Kev Reynolds and the ice cave

It was mid-winter when I first went to work in the Alps, and I’d never seen snow like it. Snow covered everything; it hung in great baskets from the larch trees, lay heavy on rooftops, tipped in wave-like drifts over the edge of frozen rivers.

Everything outdoors was white; pure white. It was the purest white you could imagine, and it scrunched and squeaked underfoot when you walked on it.

I’d walk on it at night when my day’s work was done. I’d wander alone through the woods, my beard frozen into a block of ice within moments of stepping outside; the hairs inside my nostrils turning white and brittle like twigs, and when I stood still there was an almost complete absence of sound.

Living at 1800 metres in the Engadine Valley, I grew used to seeing half a metre of snow fall overnight. This was Switzerland and the buses and trains still ran on time. What’s more, after a big dump of snow neighbourhood peaks grew to Himalayan proportions. Who could complain at that?

There are four large lakes spread along the valley between Maloja and St Moritz, but you wouldn’t know it. Snow-carpeted ice concealed any still water, while mountains rose another 1500 metres or more on either side. The air was still, the sun shone and frosted diamonds sparkled wherever you looked. Some days it was so bright your eyes hurt even behind dark glasses. But it was a wonderland, and I couldn’t believe my luck in being there for the whole winter.

Mesmerised by its beauty

Born in the valley and having lived all his life there, you’d have thought my boss might be somewhat blasé about all this snow and its effect on the landscape; perhaps grumpy about winter and looking forward to summer. Not so. He was as mesmerised by its beauty as I was, and we’d often stand side by side at the kitchen door first thing in the morning, breathing the ice-tinged air deep into our lungs and sighing with the magic that filled every view.

I worked from about 7am until mid-day, then again in the evening from five until eight or nine. Most afternoons I’d be out skiing. I had second-hand skis that had seen better days, with bindings that would only hold my climbing boots after I’d cut a chunk of leather from their heels.

I couldn’t afford proper ski boots or up-to-date skis. So what! If I could get from the top of the mountain to the bottom without breaking a leg, as far as I was concerned fashion didn’t count for much.

My boss was a loveable rogue who took advantage of my youthful energy and disappeared whenever there was something physical that needed to be done. Except, that is, when he wanted to build an ice cave. That’s when he thought we’d make a good team.

Not far up valley there was a ski jump. They’d built one there for the 1948 Winter Olympics, and every year since they’d held a major competition using the latest incarnation of that original structure. It stood in a large clearing in the woods, so what could be a bit of an eyesore in summer was mostly hidden from view. In winter it sort of belonged. A bit like the ski tows and drag lifts on the hillsides that you’d overlook until the snow had gone and you then realised what ugly intrusions they were.

Ski jump competitors must have a death wish. I thought I had a head for heights, for rock climbing didn’t faze me, but when I climbed to the top of the launch-pad to have a look, my heart went into my mouth. Ski down that? No way!