An alpine sojourn

Deep snow - Cervinia, Italy

The Blizzard of 1978 dumped nearly three feet of snow on Southeastern New England in 33 hours. It is a searing event burned into Yankee lore.

Imagine a place that receives over 30 such “Blizzards of 1978” each and every year.

Cervinia, Italy, is located on the steep, southern slope of the Alps. The Matterhorn looms over the village, but its shape is a bit unfamiliar to us, the Italian visage, not the more familiar Swiss profile.

“Il Cervino,” the Italian name of the Matterhorn, looms nearly eight thousand feet above the village, which itself is at 6,700 feet. Cervinia served as a base of operations for alpine explorers who finally succeeded in 1865, after numerous deadly failures, in ascending the Italian side of the enormous 14,700-foot peak.

But we were here to ski.

Or so we thought, because upon our arrival, an enormous storm blew in from the North Atlantic, driving moisture across Ireland, England, France, and then up into the Alps where it was precipitated as heavy snow. For nearly three days, the ski slopes were closed due to high winds and deep snow. The road below the village was closed, and the outside world (and ski lift operators) were unable to reach us.

So we explored.

The first thing we noticed was the constant beehive of activity. From residents shoveling their doorsteps, to shop owners running snow blowers on their sidewalks, to huge diesel earthmovers dumping loads of snow into trucks to be carted off, everyone was in the snow removal business. Large, beefed up lawn tractors with front-end buckets cleared tight spaces in parking lots. Hotel employees cleared fire escapes of deep snow and chipped ice from the walks. Their energy was enormous.

We walked the small shopping district, ankle deep in snow in spite of a recent scraping. The snowfall was relentless. There was only one solution – an Italian bar.

Italian bars are unlike ours. Although they sell beer, wine, and liquor, the main attraction is the coffee and the food. They also tend to be smaller and brighter than ours, with large windows and bright lighting. But, oh my goodness, the food! Paninis, piadinas, salads, pizza slices, and more. And coffee – espressos and cappuccinos, lattes and macchiatos – the caffeine was absolutely levitating. It is difficult to describe the delicious result of these simple preparations.

We had found a particular bar that appealed to us. Operated by a mother and her son, they were efficient but kind, and patient with our pidgin Italian. Then we noticed that the local folks were among the frequent patrons. The mailman. The shopkeeper next door. The snowplow driver. This was not a typical tourist trap. And the quality of the food, and service, so attested.

Then, on day three, we skied. The lifts had been dug out and were running, the sun was bright, the sky was blue. It was time to head up the mountain.

After taking several lifts, we approached the ridge, at nearly 10,000 feet. Looking north, into Switzerland, we saw glaciers shot through with deep, blue, ice. To the south, Italy, with huge snowfields all above the tree line, and billowing fog in the valleys below. And above it all, the towering mass of Il Cervino, the Matterhorn. The vista was enormous, humbling.

And then we skied down, swooping and carving, feeling free as birds enjoying the sensation of flight. While there were many hundreds of other skiers on the mountain, it was so huge that we often saw no one, and absorbed the surrounding beauty in solitude. Descending, floating, thanking the mountain. These moments were spiritual, never to be forgotten.

The last day, another storm. So back to our Italian bar, for now the fourth time. Although the Italians don’t drink coffee with milk (lattes, cappuccinos), except in the morning, our now favorite barista didn’t criticize. After having paninis and several coffees, we told her, in pidgin Italian, that we were departing the next day. She held a hand to her heart, then reached out for a firm handshake and whispered, “Grazie!”

It was a too-short sojourn in northern Italy, to a locale that deals with 1,000 inches of snow each winter. The mountains were towering, the snowfields broad, the skiing intense, the glaciers immense.

But it was the people, the simple heart-to-heart contact, that mattered. We would return in a heartbeat.