Culture

Record prices and active bidding at annual Swann auction

By Everett Potter

There were rarities, blue-chip images and even a few outliers at the annual Vintage Posters auction at Swann Galleries in Manhattan on March 1, where several dozen original ski posters claimed the attention of serious bidders from around the world. Foremost among the rarer images was an early poster from Davos from 1901, depicting both winter and summer pursuits in the fledgling Swiss mountain resort.

"This is a wonderful blend of photomontage and graphics," said Nicholas Lowry, auctioneer and president of Swann Galleries. "And while most early ski posters show women, this is one of the earliest poster depictions of a male skier that I've ever seen." It sold at its top estimate of $4,250 (final prices include a 25% buyer's premium).

To read the rest of this story, see the March-April 2018 issue of Skiing History magazine. To read the digital edition online, you must be a member of ISHA. Not a member? Join today!

In the article, Kade gives well-deserved acknowledgement to Shan Zhaojian, the father of modern skiing in China, as well as its chief ski historian. Shan is also the leader of the movement declaring that skiing originated here, thousands of years ago—a viewpoint that has sparked debate among historians. To read the article, go to: www.nytimes.com/2017/04/19/sports/skiing/skiing-china-cave-paintings.html?_r=0

I first met Shan in Beijing in 2006, and again in 2007 at the traditional ski race in Altay City, an annual event that celebrates the declaration. We shared a strong interest in preserving the traditional skiing still found in the Altai Mountains, and with the help of Ayiken (my translator of both language and culture), we became friends, exchanging information and ideas on the Altai skiers and ways to support their ski culture. Though we were in agreement on the uniqueness and importance of the region’s ski traditions, we differed on the Altay Declaration. The main piece of physical evidence supporting the declaration are some cave paintings found near Altay City that appear to depict skiers in motion over a collection of wild animals. The paintings are wonderful, both in their location deep in the hills and in their execution. The dating, however, seemed problematic, and in talking to experts in the U.S. the difficulty in dating rock art was universally emphasized. 

In May 2017, Ayiken gave me an excellent paper written specifically on the rock pictographs that support the Altay Declaration. The paper (Naturalistic Animals and Hand Stencils in the Rock Art of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, Northwest China) was published in 2016 and is written by Paul Taçon (Australia), Tang Huisheng (China) and Maxime Aubert (Australia), all experts in the study and dating of rock art. They suggest that the paintings are probably 4,000 to 5,250 BP. Ancient indeed, but likely not as old as the 10,000+ BP used by the 2006 declaration. This analysis is also not definitive, but it is the most detailed examination of the paintings to date.

On a Jackson Hole ski day with Olympic gold medalist Pepi Stiegler in 1986, the author ponders the soul of skiing.

By Peter Shelton

Waiting for the photographers, Pepi Stiegler and I had plenty of time to chat. Pepi is a forthright Austrian, taut and youthful at 49, the long-time director of skiing at Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We had just met. At the top of the tram we stared off into the early morning distance and with our poles poked deep blue holes in the snow.

We talked about the ski business, about insurance and out-of-bounds, about lift lines and bottom lines. His question was not so much for me as for himself and even, should they care to listen, for the mute, towering Tetons. He asked, “Where is the romance?”

It caught me by surprise. Surely, I thought, a man who skis like water flowing finds romance in every turn. Surely, a man who has earned Olympic gold and silver and bronze, a man who has designed his life so that he can ski every day of the winter at the biggest, steepest mountain in America, a man revered for his skiing prowess, and his companionship—surely this man is sought out by Romance itself.

And yet I understood, too. Something was not right. A metaphorical yawn (Stephen King’s next thriller?) had surrounded skiing for the last few years. Something was conspiring to dull the glow of the most romantic sport I have known. What was it?

It wasn’t long ago that skiing fit to a tee the dictionary definition of a romance: “heroic or marvelous achievements, colorful events or scenes, chivalrous devotion, unusual or even supernatural experiences.” A love affair, in other words. An insatiable fascination. A never-ending adventure heading inevitably toward poetry.

At first I put it off to age, mine and Pepi’s. “Baby Boomers Turn 40!” You read about it everywhere. There is probably a chapter in Passages called “Mid-Life Crisis Number 12: The Tarnished Sheen of Atomic Arcs.” Pepi had said as much when he asked, between pokes, if maybe we had done it all, if perhaps the quiver of anticipation had quieted to a snore.

Maybe he’s done it all, I thought. I certainly haven’t. And yet his point was true.

Experience robs the imagination. I remembered a time when it was almost all imagination. Early in my ski-teaching career my father gave me a book called Ski Fever, published in 1936 when his ski dreams were still only dreams. That year alpine events were introduced in the Munich Winter Olympics. Dick Durrance finished eighth in the slalom for the U.S. — “only 26.7 seconds behind [Germany’s Franz] Pfnür.” Skiing bloomed in exuberant innocence. Author Norman D. Vaughan: “More and more men and women are taking to the winged boards. [Winged boards—I loved it!] Boys and girls are eating it up. Why? Because, as any skier will tell you, the mastery of skis, in whatever degree, brings an exhilaration unsurpassed…There are a thousand grades of skiers from kanonen (top-notch racers) down. Though you may be the humblest of dub-beginners, there are others like you. Plenty of company in this new sport that is taking the country by storm!”

Standing there with Pepi, I remembered the book’s blue-tinted photos, the skiers in baggy pants and pole baskets the size of LPs schussing low and straight through the powder. And I remembered the feeling of being the humblest dub-beginner (in 1956), skidding and crashing and loving it for the miraculous tug of gravity, for the bite of low-oxygen cold, for the heroism in surviving another rope tow up the hill.

I remembered my first taste of real speed, soaring through the wide-mouthed gullies at Mammoth Mountain. I remembered the adrenaline surge as I followed, terrified and trusting my ski school mentors, off the cornice at Bear Valley. I remembered the slow whooooosh of that first deep powder turn at Alta. I remembered those moments as vividly as the starbursts of falling in love. Why didn’t I feel the same way about the turns I made yesterday or the ones I was about to make today? Was that it then? Was it as simple as a love affair grown too familiar?

Or was it something else? Not just my age but the age, the 1980s: baseline market research, a hot tub in every room, accountants at the helm in Aspen, brochure reality (“snowy nights and bluebird days”), bumps in the backcountry, “money for nothin’ and your chicks for free”?

My mind drifted through a litany of Romance Squelchers. Number One: the risk/liability/litigation cycle plaguing American skiing and indeed society as a whole. Ski areas must now do everything in their power to douse ski fever. State law defines what is and isn’t out-of-bounds. Insurance premium dollars match the number of crystals in a cubic meter of Sierra snowpack.

Read the back of your lift ticket. It says skiing is risky, potentially deadly, business and you are legally accepting responsibility. But, in fact, ski companies can leave no twig unpruned. Not since the case of James Sunday v. Stratton Mountain in 1977 decided that a ski area (and that blasted twig) was at fault for a novice skier’s paralyzing fall. The immediate result was a tripling of lift ticket prices. And a regrettable culture shift. “Skier Takes Tumble, Romance Held Liable.”

Pepi told me about a man who came raving into his ski school office. “He was so pissed off. The weather had been bad, and he was just screaming at me: ‘Look, I saved all this money for a week’s vacation!” It pisses me off. How have people become so conditioned to expect what they do?”

Americans and their lawyers and their insurance companies want no-risk skiing. Or perhaps more accurately, they want their skiing and someone to blame should anything go wrong. To the extent they are getting what they want, the essence of skiing, of being on your own on a mountain in winter, is diminished. I rest my case.

Number Two: supermarket ticket sales. Buying your discounted lift ticket at King Soopers is about as romantic as a night watching “The Love Boat” on the tube. Alone. Call me an elitist, but I want my ski day to be as far removed from the everyday washday miracle as possible. How far we have come from the elegance of early Sun Valley!

“Romance Discounted, Your Price: Cheap.”

This is just one example of desperate commercialism born of a flat market. Skiing isn’t growing. So existing areas are competing like mad for a bigger share of a static pie. Come-ons like “guaranteed skiing” months ahead of natural winter may be good for Thanksgiving reservations, but they’re not good at creating life-long skiers. The product is not a good one. While important, snowmaking and grooming have downsides: when you bulldoze all the interesting shapes out of the way so you can lay down your computerized snow and run the cats over it, you risk reducing the experience to homogenized, lowest common denominator skiing. Adventure-free skiing. The best-surprise-is-no-surprise skiing.

Number Three: music piped onto lodge decks, and worse, out onto the slopes. Puhleaze! Must we mall the mountains, too? Give me credit for the tunes in my head. Or leave me the silence to tune into the music of the spheres. “Romance Wants to Dance, Jilted By Punk.”

Number Four: real estate. And this one could maybe jump up a notch or two on the charts. The cold, modern truth is this: real estate, not your lift ticket, pays for mountain development. One insider at a Colorado resort told me recently, “Skiing has become a by-product of what we do.” Skiing is not the raison d’être it once was. Today it is an amenity. Like hot tubs. And cable TV.

Last spring I met a young professional who told me about his first day skiing at an up-and-coming resort. Aglow from the exercise and the mountain air, he sat down for a beer at a local tavern. But before he could touch lips to cold foam, a stranger sidled up to him and said, “Hey, let me buy ya that beer,” handed him a card, and proceeded to barrage him with condo listings. “Realtor Mugs Romance, Sells Dream.”

Number Five: ski area food. Most ski area food is bad. Overpriced and bad. By contrast the food on Swiss mountains is reason enough to book an Alpine vacation. Why can’t we do better at home? Could it have anything to do with the fact that an American ski area is a monopoly granted by the U.S. Forest Service (at least in the West)? That a single corporate entity provides the uphill transportation, snowmaking, ski patrol, ski school, food service, day care, parking, and so on? How much does an oil company, or a film studio, or a dog chow conglomerate know about exquisite food? Or the ambience necessary to enjoy it? How badly do they want to know? “Romance Coughs Up $7.50, Bites Burger.”

Increasingly, big corporations are diversifying into the ski business. The Ernie Blakes (Taos) and Dave McCoys (Mammoth), and the feisty one-man/one-mountain pioneer era they represent, are vanishing. No less an authority than Vail’s new owner, George Gillett, whose holdings include 17 newspapers, nine TV stations, and the nation’s largest lean beef packaging firm, is worried about corporate bigness at the helm in skiing. “Frankly, I’m concerned,” he told the Vail Daily. “The bigger, the more corporate, the more formal the infrastructure, the farther we get from the needs of the customer.” “Romance Takeover Bid, Fun Merger Rumored.”

Vail is banking on nine new high-speed quad chairs to provide what they believe the customer wants: efficiency, perceived value for the dollar, the elimination of lift lines, a faster ride to the top. Early indications are that they are right, and other areas will follow suit. But this only exacerbates a condition described to me by Alta’s Alf Engen: too many ski edges scraping a finite swath of snow. “Roons the skiing,” Alf said. In his mind, the quality of the experience “underfoot” was paramount.

The quads are also a symptom of an anti-romance plague my wife, Ellen, delicately refers to as “pumping vertical.” These days people seem to want experiences they can count, check off, balance out. Quantity in a world where quality’s gone fuzzy. The concrete (biggest, best, most) as opposed to the enlightening (so ‘60s) or the ethereal (seriously unmanly). As skiing accelerates into a whirlpool of numbers (41 minutes from airport to slopes, 2,640 skiers per hour at 995 feet per minute rising 1,829 vertical feet in 540 seconds to our 736 acres of new terrain!), Romance’s life jacket may not be big enough.

Standing there with Pepi, I concluded that people just didn’t fall in love with skiing the way they used to, not with all the messy responsibilities and commitments that falling in love entails. People want their skiing guaranteed, packaged, neat and clean—no storms, no tears—just like the brochure promises. I hand you the money; you provide the thrill.

I was bummed, my reverie dark and limitless. Then the photographers, locals Wade McKoy and Bob Woodall, stepped off the tram, and we were off toward an early morning place they hoped would still harbor some untracked snow. We walked, traversed out through a huge porcelain bowl, walked some more. The sun grew warm. We stopped to shed layers. Silence washed over our movements, while inside heartbeats pumped strongly and our breathing came deep and full.

Angling up a steep ravine, our track intersected a line of cliff shadow. On one side it was too bright to look at without glasses; on the other side it was as blue and secretive as an ice cave. Tracks of a snowshoe hare, like a zipper, dashed across the blue-white fabric. Off to our right the striated, layer-cake cliffs of Cody Peak showed slivers of uninterrupted snow: Four Shadows Chute, No Shadows, Once Is Enough. Couloirs of the imagination, they were not for us this day, but maybe one day when everything is right for the walking and for the controlled elevator ride back down.

Walking. This place was farther away than I had thought. But it didn’t matter; I had reached that fine space where the track ahead, the breathing and the sliding of one foot in front of the other, combine in a kind of ecstatic soup. The worlds within and without are the same. I remembered a time I’d struggled to describe to Ellen about a particularly good walk on skis. She interrupted and said, “I understand. I know why you do it. It’s a ritual. It’s a monk’s high, one where you understand everything and where there’s no need to ask the question why.”

At last, we were there. McKoy and Woodall slipped ahead over a rounded knoll cut in half by that same sharp-edged shadow. The sunny half sparkled like a sequined dress over a shapely hip.

The camera guys called up that they were ready. They wanted us to ski side-by-side then split around Wade, as close as we could make it. Pepi and I looked at each other and decided that we would start left, pole plant, and swing right.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

We eased into the pitch. Snow crystals, sucked dry by the night old, hissed at our passing.

“Hup!” Pepi signaled our direction change, and the metronome was set: plant, hup; plant, hup. Snow flew to the sides like diaphanous curtains. Snow underfoot turned us, cushioned our landings, sent us off again as if from a trampoline. I didn’t see Pepi as much as feel him, his momentum and mine springing from side to side in unison. We swept in on McKoy like birds of prey, covered him with cold mist—just what he wanted —and stopped two more turns down the hill.

“YESSSS!” came the photographer’s animalian hoot.

“Untracked snow,” said Pepi, grinning, reaffirming the obvious. “There is romance there.”

Yes. Untracked. Romance requires possibility, anticipation, followed by the rush of action, the filling of that eager void.

We skied on, brothers in exploration, poking into little forest bowers for a spotlit jump here, a banked cutback there. Pepi was a marvel to watch: economy of motion born of so much time on skis, the gyro-like balance, the touch. He was soft when he needed to be but also revealed a penchant for exploding deep snow pillows so that a slow-arcing shower seemed always to hang about his descent.

I not only wanted to ski like that when I was 49, I wanted powerfully to still be skiing at 79, like the smooth old geezers I’d seen at Mount Bachelor, in Oregon, dressed in timeless woolens Ralph Lauren would kill for, wrapping their big slow turns around a love of movement, and the home mountain. For some reason, this thought was entwined with a potent desire to ski with my own kids, to spark them and warm myself in the light of their uncomplicated enthusiasm.

Nearing the traverse that would take us back to the groomed runs, we ducked under one last set of spruce branches and into a surprise meadow. Even McKoy and Woodall hadn’t known it was there. It gleamed in the sun like an apparition, like a reward, like one of William Blake’s shining etchings of heaven. No cameras this time. To each his own unencumbered bounding.

Pepi said, “I guess it’s the attitude. It’s as romantic as you make it. We’re blessed to be able to lead people into this enjoyment. We should appreciate it, too.”

Amen, Pepi. And with that we let our tips slip into the pull, as if it were 1936, as if it were the very first time, and left all earthly worries behind.

This article was originally published in Powder Magazine (September 1986) and is reprinted here with permission of the author.

From the freestyling Seventies to the rock-and-roll Eighties and high-tech, high-ticket Nineties, men’s skiwear kept up with the times.  

By Barbara Alley Simon
Photography by Scott Markewitz

Park City locals had a blast modeling vintage men’s skiwear during Skiing History Week in Utah (see page 33). These classic outfits, selected from the Barbara Alley Collection at the Alf Engen Ski Museum, depict a three-decade progression of design for the male skier.

The 1970s was the decade of disco, the first freestylers, wet T-shirts and streakers, and men’s ski suits were sleek and sexy, as well as colorful for exhibitionist hotdoggers. The 1975 suits pictured in the photo above used stretch fabric with stretch insulation, which gave flex to the tight fit. Jackets were short, so pants needed higher waists and shoulder straps. Chris Neville’s red Bogner jacket has tri-color stripes that run down the back. Grandoe gloves pick up the trim. Nick Hansen’s bright yellow HCC (Henri–Charles Colsenet) two-piece has bell-bottomed pants that fit smoothly over ski boots. The hat is HCC; the goggles are by Smith; the poles are by Collins; skis by The Ski with Burt retractable bindings.

As you’ll see on subsequent pages, the 1980s began with classic colors but midway moved to neons. Silhouettes shifted too, from slim on the top and wide on bottom, to wide on the top with slimmer legs. The neons, of course, were great for flat light and finding kids. Thinner but warmer insulations (such as Thinsulate) and free-hanging waterproof liners (such as Gore-Tex) gave designers more play. Outfits may not have looked it, but they were warm.

The 1990s went high tech and high ticket. A suit that cost $245 in the ’70s could cost $1,000 by then, especially with embroidery. Solar fabrics, ceramic insulations and special liners all arrived on the scene, plus pockets—the more the merrier for men. 

I’ve always thought sexy stretch pants contributed to the growth and popularity of skiing. So what’s hot in 2014? Looks to me like Bubble Heads and Baggy Pants. Guess that leaves sexy to the imagination. 

In November 2016, 16,000 fans attended a World Cup alpine ski race in New England, where love of the sport has never waned. By JOHN FRY

Last November was a transformative month. . . not only for politics, but possibly for American skiing. In politics, a neglected bunch of underemployed voters, largely unobserved and resentful of political correctness and diversity, had grown skeptical of the Establishment’s message and mission. The result was an electoral surprise. 

A parallel with skiing may seem remote, but how about this? Two weeks after the election, more than 15,000 enthusiastic fans unexpectedly showed up at an alpine ski race. And as many came back the second day. Those kinds of crowds hadn’t shown up at a World Cup race in 50 years in the United States, since Jean-Claude Killy won all three races on Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire in 1967. 

Who were these forgotten people who jammed the roads leading to the Superstar slope at Killington? Who would have expected such a throng? 

Not the various organizations that have erased the word “ski” from their names, replacing it with the amorphous, somewhat inaccurate “snowsports” as part of a fruitless endeavor to unite skiing with a culture whose mission has been to replace skis with snowboards. Not the advertisers and publishers who have sought to cure anemic participation with images of young men recklessly hucking cliffs, doing aerial flips, in baggy clothing derived from urban street wear.

The thousands who lined the slopes and filled the stands at Killington, including children, came to see another chapter in the hundred-year-old sport of alpine ski racing. In the world’s top women racers they could observe athletic form to which they can relate their own technique, most obviously in giant slalom: carving turns, skis out from under the body, head and shoulders aimed downhill, going fast. 

Nothing else on the slopes—freestyle, aerials, snowboarding—does this, or possesses such a rich history.  

The surprise is where all it happened. Vacated by American skiing’s national organizations, which moved West, the Northeast is a region akin to the neglected industrial heartland, made famous in the recent election. It’s snow country’s Rust Belt. . .at least, figuratively. Over the past 50 years the Northeast has suffered the loss of hundreds of lift and rope-tow-served ski areas—up to 650 across New England and as many as 250 in New York, according to Jeremy Davis of the New England Lost Ski Areas Project (www.nelsap.org). Ski companies and associations headquartered in the East have folded or moved west. 

However, in New England, the historic cradle of American skiing, love of the sport has never waned. The heartbeat is strong. If you include the amount of skiing they do in Colorado in the total, Northeastern skiers account for fully a third of national skier-days. They also purchase about a quarter of alpine equipment. They were the ones who thronged the spectator stands and the roads leading to Killington. 

Credit Powdr Corp.’s Herwig Demschar (Austria) and U.S. Ski Team President Tiger Shaw (Dartmouth, Stowe), among others, for making the risky bet that World Cup racing, after an absence of 25 years, would be a success in the East. The crowds of spectators have also served to remind FIS officials that 56 million people live within a few hours’ drive of Vermont and New Hampshire ski mountains. Tops in TV ratings for ski racing are Boston and New York, the world’s media capital. The FIS should waste no time in putting the U.S. Northeast permanently on the annual calendar of World Cup races. 

Looking ahead, too, ski areas may question why they spend hundreds of thousands of dollars building free-admission terrain parks, while charging guests to compete in NASTAR. An easy open-gated course enables recreational skiers to sense an approximation of what Lindsey Vonn and Bode Miller experience, or what the world’s best women racers were doing at Killington on Thanksgiving weekend, exciting a thrilled public, and reminding us of the path to making a great sport even greater, again.  

The writer voted the Democratic line in the recent U.S. presidential election. His opinions are his own, and not necessarily those of the International Skiing History Association. Fry is the author of the award-winning Story of Modern Skiing (University Press of New England, 2006).

By John Fry

A skiing friend of many years recently died, and I found myself traveling to talk at his memorial service. It was not, and he was not, religious. The afternoon memorial took place in an art gallery in Woodstock, on the eastern edge of New York’s Catskill Mountains. Most of my skiing with my friend had been here, in the Catskills, forty and more years ago.

Before I set out on the drive north, I noticed that snow was forecast, so I stuck my ski gear in the car, just in case. . .

 For those who think that life’s end should be a solemn affair, the idea of planning a combined funeral and ski trip may seem frivolous, or outright disrespectful. But why should it be?

Following the memorial service I spent the night in a motel in the village of Fleischmann, not far from the home of Mitch Cubberly, inventor of the revolutionary Cubco binding 65 years ago, and of Highmount, a lost ski area. Both gone.    

In the morning I drove the dozen miles to the base of Belleayre Mountain. Six inches of fresh powder had fallen overnight. I was among the first lift riders. Like most skiers over the years, I can’t find words to describe what happened next . . . two hours of ineffable, raw pleasure, cruising in snow lying light as feathers on a groomed base. Turns came effortlessly, the skis silent as they sliced the down-like snow.

It wasn’t the day’s only satisfaction. I caught a chair ride with an eight-year-old girl, geared for a giant slalom race. On the slope under the lift, blue and red poles were set. Volunteer gatekeepers were in position.

“What’s the race?” I asked. “A mini-World Cup.” she murmured. Dreams of Michaela Schiffren danced under the little helmet. But this petite racer had another concern. Her bib number was ‘7’, and already bib number 1 was on the course. “When we unload,” I urged her, “head straight for the starting gate. Don’t worry. You’ll make it!” She did.

That Sunday I found myself celebrating my friend’s life more than mourning his death. I watched as parents herded their kids, issuing the ages-old warning not to speed out of control. On stubby skis and snowboards they struggled or soared. All over the mountain children and parents exulted in the brilliance of sunlight and pristine whiteness. Their shouts of happiness rang across the slopes.

Skiing was alive and well, recycling its history, the conqueror of time otherwise wasted.

My friend had died. The sport, which he loved, lives on. . . and on.

-- John Fry

Richard Allen has been hunting out old ski gear, skiwear, posters and patches since childhood. The collection grew into a business, Vintage Ski World, based in Aspen and Carbondale, Colo. Today, Allen owns about 800 pairs of skis, dating back to the 1890s, plus boots, bindings, poles and parkas.

There’s no ski-swap junk in this collection – it’s all of historical significance. Most of the skis are suitable for “decor” sale: handsomely finished wooden skis it near-perfect shape, found in an attic but destined to decorate a luxurious home at some ritzy resort. But many items have a real story to tell. Allen has inherited gear from Steve Knowlton, Sigmund Ruud and even Charlie Proctor. He has a pair of the innovative Clement aluminum ski from Canada, a set of hinged steel Bilgeri bindings from WWI, and a gleaming pair of Hvam release bindings – unused, in the original box. He even has a pair of early Scott poles – engraved for use by Buddy Werner. The warehouse archives the commercial history of the sport. Ski brands are Strand, Lund, Northland, Eriksen, J.C. Higgins, Dartmouth, Paris Ball, Flexible Flyer, Macy’s, Bancroft, Tey, Dow, Vogg, Allais, Mitchell-Rossignol, Dynamic and Aluflex; there are signature-model skis from Toni Matt and Friedl Pfeiffer.

Now Allen wants to retire. He wants to sell the collection and the business. The package could include his mountainside home, on five acres of sundrenched ranchland above Carbondale – the complex houses the cream of the collection ski collection, the poster inventory and the Vintage Ski World office. If you’ve dreamed of running your own business in the Colorado Rockies – without paying rent on commercial resort property – call him: 970-963-9025. --Seth Masia

This Glossary of Historical Ski Terms is from the book "Story of Modern Skiing," by John Fry, published in 2006 by University Press of New England, 380 pages, 90 illustrations, $24.95."

The author is indebted to Seth Masia, to Doug Pfeiffer, and to the editors of the Professional Ski Instructors of America Alpine Technical Manual for their help in assembling this Glossary.  

Acclimatize, Acclimate. Adapt to a change in altitude, ideally done in stages to reduce physiological stress.

Alpine. When the A is capitalized, the word Alpine relates to the Alps. In lower case, alpine may refer to anything mountainous like the Alps, and specifically applies to downhill skiing, as contrasted with nordic (cross-country and jumping). Downhill, slalom, giant slalom and Super G are alpine competitions.

Alpine Combined. A downhill and a slalom race either held intentionally as a combined event, or the linking of two races on the calendar to produce a combined result. Result of a combined competition was once derived from mathematically computing FIS points. Today it is done by adding up the times.

Angulation. Any movement or positioning of the leg or body to roll the ski onto a higher edge angle relative to the snow. Before the introduction of higher plastic boots, ski instructors assumed that this could best be achieved by angling the torso down the hill (or toward the outside of the turn) , at the same time as the hip and knees were angled into the mountain. This was known as the comma position. The improved control provided by modern boots has rendered the comma position obsolete. Angulation can now be achieved with the lower leg and emphasized with the hip, independent of upper body position.

Anterior cruciate ligament (ACL). The knee ligament that connects the femur (thigh bone) with the tibia (shin bone) and prevents the forward movement of the tibia on the femur. The posterior cruciate ligament prevents backward movement of the tibia on the femur. ACL tears became a common ski injury after 1980, as a result of changed boot design, ski shape and binding height combined with the skier’s feet-apart stance.

Anticipation. The skier’s upper body anticipated the direction of the coming turn, acting as an anchor for the lower body to turn against. As the tension was  released (muscles relax) and the skier “let go” of the old turn, the legs realigned with the upper body and started the turn.

Arlberg. A mountainous region of western Austria encompassing the classic ski resorts of St. Anton, St. Christof, Lech, Zurs. Home of famed ski teacher Hannes Schneider, who formulated the Arlberg technique, and of Stefan Kruckenhauser, who popularized wedeln. 

Arlberg Strap. A leather strap that was wrapped around the boot and attached to the ski to prevent it from running away when the binding released.

Arlberg Technique. A series of movements taught in progression, starting with the snowplow and progressing to turns made with the skis parallel, developed by Hannes Schneider. (See Arlberg, above.)

Arete (French). Sharp mountain ridge with steep sides.

Backscratcher. While airborne, the skier’s knees are bent so as to force the ski tips to drop sharply downward. The tails of the skis may even scratch one’s back. Also called a Tip Drop.

Backside. The backside of the snowboard is the side where the rider’s heels sit. The backside of a snowboarder is the side where the rider’s back faces.

Bathtub. See Sitzmark.

Bear trap. A binding that did not allow release. It had fixed toe irons, and the heel was often lashed to the skis with a leather strap, long thong or laniere.

Bevel. Modifying the edge of a ski so that it forms something other than a perfect 90-degree angle.  The ski edge has two surfaces: the base edge contiguous to the ski's sole, and the side edge meeting the ski's sidewall. A beveled base edge is "softened" by about one degree -- in effect it's recessed relative
to the sole surface -- so the ski rolls more smoothly on and off the edge. A bevelled side edge -- sharpened to 1, 2 or 3 degrees of acute angle -- can
help a racer to hold a more aggressive line on ice.

Biathlon. A competition among rifle-bearing skiers originating in the 18th Century, which rewards skill in skiing cross-country and marksmanship. Results are computed in time. Minutes are subtracted for errant shots. Biathlon has a separate sports governing body recognized by the International Olympic Committee.

Binding platform. In the days of carved "ridgetop" skis of hickory and ash, it was common to provide a flat, and usually slightly raised, platform at the ski's center for mounting the binding and boot. Beginning with international standards for bindings (see DIN), the binding mounting zone on the ski was defined as flat platform or plate designed to anchor the binding screws. In 1989, World Cup champion Marc Girardelli began using the Derbyflex plate, a solid aluminum plate glued to a thick sheet of neoprene rubber, inserted between the ski and the binding. The platform provided an additional inch of leverage relative to the ski's edge for more edging power, and additional boot clearance so that the ski can be pitched onto a higher edge angle.  The leveraging power from the elevated platform also leverages the power of forces coming back into the knee from the snow. To reduce knee injuries among racers, the FIS limited the total "stack height" -- the distance between the snow and the sole of the boot -- to a maximum of 55mm. A typical high-performance recreational binding today has a stack height of 45mm; the ski itself may be about 15mm thick.

Blindside. In snowboarding, when the rider approaches or lands “blind” to the direction of travel.

Boarder Cross. Snowboarders race through turns and obstacles and jumps in heats of 4-6 riders, starting simultaneously.  The term derives from a similar format used in motorcycling – motocross.

Bonk. In snowboarding, to hit a non-snow object hard.  

Boilerplate. A glazed covering of solid ice on a trail, usually produced after rain or after wet snow freezes.

Boogying. To ski the bumps all out -- a 1970s hot dog skiing term.

Canting.  The process of making adjustments – primarily to bindings and boots – in order to improve the alignments of feet, knees, hips and upper body. The alignment is typically done mechanically by a footbed in the boot, and/or by adjusting the boot’s cuff.

Carving. Turning the skis by causing them to travel on edge with minimal lateral slipping or skidding. The tail of the ski is on a forward moving path that follows the tip of the ski. A pure carved turn, whether on skis or on a snowboard, is defined by its leaving a clean, elliptical track on the snow.

Camber. The arch built into a ski from tip to tail. Camber was created to generate even pressure on the snow along the length of the ski. A “stiff” ski resists being de-cambered or pressed flat.

Catwalk. Narrow road often built to enable wheeled machines to ascend the mountain in summer and snowcats in winter. Catwalks double as ski trails in winter, characterized by long traverses that link to another trail, a lift or to another section of the resort.

Center Line. A conceptual model created by the Professional Ski Instructors of America “for selecting appropriate movement patterns under a variety of circumstances.”

Chattering. The ski’s edges grip on ice but rebound, vibrating and chattering -- as opposed to carving or skidding smoothly.

Christie. A contraction of the word Christiania, describing a turn made with the skis parallel (a parallel christie), as distinct from a turn made with the skis partially in a stem or vee configuration (known as a stem Christie), or a turn made wholly with the skis stemmed (known as a stem turn, snowplow or wedge turn). In post-20th Century ski schools, the term christie may denote a skidded parallell turn, as opposed to a carved turn. 

Cirque. A bowl-like shape, typically at the head of a valley, created by a former glacier.

Concave Running Surface. A frequent defect for many years in the manufacture and curing of fiberglass and plastic skis produced in molds. The concave ski’s bottom resists turning. The defect is corrected by flat-filing or machine-grinding the skis to bring the edges down to the level of the running surface.

Convex. The opposite condition of concave. A convex base feels unstable to the skier, doesn’t track accurately, and sideslips on ice. In the factory, when a new ski receives its final grind before the resin is fully cured, it can be delivered to a ski shop concave in the shovel and tail, and convex in the middle.

Corn snow. Pellet-sized particles formed from repetitive thawing, refreezing, and recrystallizing of the snow. Corn snow has a texture that facilitates turning and causes skiers to feel as if they’re skiing on ball bearings.

Cornice. Overhang of snow and ice typically found on a high ridge. Dangerous  skiing to the skier who stands for long on one, and extreme skiing to those who jump off one.

Counter rotation. Simultaneously twisting the upper body in one direction (usually opposite to the direction of travel), and the lower body in another direction.

Cross-Country Relay. See Team Event.

Crossover. Swinging one ski around the other so that the feet point in opposite directions, then extricating the standing ski to re-align itself to the other.

Crud, Breakable Crust. A condition in which the snow surface has frozen into hard crust over soft snow underneath. Crud often refers to settling snow that has been cut up by skiers. When the skier’s weight is sufficient to break through the crust, but unpredictably, the resulting condition is difficult to ski.

Daffy. An early freestyle stunt, the daffy was a mid-air split – the skier extended one leg forward, the other rearward. If airborne long enough, the skier could sky-walk – that is switch legs fore and aft two or three times. The term daffy, according to freestyle pioneer Doug Pfeiffer, originated in the idea of the stunt  being daft, or slightly crazy.

Damping. Quality in a ski which prevents it from vibrating excessively, a problem with early metal skis. Skis insufficiently damped are unstable, and may chatter on ice. An over-damp ski, on the other hand, feels heavy and sluggish, doesn’t glide easily on wet snow especially, and tends not to rise to the surface in heavy powder. 

Deep-crouch Christie. While traversing at a comfortable speed the skier suddenly assumes a low crouch position. Taking advantage of this unweighting movement, he turns the skis toward the fall line while keeping the weight on the inside-of-the-turn ski and letting the outside one drift off as if about to do a gymnast’s split. Once the desired new direction is obtained, a normal skiing posture is resumed. Obsolete.

DIN Setting. Every binding has an adjustable release setting which determines the torque required to release the skier in a fall. Beginning in 1979, bindings used a standard scale to measure release values. The standard, DIN, stands for Deutsche Industrie Normen -- German Industrial Standards. The number,  usually visible in a tiny panel on the toepiece, theoretically represents the torque in decanewtons per degree to release the binding toe. The higher the number, the greater the force required to release. An expert recreational skier might set his binding at 8; a beginner, depending on weight and strength, much lower, say 3. The setting of the binding’s heel piece is proportional to the toe setting at a ratio determined by the manufacturer.

Down-unweighting. A lightening of the pressure of the skis on the snow made by a sudden dropping of the skier’s body. (See up-unweighting.)

Fakie. In snowboarding, to ride backwards without facing the direction of travel; also Switch.

Fall Line. Line down the hill that gravity would direct a rolling or falling object. The steepest or shortest line. A sequence of ski turns is typically made by a skier crossing back and forth across the fall line.  

FIS. Federation Internationale de Ski, the International Ski Federation, made up of almost a hundred national ski federations around the world, headquartered at Oberhofen/Thunersee, Switzerland.

Flying Sitzmark. In deep snow, with a modicum of speed, the skier launched  airborne from between both poles, kicked the skis forward and vertical, typically  in an X-configuration, and landed with his rear end first in the deep stuff, leaving a giant sitzmark in the snow.

Four-way Skier. One who competed in downhill, slalom, cross-country and jumping. The four-way champion was often called Skimeister. (See Skimeister.)

Frontside. The frontside of the snowboard is the side where the rider’s toes sit.

Grab. To hold the edge of the snowboard with one or both hands while airborne.

Halfpipe. A vertical U-shaped structure sculpted from snow. Snowboarders and skiers use the opposing walls of the halfpipe to get air and perform tricks as they travel downhill. At ski areas, specially designed grooming machines are used to make halfpipes.

Jib. In snowboarding, to ride on something other than snow --- e.g. rails, trees, garbage cans, logs.

Garland. A teaching exercise used to develop skill in unweighting and edging the skis. The skis are alternately slipped downhill and traversed, without the skier making a turn.

Gate event. Refers to a slalom or giant slalom race. A gate or technical skier specializes in slalom and giant slalom, in contrast to the speed competitions of downhill and Super G.

Gelandesprung. A powerful jump off a bump or a built-up jump, executed by the skier using both poles and often spreading his legs in mid-air.

Geschmozell, Geschmozzle. A downhill competition, in which all the racers started at the same time. The practice was abandoned for most of the 20th Century, but was revived with the popularity early in the 21st Century of skier-cross and boarder-cross races.

Goofy, Goofy-Footed. In snowboarding, riding with the right foot in front instead of the left foot, which is the normal stance

Graduated Length Method (GLM). A system of teaching in which the pupil progressed from shorter to longer skis.

Hairpin. In slalom, two gates set vertically down the hill and close together.

Heel side. The edge of the snowboard under the rider’s heels.

Herringbone. A technique for climbing the hill by putting the skis on edge in a vee-configuration, with the tips fanned outward. The skier walks up the hill on alternating feet while edging to avoid slipping backwards. The pattern left in the snow resembles the skeleton of a fish.

High Back Boot. See Jet Sticks.

Huck. In snowboarding, freeskiing and a variety of other sports, to fling the body into the air -- that is, to launch a jump. A huckfest is a big-air contest, formal or informal. 

Inside ski. In a turn, the skis describe an arc or partial circumference of a circle. The inside ski is the one closer to the circle’s center. At the start of the turn it is the downhill ski; at the weight transfer it becomes the unweighted ski, and at the turn’s conclusion, it has become the uphill ski.

IOC. International Olympic Committee is headquartered in Lausanne, Switzerland. The IOC recognizes the FIS as the official governing body for the sports of skiing and snowboarding.

ISHA. International Skiing History Association publishes a bimonthly journal, Skiing History (formerly Skiing Heritage), and operates the most extensive website about the sport’s history. Office and subscription services at the U.S. National Ski and Snowboard Hall of Fame in Ishpeming, Mich.

Jet Sticks, Jet Stix. Beginning around 1966, the French introduced an aggressive style of slalom skiing called avalement, which depended in part on storing energy in the stiff tail of the ski, then releasing it for acceleration. To aid in loading the tail, racers began experimenting with ways to build up the back
of their leather and plastic boots, using tongue depressors, aluminum plate, fiberglass, duct tape -- anything that fell to hand.  By 1969, most boot manufacturers responded by offering plastic "spoilers" to build up the back of the boot.  An aftermarket option was Jet Stix, a set of spoilers with a buckle strap which could be attached to any pair of classic ankle-height boots.

Kicker, Kicker Jump. Steeply built jump designed to hurtle the freestyle aerialist vertically into the air, making possible flips and various inverted aerial stunts. By contrast, the lip of a classic nordic jump is designed to maximize the jumper’s horizontal distance.

Klister. An extremely sticky or tacky wax enabling cross country skis to grip and glide on warm, wet or frozen granular spring snow. 

Kofix. One of the early brand names for a polyethylene laminate bonded on to the ski’s base to form its running surface.

Langlauf. German word for cross-country skiing.

Laniere. Shorter version of the long thong (see below).

Long Thong. A leather strap used by racers and good skiers until the 1960s to hold the foot securely on the ski and to strengthen the leather boot’s lateral support of the ankle. As long as six feet and wrapped around the boot, the long thong attached to steel rings on the sides of the ski, or it was threaded through a mortise drilled through the wooden ski under the foot.

Lift Line. A line of skiers waiting to get on a lift. Long lift lines are synonymous with waiting a long time in the lift line. The term lift line also refers to the cut through the trees where the lift ascends the mountain.

Massif. A mass or group of summits.

Mid-entry Boot. A design usually incorporating an overlap lower shell to provide accurate shell fit, and a hinged upper cuff that opens wide for easy entry and exit. Mid-entry boots were aimed at intermediate skiers who wanted a more precise fit than was available with rear-entry boots, but who didn't want to wrestle with the stiff flaps of an overlap racing boot. (See also overlap boot, and rear-entry boot.)

Mogul. A bump formed as a result of skiers repeatedly turning in the same place.

Moraine. A ridge formed of boulders, rocks and gravel pushed downhill or aside by a glacier and left behind after the glacier's retreat. A terminal moraine appears at the end of the glacier; lateral moraines at its sides.

NSAA, National Ski Areas Association. A trade association of more than 400 mostly U.S. ski areas, headquartered in Lakewood, Colorado.

NSPS, National Ski Patrol System. Association of ski patrolmen and women, headquartered in Lakewood, Colorado.

Nordic Combined. The result of competitors racing cross-country and jumping. Distance and style in the jumping event and times in the cross-country event, were converted into points. Beginning in 1968 in Norwegian meets, and then in the mid 1980s in international meets, the finish order in the jumping event established the starting order in the cross-country race. The first man crossing the finish line in the cross-country race wins the Combined.

Off-piste. Terrain that is not on a prepared slope. See piste.

Outside ski. (See inside ski.)

Overlap boot.  A plastic boot into which the foot is inserted as it would be into a conventional work boot or old-fashioned leather ski boot -- that is, through the top of the cuff.  Overlap boots typically consist of a lower shell with overlapping flaps over the instep, which are closed tightly around the foot with over-center buckles. A hinged upper cuff with overlapping flaps in front of the lower shin closes tightly around the ankle and lower leg with over-center buckles and velcro straps for maximum control of a high-performance ski. The stiff plastic flaps can be difficult to flex for entry and exit.

Piste. French word for trail or track or groomed slope.

Platterpull, Poma lift. A stick with a round, flat disk is attached at its other end to a moving steel cable. To ride uphill, the skier inserts the stick between his or her legs, with the flat disk placed behind his or her derriere. The other end of the stick mechanically grabs the moving cable and the rider is pulled along the snow uphill. The platterpull is often called a Poma lift, after the name of its inventor Pomagalski.

Polish Donut. In freestyle, a variant of the Worm Turn. Skier, usually while traversing, suddenly sat down to the side of the skis, raised them sufficiently to clear the snow, and spun around in a full circle before continuing.

Pre-jump. A technique for reducing the tendency to become airborne when confronting a bump or terrain irregularity. The skier jumps before reaching the bump or drop-off, skims over its top and lands on the downhill side.

PSIA, Professional Ski Instructors of America. National association of certified ski instructors, headquartered in Lakewood, Colo.

Rappel. Descending a mountain on a rope using braking devices. In English, it translates as "to slow" or "brake." German: abseil. Frequently misspelled as "repel."

Rear-entry boot. A plastic boot into which the foot was inserted through a "door" or flap at the back. The main shell was seamless, and the rear flap was  secured with over-center buckles or ratcheting straps. The advantage of the rear-entry boot was that it was easy and quick to get in and out of. The disadvantage was that the shell didn't close accurately around the foot. Aggressive skiers and magazine testers found the rear-entry boot inadequate for performance skiing, and it went from the most widely sold boot in the 1980s to one that is almost unavailable in shops.

Reuel (Royal) or Flying Christie. Moving in a traverse, the skier picks up the lower ski and angles it downhill toward the fall line. The turn is done with the weight entirely on the inside or uphill ski, the opposite of what is considered “normal” skiing. For greater spectator effect, the last ski to leave the snow is raised into various positions such as a T-position or back-scratcher. Named for the freestyle pioneer Fritz Reuel (pron. royal).
 

Schuss, Schussing. To ski without making turns or checking speed. From the German word meaning gun shot, rush, rapid movement.

SIA. SnowSports Industries America, formerly Ski Industries America, a trade association of equipment and clothing manufacturers and distributors, headquartered in McLean, Virginia, near Washington, D.C.

Shaped Skis. Skis with an emphatic or exaggerated sidecut. Over a period of several years since the 1990s, “shaped” skis have come to be the norm and represent the bulk of current ski sales. Future technological advances could change this in unforeseeable ways.

Sidecut. The linear curved side shape of a ski that facilitates its turning when the ski is on edge. Sidecut, or side camber, causes a ski, viewed from the top or bottom, to resemble a wasp shape. It is wider toward the tip or shovel of the ski, narrow at the waist, and flares again at the tail.

Short Swing. A series of short, tight turns executed down the fall line. Called wedeln in German and godille in French.

Shred. In snowboarding, to tear up the terrain.

Sitzmark. A term used to describe the depression in the snow left by a fallen skier. 

Skier Cross. A giant slalom type sprint with bumps and mounded curves, in which a half-dozen competitors start simultaneously (see Geschmozzel), and the winner crosses the finish line first. Top finishers from each heat move on to the next round.  The event is patterned after motocross racing.

Skier-day, Skier-visit. One skier or snowboarder participating one day at a ski area. The skier-day is the most common measure used by ski areas to measure the volume of their business.

Skijoring. A skier holding a rope is pulled along the snow by a horse, snowmobile or four-wheel vehicle. Popular activity in the 1930s.

Ski Flying. Ski jumping on a jumping hill rated greater than 120 meters. On March 20, 2005, Finnish ski flyer Matti Hautamaki jumped 235.5 meters, a distance of 772.7 feet.

Skimeister. German word meaning an all-round proficient skier in both alpine and nordic. A skimeister was the winner of a four-way competition involving slalom, downhill, cross country and jumping. (See Four-way). The term Snowmeister was used in 1995 to describe the winner of a competition involving skiing and snowboarding.

Serac. A tower of ice, found among glaciers, and often spectacular in appearance.

Scree. Rocky debris on mountainsides.

Sick. Expression for something radically good.

Slab. Layer of compacted or frozen snow that creates the potential snow lying on top of it to avalanche.

Slow Dog Noodle. Skier rode up a steep side of a mogul to dissipate speed while assuming an exaggerated sitting back position. At the crest of the mogul and while still crouching, with skis now balanced directly on the crest, the skier swiveled the skis. The slower the motion, the more perfect the execution.
Snowplow, Wedge. Going straight down the hill or making slow turns with the skis in a vee configuration -- tips pointed in, tails fanned out.

Steepness, Pitch. The gradient of a slope’s steepness can be determined by two measures – degrees or percent. Percentage – the figure commonly used by ski areas -- is determined by dividing the vertical height of the slope by its horizontal distance. For a hill that drops 20 vertical feet and projects out by 100 feet, the division yields .20 and the hill is said to have a 20% gradient, equal to a steepness of 11 degrees. A hill with a 60-foot drop and projecting out 100 feet has a 60% grade and a 31-degree steepness. A 100% slope is 45 degrees steep, dropping one foot for every horizontal foot. Beyond that steepness, snow has difficulty holding and only the most extreme skiing is performed. About 70 percent of the terrain at ski areas falls between 15% and 40% of grade, according to the ski area design consultant, the late Jim Branch.

Stem, Stemming. Technique for slowing speed. (See snowplow, Christie.)

Super-Diagonal. A 1940s rubber strap that attached to hooks on the ski’s sidewall and that stretched around the ankle to hold the boot heel firmly in place.

Switch. In snowboarding, to ride with the tail of the board in front.

Team event. The oldest team event in skiing is the cross country relay race involving four competitors, with men racing a 10-kilometer leg and women 5 kilometers. In the Olympics and FIS World Championships, all members of the first, second and third-place relay teams win medals. Beginning in 1982, team competitions were introduced in jumping and Nordic Combined.

Technical racer. See Gate event.

Telepherique. French word for an aerial tramway and cable car. Most telepheriques are jigbacks, in which two large cabins are suspended from cables; as one goes up, the other comes down. 

Telemark turn. The outside ski of the turn is advanced forward and is stemmed, with the knee bent, causing the skis to change direction. Requires use of bindings that allow the skier’s heel to be raised. 

Three Sixty. An airborne skier doing a complete 360-degree rotation.

Tip Drop. See Backscratcher.  

Tip Roll. The skier traversed the slope, and with both poles held close together he suddenly jabbed them into the snow on the uphill side of the ski tips. Skier then vaulted with stiff arms, pivoting on the ski tips, and swung the skis in a 180-degree arc so they landed pointing in a direction opposite to the original direction of travel. In a 360-degree Tip Roll, the skis were whirled around in the air so as to land in the original direction of travel.

Top-entry boot. See overlap boot.

Torsion. The resistance of a ski to being twisted along its length. Skis with high torsional resistance (or torsional stiffness) set an edge into the snow more quickly, especially at the tip and tail. Skis with softer torsion set an edge into the snow less emphatically, and can feel more forgiving. 

Track!  A verbal shout or warning by a descending skier to a person below. “Track left” indicates that the overcoming skier intends to pass the person on his or her left; “Track Right,” on the right. The skier above is responsible for avoiding the skier below.

Tracking. Ability of a ski to hold a line in straight running.

Transition. A change in ski terrain, as in going from a flat area to a steep pitch, or going from steep to flat.

Turntable. A binding heelpiece which holds down the heel while allowing the boot to swivel when the toepiece rotates.

Twin tip. Skis turned up at both ends. A snowboard’s nose and tail are shaped identically, so the board rides equally well in both directions.

Unweighting. Taking varying amounts of weight off of the skis to manipulate and control pressure. There are four types of ‘unweighting’: (1) Up-unweighting, produced at the end of the turn with a rapid upward extension of the body. (2) Down-unweighting, produced by a rapid downward flexion of the body. (3) Terrain-unweighting, produced by using the terrain to help unweight the skis. (4) Rebound-unweighting, produced by the energetic force of the skis ‘decambering’ at the end of a turn. Up-unweighting was the classic technique employed for years to get weight off the skis so that they could be twisted or pivoted in the direction of the turn. It allows a flattened ski to be steered more readily.  

Uphill ski. (See inside ski.)

Vertical drop. The difference in elevation between the top of ski run and the bottom; the difference in elevation between the summit of a ski resort and its base; or between the top of a specific lift and its base. A resort typically advertises its vertical as the elevation change from the top of its highest lift to the base of its lowest.

Wedge turn. (See Snowplow, Christie).

Windmilling. Flailing-about of a ski after the binding releases. At one time, skiers wore “safety straps” so that when a ski released it wouldn’t take off downhill at high speed and become a potential source of injury to other skiers. The trouble was that the windmilling ski attached by the safety strap could seriously injure and cut the falling skier. With the invention of the safety brake  -- a double prong that snaps downward and prevents the released ski from sliding – the safety strap was no longer needed and the danger of windmilling was eliminated.

Worm Turn. At a slow moderate speed, skier headed straight down the fall line, lay back on the skis, rolled over like a log, then stood up to continue downhill.

(c)2006 John Fry, all rights reserved, not for reproduction.
 

How concern for the national health and military preparedness led France to build the infrastructure for Chamonix, 1924.

By E. John B. Allen

The generation of men and women who took to recreational skiing on the Continent prior to the World War I looked to Scandinavia as the fount of all things skiing, northern countries with a five-thousand-year head start in utilitarian and sporting activities. The Continent’s military noted the effectiveness of Norwegian ski troops and eventually emulated the notion, Russian, German, Austrian, Swiss and Italian regiments were experimenting with ski troops in the 1890s. The English were contemplating training ski soldiers to guard India’s Himalayan frontier.

The French soon followed. Toward the close of the 1800s, Italian-French border relations had taken on a wary unease. The Revue Alpine of 1901 noted that France and Italy had designated frontier zones in which civilians were not allowed. It was natural then that French military officers stationed in the alpine forts had begun by 1891 to consider using ski troops to patrol the alpine border.

Four French officers made attempts to introduce skis to the military: Lieutenants Widmann, Monnier and Thouverez, and Captain Francois Clerc. Widmann was Swedish, Monnier had skied in Norway, Thouverez was with France’s 93^rd Mountain Artillery, and Clerc commanded a company in the 159th Infantry Regiment. These four wrote to the French Ministry of War, prodding them toward establishing ski troop detachments.

The major obstacle to the idea was the general ill health of the French mountain people—the population habituated to the altitude and climate from which the crucial recruits must necessarily be drawn. French villagers of the time survived in primitive and unsanitary conditions that were especially deleterious in winter. Tuberculosis and influenza were rampant, along with the afflictions of goiter and rickets. The romantic patina often applied by writers of village life in the Alps before the intrusion of tourism and urbanization ignored the struggle for survival against disease, malnourishment and unsanitary conditions that were endemic a century ago.

The health problems were acute enough that governmental efforts to improve them took on a note of urgency. In 1902 the French Assembly passed a public health law. How it was carried out depended on the efficiency of each region’s Hygiene Council. In Grenoble, for example, the Isère council took up anti-tuberculosis measures right away according to the 1902 archives of the Grenoble Counseil d’Hygène. Problems with drinking water and sewage disposal continued, however, until addressed in 1908.

A French law of April 15, 1910 gave to the high altitude, climatic stations the right to charge vacationers a residence tax under the condition that certain hygienic conditions be guaranteed, a closed sewer system, etc. These rules were modified and finally set down by France’s Academy of Physicians in May 1913.

Both French national and regional governments were also deeply desirous of supporting and maintaining the growth of mountain tourism. Government health initiatives were driven increasingly by economic as well as military and public health considerations. The steep growth of winter sports devotees early in the 1900s occasioned sharp scrutiny during the winter months by local health commissioners. A not inconsiderable amount of money was at stake. The fortress town of Briançon, for example, hosted 50,000 visitors in 1909, a figure that rose to 65,000 by 1911, according to La Montagne, the publication of the Club Alpin Francais (French Alpine Club, or CAF). Mountain tourism was growing to the extent that huts owned by the French Alpine Club were being replaced here and there by small hotels catering to sportsmen.

There was also a second growing stream of city people who came for “the cure,” a better chance to recover from tuberculosis or influenza. Allotte de Fuye, an early alpinist-skier, wrote in 1891, “Doctors will very quickly understand…that influenza cases…should be sent fleeing from the pestilential centers to breathe the revivifying air…with no trace of microbes.”

There were no flu vaccinations in that day. In the next quarter century, the flu mercilessly wiped out a hundred million people around the world  in recurrent epidemics.  In the West, more individuals died as a result of the 1918 flu epidemic than were killed in World War I to that point. People paid great attention to scientific studies promising a healthier environment at higher altitudes. A report in the 1884 Annuaire de l’Oservatoire showed that a cubic decimeter of air could have a widely-varying bacteria count: 55,000 in the Rue de Rivoli, Paris; 600 in a Paris hotel room; 25 at 560 meters altitude in the French Alps and 0 at 2,000 to 4,000 meters. Clearly, such studies supported the belief in the healing and hygienic advantages of health-cum-sporting stations.

The health problems of the mountain population had to be dealt with, first and foremost. Along with disease, alcoholism was frequently given as a reason for their ill health.  But alcoholism was probably not a problem on a level with that of winter living conditions. Maintaining sufficient warmth to sleep comfortably, in the context of sparsely available firewood forced the villagers to use body warmth of their domestic animals. Mountain farmers simply moved above their stables from December to April. The degeneration of the mountain population, Clerc wrote, “is not due to alcoholism…but to the fashion of living in winter.” The captain had recruited in these villages, had gone into “these dens [where] one cannot breathe after a few minutes.”

“Five months stable living,” commented another observer of winter conditions in the French alpine villages. Val d’Isère was Val Misère: “snow, always snow, then snow again and after three days no hope; the beasts are shut up for six months. For a month now the snow has kept us in our houses and all work stops. We await March and April,” was the summation appearing in the 1903-04 Revue Alpine.

Malnourishment was also severe. In 1905, Captain Clerc noted that “in certain high villages…one is unhappily impressed by the rickets of the race. In five male births, one has trouble in a few cantons to find a [20-year-old] fit for service.” A survey by the military showed that a great number of  conscripts from mountain villages had failed to grow to a mature height of more than five feet. Another result of poor diet was that four per cent of the population of mountainous Savoy, long known as “the fortress of goiterism,” suffered from the affliction. Recruits at the Briançon garrison were taken to see the unfortunates, “emblems of beauty,” as one wrote on a postcard home.

The immediate military threat from Germany became stronger toward the close of the 1800s. With the defeat of 1870-71 always in mind, the national need for a pool of youth strong enough to withstand warfare both in summer and in winter spurred the French to found a number of sporting associations to promote healthy, athletic pursuits for youngsters. The Ferry laws of 1881 made military exercises compulsory in schools and may have given the impetus to the burgeoning number of sports clubs engaged in shooting, gymnastics, running and swimming. Although a report from the Jura noted that, while there were 105 shooting clubs in the region compared to eight ski clubs, skiing nevertheless became part of this movement to combine sport, morality, health and patriotism. 

The Cercle de gymnase de Serres was founded in 1876 for “honest recreation and to encourage sentiments of virtue, fraternity and patriotism.” In Gap, Les Etoiles des Alpes was founded in 1884 “to give youth a civic education as preparation for military service.” One sports organization published a statement in 1911 stressing development of the “physical and moral forces of the young, [to] prepare in the countryside robust men and valiant soldiers and create among them friendship and solidarity.”

This is exactly what the French Alpine Club implied in its motto Pour la Patrie par la Montagne. Its leadership sought to persuade mountain villagers that skiing was not just some wealthy acrobatic sideshow. The French Alpine Club’s Winter Sports Commission, created in 1906, was given official charge of French skiing a year later on the condition that the commission recognize the importance of “skiing’s patriotic and military importance and, its moralizing force as a sport.”

The sentiment was based on the belief that, at the turn of the 20th century, the Norwegians had taken to skiing “as part of their regeneration” during their bloodless but acrimonious and bitter struggle for independence from Sweden. Thanks to a general belief that physical exertion could halt the degeneration of the French mountain people, skiing was transformed from a pastime of the adventurous and wealthy into a means to ensure “strong men and strong soldiers.” Herein lay the true purpose of what was billed as CAF’s first Winter Sports Week, yet the diplomas were for a Concours International de Ski. It was held at Mont Genèvre, near Briançon on February 9-13, 1907. Designed as propaganda for military preparedness, it also had the effect of bringing skiing to civilian notice. The French Alpine Club and the French military both pushed skiing as a means to “better the nation’s defense at the same time as bettering the alpine population.” Both Clerc and subsequent commanders at Brançon, Captains Rivas and Bernard, encouraged soldiers who had received ski training during their periods of military service to return to their villages and teach children to ski. This would drag the villagers out of their winter hibernation and ensure a supply of able ski troop recruits. Rivas, for example wrote in 1906 that he was delighted that 15 out of 18 demobilized servicemen were making skis in their own villages that year.

The French Alpine Club made skiing as a patriotic fitness crusade. “The amelioration of the race haunted us,” wrote Henry Cuënot, the leading CAF spokesman as president of its Winter Sports Commission, looking back at the club’s early efforts to promote the sport. “One knew that Norwegians took to skiing as part of their regeneration, one understood its patriotic and military reach. One wanted to make strong men and strong soldiers.”

The French Alpine Club undertook to organize annual international ski meets, beginning with the one in 1907 at Mont Genèvre near Briançon. From the first, these ski meets ranked as major national sporting events covered by a large number of French papers. There were reporters from L’Illustration, L’Auto, Armée et Marine, Le Petit Parisien, Les Alpes Pittoresques—to name five of twelve newspapers represented at Mont Genèvre. Visiting foreigners brought the excitement of international competition with the Italian Alpini providing a special dash. At Genèvre there was an ice Arc de Triomphe. On one side was CAF’s motto, Pour la Patrie par la Montagne (For the Fatherland by way of the Mountains), on the other was L’Amour de la Montagne abaisse les Frontières (Love of Mountains does away with Frontiers).  Patently, skiing was part of the Franco-Italian détente. CAF held its second meet in 1908 at Chamonix. The third in 1909 was at Morez in the Jura. CAF’s letter soliciting prizes for the Morez meet was clear in its meaning: “Our context is the most powerful means of spreading in our country, a sport which regenerated the Norwegian race.” And Norwegians were always present, adding their supreme authority to the competitions.

The theme of regeneration runs through club discussions and reports. Henry Cuënot, the spokesman for regeneration, wrote many of CAF’s notices. The military fully supported the annual meets by providing a band, teams of soldiers, and the patronage of any number of high-ranking officers. These patrons, if they did not attend themselves, sent deputies to speak the right words at the award banquets. At the 1908 meet, General Soyer, filling in for General Gallieni (who had been at the meet the previous year), affirmed that “all mountain sports are incomparable in making men valiant and vigorous.” 

The fourth CAF meet was held in 1910 at Eaux Bonnes and Cauterets and the fifth, the following year, at Lloran. It was CAF’s policy to hold the meets all over snow-covered France. By the time the seventh annual meet rolled around, correspondents from 17 papers covered the event held in the Vosges  at Gérardmer in 1914, and was the occasion of the awarding of the first military Brévet for skiers. Successful candidates won the right to choose which ski regiment they would join when called to the colors, which happened all too soon; August 1914 the tocsin sounded for World War I.

But Chamonix was coming into its own during those years. It was not the mountains that had first attracted men to the Chamonix valley, but its glaciers. In the enlightened 18^th century had come the Englishmen Windham and Pocock, the first of a long line of gentlemanly amateurs. Mt. Blanc was climbed in 1786. In the Romantic age, the high lakes were the attraction, and only from about the mid-19^th century did alpinism take hold. There was much foreign business prior to skiing in the valley. In 1860 Chamonix welcomed 9,020 visitors, in 1865 the number was up to 11,789, with the English supplying about one third. Chamonix became “a little London of the High Alps” in the summer season. In 1860 there were 7 hotels, 10 in 1865 including the 300-bed Grand Imperial. An English church was built in 1860, the telegraph arrived two years later, the first of the mountain huts, the Cabane des Grands-Mulets was ready in 1864, and Whymper climbed the first ‘needle’ in June 1865. Skiing came in 1898. Arnold Lunn remembered the guide “who regarded his skis with obvious distaste and terror. He slid down a gentle slope leaning on his stick, and breathing heavily, while we gasped our admiration for his courage.” Chamonix skiing prospered thanks to the local GP, Dr. Payot, who took to visiting his patients on skis. By the beginning of the 1907-08 season there were about 500 pairs of skis in town. CAF was mightily pleased with its propaganda, for skiing was “social and patriotic at the same time.” Chamonix was CAF’s choice for its Second International Week in January 1908. Two hotels had remained open for the winter of 1902, four in 1906, and the number tripled by 1908. The hoteliers had been skeptical at first of CAF’s enthusiasm, but had joined in as the day grew closer. They ended up “surprised by the affluence of their visitors” whose choice was for hotels with central heat. Heating was a major concern for villages and towns as they started to attract winter visitors.

The meet was a resounding success. The reception for the alpine troops, the gentry in their sledge carriages made a fine show, baby carriages on runners provided a charm and calm to the physical presence of all the skiers, the lugers, and bobsled teams. The sober colors of the skiers’ clothes mingled with the elegant costumes of the ladies. Officers from Norway, troops from Switzerland and of course, France’s own Chasseurs Alpins were the cynosure of all. The throng included amateurs from home and abroad, and guides and porters busied themselves throughout the town: all under a radiantly blue sky with the Mt. Blanc chain creating a magnificent backdrop, “a picture rarely seen and suggestive to a high degree.” Chamonix had become Chamonix-Mt. Blanc, a “new winter station…equal to the big Swiss centers,” enthused one commentator in the Revue Alpine.

A new winter station? Maybe. Certainly one not to equal those in Switzerland, nor, indeed, could it compare with its status as a summer destination. In the summer of 1907, Chamonix welcomed approximately 2,000 visitors a day, for a total of c. 170,000. A little more than 2,000 had been in town for its winter week. It was a start to Chamonix’ becoming France’s premier ski and winter sports station, even if it could not compete with St. Moritz and Davos.

Although the numbers of visitors did not greatly increase during the winter seasons—11,725 in 1911-12 to l2,975 in 1912-13—Chamonix’ standing as premier in the places to ski was enhanced by CAF’s sixth international competition in 1912. Of course there was commentary in the French papers, but it also received notice in Oslo’s Aftenposten  and in the Italian paper, Lettura Sportiva. Excelsior, a French paper, put it exactly right, just what CAF wanted to hear: “Chamonix shows, this year, as in others, that it knows how to organize sporting events.”

Chamonix capitalized on its renown and started major advertising abroad. “Sunshine is Life” read an advertisement cued to the fogged in English in 1913. Cheap 15-day excursion return tickets from London cost just £4.0.3 in 1913.The following year the town’s tourism committee decided to spend some of its advertising budget on Algerian and Tunisian newspapers. As the war loomed, Chamonix was thinking internationally.

During this pre-war period, skiing also spread throughout the local community. Much of the early enthusiasm was generated by Dr. Payot. He made the Col de Balme on February 12, 1912 and followed it by crossing the Col du Géant to Courmeyeur in 14 hours two weeks later. The following season he did the traverse Chamonix to Zermatt. He not only was an ardent apostle for skiing, but also for its physical benefits. Skiing was seen as liberating Chamonix folk from the servitude of the snow, bringing health and renewal. As Payot wrote in 1907 in La Montagne, Chamonix residents of all ages were taking to the sport enthusiastically. It was life in the open air. It was impossible, wrote Payot, “when one has got the blood going and the lungs full of pure air to endure the nauseous atmosphere of double-windowed houses.”  It was the end of anemia by confinement. Living was being aerated and sun-drenched, and this, better than thirty ministerial changes in the government, would bring both moral and physical benefits.

It was to youngsters, though, that the French government leadership looked, “impetuous and fecund youth which is little by little declining; they all come to ask of the sun and the pure air power for the days to come or the courage to replace what the days past have extinguished.” There was a strain of romantic desperation sounded as the ominous possibilities of armed conflict between France and Germany turned to probabilities on the eve of World War I. Pour la Patrie per la Montagne took on new significance in the years leading up to the declaration of war in 1914. The French Alpine Club organized L’Oeuvre de la Planche de Salut to provide free skis for mountain children. Few would miss the double meaning of Planche de Salut—these skis were not merely healthy boards but they were also boards of last resort, as one might throw out to a drowning swimmer.  In a few years the children “will make a marvelous army of skiers perfectly trained and ready to defend the soil of the fatherland if needed.”

 “Today,” wrote one of the very few critics of the idea of mingling the ideals of sport and war, “it is not only correct but elegant to be patriotic. The wealthy…add snobbism to their personal pleasure in the aid of national defense, even of the regeneration of the race.”

But a patriotic attitude rather than irony held sway generally. The enthusiasm for fitness manifest in the French Alps, was echoed equally in the Jura, where the earliest sports organization was the “Vélo-Club,” founded in 1892, followed by the “Union Athlétique Morézienne” whose manifesto referred to skiing as “an excellent means of social hygiene.” The sick and the tourists came to the little towns of the Jura “to find repose and health in the mountains and the forests of fir.”

As proclaimed in Savoy, the French needed regenerating because of the squalid conditions of the cities. “Alcoholism, venereal disease and tuberculosis continue death’s work,” was one Savoy doctor’s summation in 1906.

The “air cure,” especially for weak children, was promoted in Chamonix. There puny mites were being turned into robust little fellows by sport and sun well prior to the onset of the Great War. Chamonix’ Dr. Servettaz claimed he required only two months to make children “stronger, with larger chests and lungs, muscles more solid and dense, blood more rich.” Chamonix’s high altitude was widely credited with increasing appetite as well as being good for sleeping.

A Mirroir article in 1914 carried a photo of tracks leading straight to a snowy peak with the skier victorious on top. The caption praised the true alpinist who forgoes the easy pleasures of luge and skeleton and who “with will power, courage, endurance, a strong heart, and fighting white vertigo, specializes in great ascents.” These physical and mental attributes, it was widely believed, would carry Frenchmen to victory in the oncoming battles of World War I. In the midst of the war, the French Alpine Club publicly speculated that one possible positive aspect of the war was that it would exercise a happy influence on general health. Whether it did is immeasurable.

Still, the Ministry of War in 1920, two years after the Armistice had been signed, recognized the French Alpine Club as the organization promoting “physical instruction and preparation for military service” by giving CAF a ten-thousand franc subsidy. Tourism and national health, however, had  by then become of more immediate concern than military preparedness. France was urged “to win the peace.” The National Tourist Office, the Ministry of War, the French railroad companies, and syndicats d’initiative all involved themselves deeply in the “future of tourism in France and the development of the race by the cult of sport.”

After the war as well, France’s mountain communities turned the number one national health problem to advantage. In the generation before the advent of antibiotics, tuberculosis killed off French citizens by the tens of thousands. In 1926, it was responsible for some 20% of all French deaths—almost 150,000. Since the only known effective cure was to dwell for considerable length of time in cold, clear mountain air, mountain villages began to bloom with “cure hotels” for tuberculosis patients. The extensive services required by the sanitariums busied villagers profitably in supplying the services required.

The tuberculosis bonanza, paradoxically, could have driven off healthy tourists. The French government, to meet this threat, distributed subsidies to the mountain villages agreeing to stringent conditions for hoteliers in order to separate patients and tourists. In Mégève, for example, all visitors in 1932 had to present a doctor’s certificate, attesting that they were free of the contagion.

The village of Passy went at the problem by dividing itself into two zones: between 1,000 and 1,400 meters, “cure hotels” and pensions catering to the tubercular received guests under medical supervision. The sick were barred from the second zone, within the village itself. As a result of the quarantine approach,  tourists continued to come. In the twenty-five years between 1914 and 1939, Mégève grew from a village with three hotels to a town with 66 hotels—from 140 beds to 2,400.

 Enter the Olympic presence: Winter Olympics had been contemplated since 1899 but had always run up against Sweden’s Colonel Balck, the promoter of the Nordiska Spelen.  His friend, Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the modern Olympic Games and president of the International Olympic Committee, was not especially noted for his keen interest in skiing. He had been impressed with Balck’s Games (particularly the military skijoring races) run every four years, and did not give much thought to trying to incorporate skiing into the Olympic program, in spite of what he said at Chamonix in 1924. He believed, in 1908, that skiing had a “hygienic value of the highest order” and called it “the best medicine for tuberculosis and neurasthenia.”  However, he was often invited to join the Honorary Committee of CAF’s meets.

After the war, Chamonix was also growing apace in the twin categories of health center and ski station, particularly the latter. It developed the best lifts and the most expert terrain and was, in that sense, the country’s most prestigious ski village. Chamonix in particular and the French in general had acquired an infrastructure and the experience needed to host ever larger winter competitions—both accumulated beginning in the prewar governmental programs concerned with health, war and tourism. The climax of all this effort came in 1924 when Chamonix was chosen as the site of what became in retrospect authorized as the First Winter Olympic Games. It had not been easy. The Scandinavians had opposed joining the Olympics for years. Coubertin was never an advocate and in 1920 believed that “les sports d’hiver sont douteux,” (winter sports are doubtful) as he penciled in on one protocol. The IOC felt increasing pressure to award the 1924 Games to France, “victor and martyr” of World War I. CAF threw its weighty support behind the proposals for winter games. Meanwhile the Scandinavians sent a warning to the IOC that if skiing were included, they would not attend. At its meeting in Lausanne in 1922, the IOC decided that there would be Games under its patronage but they were not to be thought of as “Olympic” and “champions had no right to medals.” The Games, then, were to be considered as merely an extension of CAF’s International Sporting Weeks that had begun at Mont Genèvre in 1907. The Scandinavians did not approve of this but went along with the contract signed with Chamonix (Gérardmer and Superbagnières were mildly considered) on February 20, 1923 since they were assured that they would not be Olympic Games. “It is absolutely essential,” wrote Siegfrid Edström, the Swedish President of the IOC to the French representative Baron W. de Clary, “that the Winter Games do not take on the character of the Olympic Games,” but to characterize them as “international” would ensure Norwegian, Swedish and Finnish participation.” All parties involved kept this international, as opposed to Olympic, front while the Games were in preparation. The Winter Sports Week was “not an integral part of the Olympic Games,” confirmed Fratz-Reichel, the Secretary of the Committee overseeing the plans and installations at Chamonix. As the opening of the Games drew closer, the difference between an international sports week and a Winter Olympic Games became increasingly blurred, even in the Executive Committee of the IOC. In effect, France’s immense turn-of-the-20^th century concern with the deteriorating health of its mountain villagers, its efforts to create a healthy population for military preparedness in the first instance, and a desire for profitable mountain tourism as a second priority led to a much grander concept. The mounting of ever more grand ski tournaments readied France in general and Chamonix in particular to produce what amounted to the First Winter Olympics, retrospectively granted that status by the IOC in 1925.

The uneasy beginnings of Winter Olympics at Chamonix continued to plague the Games in 1928. The Norwegian Ski Association voted 29 for participation, 27 against—hardly a vote of confidence for the Winter Olympics. Not one European had faith that the United States could pull off a successful ski meeting at Lake Placid in 1932. At the end of those ill-attended games, the Technical Committee of the FIS sent a stinging rebuke to Godfrey Dewey. In many ways it was remarkable—considering the politics of the 1930s—that the Winter Games survived the Nazi extravaganza at Garmisch-Partenkirchen in 1936. And then the Second World War put Olympic competition on hold for the duration.

Following the war, the Winter Games increasingly took on a powerful life of its own, particularly after it became fueled by television funding. It is now that huge international undertaking quadrennially riveting the attention of the world’s sports-minded.

The focus has changed drastically. Modern Winter Olympic commentators never hazard the thought that the Winter Olympics are put as a marvelous engine for producing a healthier world population or that these Games constitute fine physical conditioning for potential infantrymen. The theme of the Winter Games (and of the Summer Games as well) has become something altogether different, standing in as a benign substitute for war between nations, a sublimation of future Hiroshimas one hopes will never happen.

Today’s Winter Olympics is an exponentially-growing entity producing ever-larger spectacles for the world’s entertainment, achieving ever-greater complexity within its competitions and attracting ever-larger portions of the world’s attention during those weeks every four years when it is being held on the television screens of the world. In retrospect, it exhibits a wondrously paradoxical contrast to that long-ago series of modest French Alpine Club ski competitions from which those first Winter Games were born three generations ago.

• Raclette: Slices of Raclette cheese are melted in small pans, then eaten with boiled potatoes, pickles and dried meats. 
• Fondue Bourguignon, meat dipped in boiling butter and oil fat to cook, then in a Bearnaise sauce.
• Tartiflette (aka Reblochonnade). Thinly sliced potatoes sautéed with bacon and onions, moistened with cream, laid over Reblochon cheese, then baked in oven.
• Kasnoken (spaetzle with melted cheese.)
• Farcement, a Savoyard dish. Potato cake with bacon, raisins, prunes.
• Diots a la Braise. Sausage made up of pork and vegetables and cooked in embers of a wood fire. Served with fried polenta.
• Civet de Chamois des Alpes. Marinated chunks of mountain goat meat, melted lard, carrots, onions, crème fraiche. Fried and then cooked in oven at low temperature.
• Classic Apfel Strudel.