Eiger mania

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10 April 2012

For ten years my husband, his brother, his wife and I had skied every year, the jaunts getting more daredevil with each passing season.

Black runs, powder fields, moguls, kite-skiing and ice-climbing have all featured.

My brother-in-law owns 18 pairs of skis and is a member of an online extreme skiing community, his nickname: Wildstyle'. But then things became complicated. We had children. Was it possible to maintain our rigorous approach to the slopes with the requirements of two toddlers?

Powder Byrne is a package travel company that promises to satisfy such contrary demands, its speciality being family ski trips.

Hence we were met at Zurich airport by a transfer bus complete with two baby seats and a cooler box containing Swiss sparkling wine.

The snow swirled from a grey sky as we sped up the Bernese mountains to Grindelwald. This charming little resort, with its immaculate, old-fashioned wooden chalets and ritzy hotels, is famous for one thing, the Eiger.

A cathedral of ice, snow and jagged rock, it looms above the village, its vertical north face con-sidered by many alpinists as Europe's toughest mountaineering test.

It has been the death of many climbers, yet still lures thousands to scrabble up its flanks every year and many more thousands to ski in its daunting shadow.

We had an exhilarating view of the mountain from our room in the Hotel Belvedere. This opened in 1907 and has been run by the Hauser family ever since.

They clearly know a thing or two, because the Belvedere is everything a winter residence should be: toasty warm, with good beds for aching limbs; walls lined with prints of people in antique ski gear; and an outdoor heated salt-water Jacuzzi.

It also has its own Powder Byrne crèche, where we dropped the girls at 9am the next morning.

Normally the ratio is one carer to every three children, but because it was quiet, Hebe and Louisa had one-on-one care, which meant we could happily zip off for our PowderZone day, a service newly introduced for the more intrepid skier, including off-piste action and avalanche training.

Our Swiss mountain guide, Ralph, had a face as deeply etched as the Eiger itself, which looked only slightly more benign under a blue sky. The Jungfrau region (which includes Grindelwald, Wengen and Murren) is extraordinarily picturesque.

The Swiss are excellent at ensuring their resorts don't impact too severely on the natural environment; so no Frenchstyle high-rises here, just cow byres (from which could be heard the tinkle of bells), unobtrusive lift stations and the occasional beer teepee.

After two years off with a baby, I had forgotten just how magical it can be to schuss along a freshly groomed pass surrounded by mountain pinnacles, snow particles glittering in the sun, and chamois skittering away into the trees.

Once Ralph had established our abilities on Grindelwald's wide and forgiving pistes, it was time for something more interesting. To ski on piste is like Mozart,' explained Ralph. Off-piste is more like AC/DC. It is dynamic, unexpected. Let's go.'

We bounced through some chopped-up snow on the edge of the piste with Gavin – aka Wildstyle – refusing to make any turns (turns are for wimps') and wearing his headcam so that his antics could be relayed to his friends online. We then traversed under the north face of the Eiger, which was even more terrifying at close range.

Whenever I see it, my hands itch to climb it,' said Ralph, before leading us down a field of fresh powder.

Back at the Belvedere, the babies fed, watered and sleeping, we had our own mountain to scale – a six-course dinner.

This gourmet extravaganza is served every night at the Belvedere and even we struggled to eat it, despite the exertions of the day. It included lobster soup, beef with sundried tomato risotto, crêpes with honey ice cream and fi nally a vast cheese board. I don't remember much after that.

Ralph's suggestion for the following day was ski touring (involving special skis that allow you to go uphill) through virgin snow to the top of a mountain and back.

Being the least daring (and able) of my family, I skied to the neighbouring resort of Wengen to watch the training for the Lauberhorn downhill instead. This event, which takes place every January, is probably the most famous ski race in the world.

In the absence of any British skiers, I gave my support to the American Bode Miller, who is famous for his extensive female fan base. And it was quite something to watch him in his shiny black Lycra, flying through the air over the Russi jump (named after the Swiss skier, Bernhard Russi).

No visit to Grindelwald is complete without a toboggan ride. The town is a toboggan mecca with, at 15km, the world's longest run. Having seen small Swiss children dragging their sleds around the town, I imagined this would be a gentle pastime. I realised how wrong I was when I saw that everyone else destined for the night-time floodlit Eiger run was wearing a helmet.

It soon became apparent why. On a toboggan you can't slow down, you can barely change direction; kamikaze drunks whizz past; bumps and ice and random mounds of snow must be negotiated.

We were all rather shaken by the time we stumbled into the Alpiglen restaurant, where a restorative vat of bubbling fondue awaited us, along with tumblers of kirsch. It was, we decided, the most dangerous thing we had ever done; and all the while the babies slept. Extreme motherhood, I realised, is possible after all.

Eiger mania

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