I’ll confess: I fell out of love with skiing, a very long time ago. Not with the snow, nor the mountains—just the click-clack of lifts, the queues, the way mass tourism carves up the landscape. But winter? Winter remains pure magic.
A few years ago, I discovered the quiet thrill in moving against the flow—in running up a ski slope step by step, while others zip downhill. No lift ticket, no rush. Just the steady rhythm of your breath, the crunch of snow underfoot, and the mountains slowly pulling you into their embrace.
Walking up pistes has become my winter ritual. Along the edges, I find my own cadence. With each ascent, the connection grows deeper. The mountain reveals itself differently when you earn every meter: the way light filters through frosted pines, the distant laughter of skiers fading into wind, the satisfaction of turning to gaze at the valley—knowing you climbed here on your own strength. No downhill rush can match this. It’s not just exercise; it’s a conversation with the Alps, one deliberate step at a time.
And when I get to the highest point of the skiing area, the fun isn’t even over. I take out my featherlight inflatable snowshoes that fold to nothing in my pack. With a few breaths, they become my winter wings. The moment I strap them on, the rules change. Suddenly, I'm not limited to packed slopes anymore. I step beyond the boundaries, into the untouched snowfields where every footprint is the first of the season.
Winter’s Secret Trails
Spiked wanderings: With elastic crampons, ice loses its terror. Frozen streams, hidden valleys, and unsigned paths turn into invitations.
Sled routes & footpaths: Many resorts groom trails for winter hikers—lonelier, slower, with views skiers race past.
Snowshoes for the wild: When powder swallows trails, those lightweight inflatable platforms let you float. (And yes, it feels as poetic as it sounds.)
This is winter untamed: just the crunch of your steps, the mountains’ hush, and the occasional startled ptarmigan bursting from the snow. No lift ticket needed.
