The Magic Mountain

Author: By Alan Behr, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, January 10, 1999

Page: L1

Section: Travel

INTERLAKEN, Switzerland -- It's not a typical ski vacation you begin by introducing yourself over the phone to the chief oncologist at the leading hospital of Switzerland. My wife, Julie, was in the middle of chemotherapy after surgery for breast cancer. Her doctor in New York, a man of both eminence and wisdom, had counselled her not to go abroad while under treatment. ``I'm going,'' she told him. ``Let's figure out how.''

In cancer therapy, as in much of medicine, a positive attitude is integral to healing. So, with a letter detailing Julie's treatment, and with a list of telephone and fax numbers of the Swiss doctors and nurses I'd contacted, away we went. The question was, could Julie ski Switzerland without developing serious complications?

The Victoria-Jungfrau Hotel stretches across the main street of Interlaken, on a plain between two lakes. The town is only two short train rides from the ski slopes of the Jungfrau region and five minutes by foot from three patisseries. The local hospital is good, and we could be at the country's top facility in one hour. The hotel has a gourmet restaurant, a spa, an indoor pool, several saunas, and a steamy saltwater whirlpool that could be taken outdoors in winter. We wouldn't lose even if we didn't ski.

Indeed, rain was falling on our first ski day. Visibility was so bad, we lost the view from our hotel windows of such distant but substantial objects as the Jungfrau, an alp cresting at 13,642 feet. The concierge, a prudent man and avid snowboarder, politely suggested we take a swim and book a masseuse. Julie responded the only way she knew how: She broke out her foul-weather goggles and ordered a private ski guide.

Two years before, Ueli Schick had given up a career in life insurance to return to his first loves: carpentry (in the summer) and skiing. As a master carpenter, he was certified to build an entire chalet; as a guide and instructor with the Swiss Ski School, he was certified to take a cancer patient and her husband along slopes covered with clouds so dense, you could see only one or two traverses in front of you. He loaded our skis into his car and drove us to the cog train that carried us skyward.

The Jungfrau region is composed of three ski areas: Grindelwald-First, Kleine Scheidegg-Maennlichen, and Muerren-Schilthorn. The latter was difficult enough for James Bond and party (in the film ``On Her Majesty's Secret Service''). Grindelwald had proved just difficult enough for this intermediate skier to crash and dislocate his right thumb (in 1990), resulting in a hard-learned lesson on icy conditions and a notably cranky travel article.

That left Kleine Scheidegg, where, Ueli assured us, the snow was now the best in the region. We started from the lifts on the mountain terminus of our cog train. The rain of Interlaken was falling here as snow. On each run, Ueli went down first, cutting a path through the powder for Julie. I took up the rear so I could reach Julie quickly if she fell. She didn't. She was great.

I was dressed too warmly and had chosen a heavy set of parabolic skis before the storm had hit. Turning in them in new snow was like lifting barbells attached to my legs. Three times I slid into deep powder; on the last occasion, Julie and Ueli had to wait while I dug snow like a hound dog in turf, searching for a buried pole.

By the late afternoon, I had grown so fatigued, Julie had to come to my aid, skiing behind me in case I fell, carrying my poles to the train. Ueli bought me mineral water and a package of raisin sugar supplements -- for fast energy.

The next morning, the western sky was royal blue, fading into a wisp of white over the mountains to the east. Fir-tree branches bent under loaves of snow, and the cog train chugged past the flour-white village of Wengen. The man next to me saw it as a painting: ``Wengen in Snow,'' he called it.

I was on regular skis this time, the slopes were nicely groomed, and I wore less clothing. With that patience and skill uniquely Swiss, Ueli worked with Julie, and her form noticeably improved. I got through the day upright.

The cooperative weather brought skiers from all over, leading to bottlenecks at the lifts, where, each time you board, you have to bend over, stick the ski pass around your neck into a validator, and waddle ignominiously through a turnstile. Fortunately, the runs are long, topographically varied and, on this occasion, were perfectly covered in freshly packed snow.

Two days without mishap made us so confident, we gave up our comfortable room at the Victoria-Jungfrau, bade a pained farewell to its whirlpool and saunas, and moved to Wengen to be closer to the slopes.

It was the British who, in the 19th century, made the area a travel destination. The desk clerks at our hotel, the Regina, were British and Irish, as were the guests, many of whom, in groups of between six to eight, come annually. The house pianist was a Scotsman who played clever medleys of Beatles, blues, and variations on a theme from Beethoven's ``Fifth Piano Concerto.''

Every evening, after dinner, the regulars turned the lobby into the living room of a country house. They filled the numerous comfy chairs and love seats, playing cards and board games, reading, stoking the fire, authoring phrases like ``Please, could I have another gin, but no tonic'' in perfect Oxford accents -- every ``h'' voiced, every ``girl'' pronounced ``gairl.''

A Scotsman showed up on ``gala night'' in black tie and kilt, inspiring a husky Englishman to draw near and declare, ``I just have to tell you, that is so smart.''

Julie and I were the only Americans. The two Swiss couples sought us out and made friends: Together with a brace of taciturn Japanese men, we were a ``foreign'' contingent.

In the Victoria-Jungfrau, the sign on the main sauna said to ``enter naked,'' in which state two Englishwomen had gotten as far as the door until they realized it was mixed sex. The sauna at the Regina played by British rules: Bathing suits or towels must be worn at all times, please. That satisfied the many Englishwomen but imposed upon the Japanese and Swiss -- and my wife, who is confident in her beauty, cancer or no.

With Ueli to guide her each day, I could see Julie making that transition from beginner to intermediate skier: The movements grew fluid and came with that ease which betrays second nature -- as when a toddler begins to walk like an adult.

Ueli took us higher this time, to Maennlichen, which is served by four lifts. It is crowned by an enormous restaurant and by an open patch for helicopters and for yellow airplanes that perform a free-fall stunt to please masochistic passengers, then land uphill on skis. The Dutchman sharing our table at lunch said he'd gone flying on skis, breaking his collarbone. We overheard the names of two celebrity ski fatalities, Michael Kennedy and Sonny Bono, mentioned in hushed German dialogue.

But for the final day on the mountain, Julie said goodbye to Ueli. It was time to brave it alone, she said.

The snow of the early week was melting now, turning to slush in the afternoons -- to water in patches. Something had come over Julie, however, and she skied better than I have seen her ski in three years on the Alps.

Was it the mountain air? The exercise? The Dole wine and the dessert buffet? Perhaps. I think, however, they were only contributing factors. The engine driving Julie's recovery was her spirit.

It was Fasnacht -- carnival -- when we arrived in Zurich. I remembered the Mardi Gras of my New Orleans adolescence: festive, licentious, and, by the end, just plain filthy. In Zurich, parading musical groups dressed as goblins, flowers, and sprites, peppering onlookers with sweets and biodegradable confetti. They entered the restaurants at night; at the normally staid Kronenhalle, I fulfilled a childhood Mardi Gras wish by playing along to Dixieland on tambourine. In nine trips to Switzerland, I'd never had so much fun.

After a week of skiing and Carnival, Julie was finally starting to show fatigue. We took our quiet, final meal at our hotel, the Spluegenschloss, and were greeted by the owner and his amazingly pretty Austrian wife. In 36 hours, Julie would be back in chemotherapy. ``How are you doing?'' I asked as the dessert cart wheeled closer.

She eyed the tiramisu with approbation and gave me the thumbs up.

That's the spirit.

Staying and dining there: Doubles at the Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel & Spa start at $290 per night; spa packages are available. The hotel's gourmet restaurant, La Terrace, offers traditional meals and ``Cuisine Minceur,'' a diet program of four-course dinners in the 600-calorie range. Dinner for two with a bottle of wine costs about $150. Call The Leading Hotels of the World at 800-223-6800.

At the smaller Hotel du Nord, just down the road, doubles in ski season start at $200. Its intimate restaurant, Im Gade, charmingly served us the most enjoyable meal of our Alpine stay. At $90 with a bottle of Dole, it was also the best dinner bargain we've had during three trips together to Switzerland. Telephone 822-26-31; fax 823-33-37. (Dialing prefix for the region from North America: 011-41-33.)

In Wengen: the Hotel Regina has doubles with breakfast and dinner for $280 per night; weekly plans available. Phone 855-15-12; fax 855-15-74. Similar: Hotel Restaurant Caprice, telephone 855-41-41; fax 855-41-44.

Given flight times and the distance of the airport from Wengen, figure on spending your final night in Zurich, which we have done several times and always enjoy. On this trip, we stayed at the relaxing Spluegenschloss, in the city's former Jewish quarter, dining well and quizzing each other on the pronunciation of Spluegenschloss. A double goes for $225 on the weekend and dinner runs about $150 for two, with wine. Call Relais & Chateaux in New York: 212-856-0115.

Ski lessons and rentals: Near Interlaken: Alpin Rent and Swiss Ski School Wilderswil, both run by Heini Zurbuchen; telephone 823-55-23; fax 822-30-19. Skis for a week are $125. An instructor/guide like Ueli Schick costs $200 a day and is worth it.

If you are under medical treatment: Listen to your doctor and work with him. Ask what potential complications may arise from your illness and treatment, what care might be required, and where it can be received. When Julie's doctor confirmed that she needed to stay near a medical facility skilled in caring for chemotherapy patients, we shifted our venue from Zermatt, which is relatively inaccessible, to Interlaken, where skilled care was within reach. In short, don't take unnecessary risks, but enjoy yourself.

-- ALAN BEHR AND JULIE HACKETT