Europe: Switzerland's secret region

Author: By Anne Z. Cooke and Steve Haggerty, Globe Correspondents

Date: SUNDAY, November 8, 1998

Page: N8

Section: Travel

There had to be some reason that Des Diablerets Glacier, a massive hunk of ice on top of the Vaudois Alps, east of Lake Geneva, was named for the spirits of the dark. Clearly, the glacier of little devils was really a pussycat.

We'd already guessed that skiing in the canton of Vaud, where the language and culture are French, would be nothing like skiing in North America. Or even the rest of Switzerland. Now, watching our reactions, Jean-Francois Morerod, our guide for the day, chuckled.

``No cheeseburgers-to-go, today,'' said Morerod, who doesn't bother to check his watch even when he's skiing in America. ``Skiing here is not all go-go-go, hurry as fast as possible. In Switzerland, skiing is a way of life, a complete experience. The fresh air, the scenery, good food, enjoying the moment, all are part of the pleasure.''

A thick cake of compressed ice frosted with powder snow, the glacier lies at 10,500 feet on a massive headland above the village of Les Diablerets, in southwest Switzerland. From horizon to horizon, the snowcapped peaks of the Alps crowd the landscape, dominated by Dents du Midi, on the southern border, and Mont Blanc, in France.

A half-mile square, more or less, Des Diablerets slopes gently toward the valley, a benign snowfield disturbed only by long lines of ski lift towers and the periodic thuck-thuck-thuck of sightseeing helicopters dropping off skiers and snowboarders. Skiing the glacier is a unique experience, but a bit far to drive for skiers staying in Gstaad or Rougemont.

If you stay in Les Diablerets, you can ride up to the glacier on a series of cable cars and ski until mid-afternoon. For a late lunch, walk up to the hut near the Quille du Diable, a huge rock pinnacle, a good place to savor the sun and the scenery before skiing back to the valley.

Our ski trip began a few miles away in the village of Leysin, a family ski area popular with Europeans but virtually unknown to Americans. When we checked into the Classic Hotel, a functional but comfortable place, our bags were waiting, courtesy of Swissair's fly-rail service. The airline, part of the national transportation system, checks luggage straight through to its final destination, from plane to the train, and even to the hotel.

We'd brought boots but not skis, so we rented Rossignol Sidecuts from a shop near the lifts, the same model we'd tried at home. Back at the Classic, where the cheese-and-wine hour was going strong, conversations in English, Dutch, and French gave a clue about the ski groups checked in for the week.

The Classic and all Leysin's hotels and night spots survive on the ski and snowboard trade, gearing both menus and services to visitors. There are 50 restaurants and 20 night spots in town, but with few signs, you have to ask to find them.

Leysin has an unusual pre-ski history. Blessed with low humidity, the town was a convalescent center for tuberculosis patients in the 1940s. After drugs conquered the disease, the multistory sanitoriums perched on the hillside, their balconies facing the sun, gradually became hotels.

The next morning, we walked to the ski lifts with Philippe LaBarthe, an instructor who had agreed to guide us around the mountain. Riding up inside the ``telecabine,'' a small gondola, we had our first view of the runs we'd be skiing, and the 10 ski lifts -- gondolas, chairlifts and T-bars -- that rise toward the double summit, 7,692-foot Tour d'Ai, and 7,676-foot Tour de Mayen.

Surprisingly, few runs were cut through forests, running instead over broad open slopes, where skiers could ski on groomed trails, or venture off-piste.

``These are pastures under the snow,'' said LaBarthe. ``In the summer, farmers graze their cows as high up as grass will grow. There isn't much land in Switzerland, so people use it year around.''

Though Switzerland is only half the size of Colorado, about 50,900 square miles, the country is so densely covered with mountains that it seems immense. Snowcapped peaks stick up like shark's teeth, as far as the eye can see. But while there are countless places to ski, there are few big commercial resorts, as in the United States.

Instead, every mountain village installs four or five lifts on the closest peaks. Eventually, these ski areas overlap. As a result, you can start in any small village and ski over a huge area, riding up one lift, skiing down to the next, riding up the next mountain, and so on. For convenience, groups of villages sell interchangeable lift passes, also good on shuttle buses and trains.

After a leisurely three-course meal at Kuklos, the revolving all-glass restaurant at the Berneuse cable car, we skied down the bowl at the top of Chaux de Mont. Though families with kids seemed to be everywhere, it was still amazing to see so many toddlers at the very top. For Swiss youngsters, it seemed, skiing was as natural as walking.

For the last half of our ski trip, we moved to Les Diablerets, to the Eurotel Victoria, within walking distance of the lifts below the summit of Meilleret, a peak that loomed very tall from below, but was actually just 6,432 feet in elevation.

Once again we arranged for a guide, little knowing that the smiling young woman who showed up to meet us, Christelle Berreux, would lead us on an unforgettable marathon. When, by noon, we had skied most of the runs at Les Diablerets and half of those at Villars, the next ski area over (above the village of Villars), we began to look for a place to eat.

But no, Christelle had a special spot in mind and people she wanted us to meet. It sounded wonderful. After more runs at Villars, we skied and skied, farther and farther away, up and down, over ridges and into canyons, past the Gryon ski area, until finally we slid gratefully down to a quaint wood hut with a sunny deck, the Refuge de Frience.

Smells of cheese and potatoes floated out the door and skiers crowded tables loaded with plates, glasses, and half-empty bottles of wine. Meanwhile, waiters rushed from the kitchen, bearing salads, pasta, and pots of fondue. Joining Christelle's friends, we took over a picnic table and settled in.

Suddenly we realized it was late afternoon. The lifts would be closing soon. Skiing at full speed, we raced back toward Les Diablerets, pausing just long enough at each lift to ask the operator to phone ahead to the next lift and say we were coming.

That evening, we learned how the glacier got its name. According to legend, the mountain was once covered with alpine meadows, until one day, the good spirits who lived there abandoned it. Gradually, ice entombed the summit, and evil imps, ghosts, and devils took up residence.

In the old days, the villagers below often heard the devils moaning, during storms and before landslides. Occasionally, the devils played at bowls, tossing loose rocks over the cliffs. But lately, people say, the spirits have been silent. Now that they have skiers for company, they seem more content, even cheerful. And even the glacier is friendlier.