The Hornberg

Extract

Above the col at Saanenmoser there is a mountain called the Hornberg, which the skiers love. The beginners practise all day on its lower fields of snow—’ the nursery slopes they call it, where it is steep straight going and no traps or pitfalls. Higher up there are the dark green fir-forests, and above them again the highest fields slope upwards towards the summit, dazzling white against the blue. On either side below the col the valleys wind away among a sea of mountains, on one side into the heart of Switzerland, on the other towards the Lake of Geneva and the mountains of Savoy.

I had often climbed the hard snowy track up the Hornberg in the early afternoon and run down on skis across the wide easy slopes. It was a jolly friendly mountain, its snow alive with skiers, its silence broken by voices, the upward path marked by occasional huts and chalets, the snow crossed and re-crossed all the way up with the tracks of innumerable skis. The skiers have familiarly named certain places: such as ‘Devil’s Gap,’ slippery with ice under the trees, through which the beginners slither and slide, and ‘Major’s Corner,’ the difficult path through the wood which some old Major was supposed to have made famous with his perpetual falls. It seemed to be a mountain entirely dedicated to mankind, too good-natured to resent the invaders, and appearing to achieve a perfect friendliness by sacrificing something of its dignity. The neighbouring peaks were too high for frequent ascents, and kept their terrors and austere secrets apart.