Featured Image: ©Mathäus Gartner / TVB PillerseeTal / Skicircus | Skier: Ben Kalra
It was a putrid odor, the kind that not only permeated my nasal cavity but pushed deeper into my sinuses and caused my eyes to water. I swear this old-world European hotel room didn’t smell like this when I checked in a few hours ago. Sure, my long underwear was pretty stinky after a full day of shredding. And yeah, the smell of my sweaty ski boots would never be mistaken for a fresh bouquet of roses…oh wait, my boots. I looked across the room to see them…smoking?! I quickly swam through a low-hanging cloud of chemical smoke and realized the horrific smell was indeed emanating from my ski boots and my handy-dandy travel boot dryer. The combination of the two had morphed into a melted cluster of foam, plastic, rubber and electrical cords.
Let’s rewind. Earlier that day, I reveled in the sight of the sun rising over the freshly blanketed Kitzbühel Alps of Austria as a couple of German friends and I whizzed toward what is widely advertised as The Skicircus. As we unloaded our gear in a freshly plowed, nearly empty parking lot, I felt the rare combination of excitement and nervousness that only materializes when I’m someplace I’ve never been. I suspected the skiing would be top-notch, but what I didn’t realize was just how electric that day would be.
As we rode an empty gondola up the mountain, one of my Bavarian comrades informed me we’d have time for a coffee at the top while we waited for his local ‘friend.’ (Nothing like some high-grade European espresso pumping through the veins to calm the nerves, right?) When we met up with him about a half hour later, he explained that he lost track of time while debating the finishing order of that day’s World Cup race. Yes, even on a powder day, ski racing dominates Austrian culture.
It turns out this ‘friend’ was a famed fourth-generation guide whose family had inhabited the valley for as long as records had been kept. After unloading one of the steepest lifts I’ve ever ridden, he set a traverse through avalanche snow barriers, around a blind corner, to the top of a hidden, super-tight chute. This acted as an early entrance into a perfectly pitched, wide-open bowl. He invited us to drop in first with a small piece of advice, “Achtgeben.” I quizzically looked at the three of them and asked, “What does that mean?” They responded in unison, “Be careful.”
After the three of us made our way down the untracked chute and pulled underneath some rocks to wait for him, he pointed his 95 mm skis downhill and straight-lined past us before arcing perfectly spaced turns to the bottom of the bowl. It was more than evident that he knew this fabled piece of the Austrian Alps like the back of his hand. The rest of the day we attempted to keep up by methodically working our way around the mountain, barely crossing another set of tracks the entire time.
As the day came to a close, we said goodbye to our new Austrian friend and checked into a quaint and quiet hotel nestled beside the base of the gondola. I made my way up the carefully-crafted timber staircase to my room, went inside and quickly kicked off my sweaty ski boots. Little did I realize I was about to make a mistake that almost led to the fiery demise of The Skicircus. See, what I failed to realize is that my handy-dandy boot dryer wasn’t equipped to handle the 220 volts that run through EU electrical outlets. A few short hours later, and my insoles and boot liners were a puddle on the verge of catching the aging plaid carpet, nearby curtains and ultimately the whole room on fire–all while I was downstairs, blissfully enjoying a lengthy three-course meal. Only one thing came to mind: Achtgeben. Achtgeben indeed.
