Amidst the Alps: An Austrian Skiing Experience

Exhilaration becomes a place, not a feeling when racing down the side of the mountain. At altitudes as high as the clouds, with views of an evergreen valley speckled with cottages down below, it’s as if skiing into the pages of a fairytale. Tucked away within the mountain ranges of Europe lie the Austrian Alps, the place where the fairytale bleeds into a reality. 

In the early haze of the morning, the sun glinted off the edge of the mountain, making the snowflakes sparkle when they fell, shrouding the sky in glitter. On the ski lift, the chairs heated with grates underneath the leather seats to compensate for the freezing weather. 

As soon as the chairlift lets me off, I ski over the edge of the mountain where I see the view of Dachstein, the famous glacier in the Austrian town of Schladming basking in the sunlight. Below me, on one of the plateaus, the sound of German music from a nearby cafe echoes through the valley. 

Leaning my skis over the edge of the mountain, I swiftly slid down the slope, curving around the bends in the mountain and passing by a stainless steel piano to one of the mountain cafes where locals gather to dance, drink, and celebrate the leisurely Saturday. 

My lunch was the taste of the famous Austrian meal, goulash soup and apple strudel, which quickly warmed me from the chill outside. Through the window of the cafe, I saw people like an army of ants, skiing down to the bottom of the mountain, getting smaller the further they went. 

I joined the little ant army after lunch and followed them down to the bottom of the mountain, where I unloaded my ski apparel and climbed into my dad’s car to go climb to the top of Dachstein.

My legs ached and the bitter wind lashed across my face on the steep incline of a trail as I trudged up. Along the way, I climbed up a hill of an old abandoned ski slope with the remains of chair lifts still intact that my dad says he used to ski down as a kid. 

At the top of the slope, lay only a single wooden cottage, with the cliffs of Dachstein surrounding it, sheltering it from the wind. I collapsed onto a wooden bench as a waiter brought me a sweet, pink drink (Shiwasser), to aid my dehydrated throat.

On the way down, a group of bobsledders sled down and around all 9,826 feet of the glacier. As I trudged down the path myself, I silently envied them and thought how much faster I’d be down this mountain if I’d sledded instead. 

The sky was a shade of pink and orange by the time I got back to the pension and I immediately made my way to the dinning hall where a homemade three course meal would be served for dinner.

When night fell, I went out with my family to another mountain, this time to watch the night time skiing festivities. Local ski teams synchronize skied down the slopes with either flamethrowers in their hands or adorned in light up ski suits. One team had fireworks attached to their backs and as they slid down, set them off, lighting up the sky in a multicolored mosaic. 

With the music drowning out voices and the fireworks lighting up the sky, the moment felt almost like a dream. It was a good thing though, that this was not a dream I had to wake up from, but rather live in.