The Sella Ronda is a 42-km ski circuit going around the Sella massif. It is a collection of lifts and runs that can be taken either clockwise (the "orange" route) or counter-clockwise (the "green" route) through four valleys and three provinces.
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| The ski route. |
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| Sella mountain, courtesy of Wikipedia. |
The entire route is supposed to be either easy or intermediate in both directions, so we chose the clockwise orange route at random. I didn't learn until later that, while they are approximately the same length, the orange route is considered "sportier and higher altitude," while the green route is slightly gentler.
Oops.
Day Three, Monday: Disaster
We started our journey at about 8:30 after an unsuccessful battle with the hotel's crappy internet. Joel was anxious at our late start because (as you can tell from the map), once you start and get far enough along, you are in a sticky spot if you can't finish by the time the lifts stop running around 5. Unlike Korea, Italy does not do night skiing. Once again, I was slow getting started, but by mid-morning I was doing okay. We were slightly behind schedule at lunch, since we'd only done about one third of the route, but we were optimistic that we'd be able to pick up the pace after a quick meal and be back in Canazei by five.
And then we got lost.
There are signs indicating the route for both Sella directions, but at some points it can be confusing to figure out which lift you are supposed to take to move on. Joel is a much better navigator, so I let him try to sort it out and I just followed...until, after battling down a hideously steep slope and wondering why something so difficult was on a supposedly intermediate route, I noticed the black signs and skidded to a stop.
"Joel!" I shouted. "This is a black run!"
"I know!"
"What do you mean, you know?!"
"We took a wrong turn somewhere!"
"What?!!" I slipped down the slope some more and fell over. Joel squinted grimly in the sun.
"We're lost. I got confused back there and took us on an alternate route. We have to finish this one and then I can get us back on track."
"Are you crazy?" I shrieked. "I can't ski down a black run!"
"Yes, you can," he insisted gently. "We have to."
"You don't understand! I can't!" And then, right there in the snow, I began to cry.
Somehow I got back on my feet and began to battle my way down. I am not ashamed to admit that it was extremely rough. I looked absolutely ridiculous, but about halfway through I gained some semblance of momentum and did something that looked like real skiing...so I suppose I can now say that I have actually skied on black runs. But as the sun beat down on us, it also melted the snow, and soon I noticed that everyone else was struggling, too. When I got to the final stretch and saw everyone falling down as they battled through the slush, the last of my courage evaporated. I watched Joel stumble and, for possibly the first time in my whole life, gave up on something completely. "Ai, foda-se," I muttered to myself in Portuguese. "Vou não."
I took off my skis, unlooped my poles from my wrists, and proceeded to slide down the slope - on my ass. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Joel shout, "Are you serious?!" but at that point nothing mattered. I giggled at the sheer absurdity of it, imagining how ridiculous I must have looked to the dozens of skiiers on either side of me.
At one point, a German speaking woman approached me and kindly made an unintelligible suggestion in German. Through a series of gestures I figured out that she was offering to take my skis down for me. "Okay, va bene," I said. Upon seeing her confusion, I switched from Italian to the ten words in German that I know. "Ist gut," I assured her. She nodded, took the skis, and took off. "Danke!" I shouted after her.
"Bitte!" she replied.
I walked/slid the rest of the way down and finally found Joel, who had ordered two coffees for us at a restaurant at the base of the slope. We made our way back to the slope, wondering if we could somehow finish the circuit in time, but after failing three times to get on a chairlift and struggling down a bunny slope, I knew it was over. We jumped into a cab and took a very scenic (and ridiculously expensive) ride back to our hotel in Canazei. In silence, we put up our gear and hobbled back to the room.
I know when I am beaten, but somehow it didn't take the edge off of the defeat. I collapsed into bed and sobbed.
Bitterly, I marveled at how I could have been so pathetic at something that, strictly speaking, I wasn't even all that bad at. I kicked myself for letting memories of learning feed my fears and insecurity. I hated myself for letting my fear of heights paralyze me. I writhed in self-pity on the soft down comforter of the bed in our four-star hotel. Joel handed me a glass of grappa and put a gentle hand on my back. "Jessica," he said gently, "let me tell you a story." I sat up.
"When I came here the first time and took lessons, it snowed the night between our first and second days. The first day I did alright on the bunny slope, but there was six inches of powder on the slopes the next morning - which is great if you're experienced, but really hard if you're a beginner, because you sink into it. I struggled all day, and at the end we were supposed to do that run down to Pecol - you know the one, with the really steep bit at the very end. I didn't finish."
I sniffed. "You couldn't do it?"
He shook his head. "I was terrible. I couldn't turn correctly, I kept falling down, and at the end I looked down that slope and just knew that I was going to die." He smiled.
I stared at the amber-colored liquor. "And you still came back?"
"Yeah. I was determined to come back and try again." He stroked my hair and smiled. "I know you can do this - we can even get you more lessons back home, so you can work on overcoming what you're afraid of. You'll get better. It just takes practice."
Day Four, Tuesday: Success, of Sorts
We started off the last day with more modest goals: to do a portion of the Sella going in the opposite direction, and then to turn around at lunch and make our way back the way we came. Despite a slightly later start, we made good time and decided to forge ahead. By lunch, we were halfway around, so we decided to try to push through, reasoning that we could always take another scenic (and expensive) cab ride home if it didn't work out. We continued at a decent pace, however, and finally made the full circuit. I was exhausted by the end - my legs simply would not obey me, and I probably slid pizza-style through the entire last kilometer - but somehow I finished.
That trip was probably enough skiing to last me for the rest of the year.
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