and one for KFC in an Italian mall. I can’t remember the last time I ate KFC in the states, but fried chicken has become our guilty pleasure here that tastes like home.

We’re dreading opening our front door, hoping the walls aren’t covered in mildew. They aren’t, but the place is freezing, the “dry” cycle apparently having run the AC the whole weekend. When we turn the heat back on, Topher notices water dripping from the living room unit and when we turn on the fan, it starts to cough chunks of ice. Hazelnut runs back and forth eating them, delighted that its finally snowing in Croatia. We pull the TV off the wall and it takes us 45 minutes to clean up all the water and ice.

On a walk to the market this week, in the pouring rain, we reminded ourselves that while yes, Croatia isn’t perfect, neither was our home in the Denver suburbs. And at least here we can go to the Alps for the weekend. At the market, we find kale and peanut butter. Certainly a win.

That was a long one and I’m sure you’ve read enough for now, but if not, check out my first piece for Outside Magazine that went live this week and if you’re in the Mountain West, look for Hazelnut and I on the cover of National Park Journal: Colorado this week on newsstands.

See you next week,

Mikaela