Pillow war

Powder skiers in San Martino di Castrozza prefer skiing on pillows of snow while dreaming of white winters without end.

“Woods,” we say.“We want to ski the woods!” the snow is falling as silently as snow can fall. We look out from the gondola. at the dolomites.

WE AWOKE to breakfast cereal and a trail map of the San Martino di Castrozza ski resort. These trail maps are seldom to be trusted. What looks like an outcrop- ping may be a whole mountain in disguise, while an apparent copse of trees turns out to be the Sherwood Forest. There is something trollish and eternal about these pine trees with their burdens of snow. The terrain is steep and the trees are comfortably spaced. So steep is the mountainside that even sporadic snow depths of 60 cm can stop us. Magnus Tveito lets his skis run as if he’s on the final downhill plunge at Kitzbühel, and ploughs through one gigantic pillow after another. It’s all about keeping your ski tips up. It’s about staying fluid and fast as you fight through the pillows. Only those who stay on their feet can win a pillow war. We finally see lights beneath the gondola as it ascends to Rifugio Col Verde. Italian designers have made lantern posts that shimmer on the snow, as in the dreamy Chronicles of Narnia. We are the mountain’s pathfinders, laying down track after track between jutting boulders and tree trunks. Out on the trails, it’s quiet as tourists on short carving skis leisurely wind down the mountain. Inside the woods we are alone with the trees and the snow. Where is everyone?

SAN MARTINO DI CASTROZZA emerged from the dark the previous night. We drove farther than our car’s navigation system had recommended, and the road was so poorly ploughed that we made fun of the Italian road service. We passed empty villages like Predazzo and Paneveggio and threaded the Passo Rolle mountain pass. Where does this road end? Have we driven into the opening chapter of an Ernest Hemingway novel? As the snow berms grew in height, turning around became impossible. In fairness to the road service it should be noted that the snow was falling steadily – and not those lightweight flakes that dance before your headlights and touch down as translucent hexagons on the windshield. Far from it. This was a snowfall of biblical proportions – worthy of the Pentateuch, worthy of Revelations. The ski area of San Martino di Castrozza is situated on a ridge overlooking a valley. It brings to mind a sleepy old high-mountain hotel that can’t quite remember the loves and pleasures of its heyday. Now, in the dark of a snowy evening, San Martino clutches at fading memories of when the world was young, when happiness was wind in the hair and a sharp V-neck sweater. Back then, the vacationing ladies had style. The men whooshed downhill on wooden skis, their stances narrow. San Martino reclines as if on a snowy duvet.

WE FIND NO ONE else in the woods. Grown men on giant slalom skis shake their heads at our extra-wide powder swords. “Where is everyone?” the journalist asks himself before ordering a pizza quattro formaggio with aqua minerale from what seems to be the only restaurant in San Martino di Castrozza that is more or less open for business. We eat, pay and go to bed. The town is already asleep beneath its snowy blanket. “We must wait,” says Bruno Compagnet, who knows the area. He has dreadlocks and two-metre-long skis, but they’re no help against the dark: “We can’t see a thing.” It’s a new day in San Martino di Castrozza, and we’ve left the town and its forest behind us. After waking up to sun and powder, we had almost ridiculously good luck. Like greedy children in a toy store, ignoring our own best interests, we steered downward through the snowiest, most serpentine passages. Where stumps and rocks once protruded, there was only eiderdown. Where boulders had loomed like bank buildings, there were the fluffiest of snow pillows. Because of the absurd volume of snow, Bruno barely recognized his own playground. And there was a danger of avalanche – that ever-present snake in paradise. Unpredictable and inescapable. But now, after a moment of heroic decisiveness at the lunch table of Rifugio Col Verde, we’ve boarded the Valbonetta gondola en route to the summit of Rosetta. Rosetta provides 1,279 m of elevation, sufficient for Il Tempo Gigante-style skiing. But a thick fog rolls over us and gets stuck in the chocolate-brown Dolomites. Under such conditions descending is forbidden fruit. There are no trails, tracks, roads or signs leading down from Rosetta. And at the summit station, cocoa goes for €4 a cup. Sitting at the next table are five other free skiers. Their gazes flit back and forth to their fat skis, which stand on the terrace. If conditions don’t change we’ll still be sitting here when spring arrives and the first summer tourists appear.

BUT THE FOG moves on, and a bounty of golden sunshine begins to illuminate the white expanses. Bruno himself lights up like a beacon, and we’re off down the mountain. We soar over an exposed ridge into an alluring valley. To the right is a wooded route with manageable verticality while the route to the left would mean speed and thrills followed by certain demise in the form of a plummet of several hundred metres. We head right and make fresh tracks. “If we step on it, we could get in two trips before they close,” says Bruno.

“BONA SERA, bona sera,” the waiter says that evening. He has the hair of a silver fox and the nose of Christopher Moltisanti in “The Sopranos.” We did manage two trips, and our thighs are fittingly sore. If you want to win the pillow wars, you must be there for the final run. Phil has biscuits and bottles behind the counter. In the corner sits a man playing a keyboard. Three older women chatter to one another and drink espresso from tiny cups. It’s barely 9 p.m. Two police constables drop in, drink a glass of grappa and move along. Outside, the evening is clear and the looming silhouette of Rosetta can just be discerned. San Martino di Castrozza is sleeping. With the lights on.