GSTAAD—Back in the good old days a funicular used to take skiers up, bucking all the way and at times stopping when the snowdrifts got too deep across the track. We used to wax our skis at every opportunity, deposit them in the baggage car, and ride the outdoor car. Most of us had a flask with good stuff in it, and once on top, we’d push our laced-up boots into the toe irons and clamp them shut. We’d then wrap the long leather straps of the skis tight around the boot, and presto, we’d be ready to ski.
Skiing back then was an adventure, not just a saying. You had to put on lots of pullovers to ward off the cold and top them off with a bulky ski jacket. The dressing alone took close to thirty minutes, what with long buttoned underwear, and lacing up boots was an exercise in itself. Skiers made jump turns as the 2-meter-15-inch skis made of wood were resistant to curve, and woe to anyone falling forward. If the shin didn’t shatter, the ankle did, and then it was time for the meat wagon, as it was called. One crouched in order to be close to the ground for more control, and went straight whenever possible, sticks trailing behind. The snow was uneven and there were no bumps, or man-made moguls, as they’re called. Very few people skied. As I said, those were the good old days.
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Papa Hemingway came up to Gstaad sometime in the ’20s. He checked into the Rössli hotel, which is still here and retains the traditional feel of a Swiss alpine inn. There is a table reserved for the locals, who drink their beer and used to smoke their pipes before the health assholes of Brussels stopped it. The next morning Papa rose early and arranged for a guide, and the two walked up the Wassengrat on skins. It most likely took them two hours and a bit more to get to the top, where they had the lunch they had been carrying in their rucksacks: salami, cheese, bread, and a bottle of white wine between them. Papa must have also freely drunk from his flask, most likely a good brandy. They then skied down to town, probably taking about an hour. Then they called it a day. Papa got back to the hotel, had a drink or two at the restaurant, then went up to his room and began the first sentence of a book he had had in his mind for a long time. When it eventually appeared it was called A Farewell to Arms.
