Lost and Alone in the French Alps

Looking back, I can trace some of my life’s biggest adventures to a simple action from my sister. She’d introduced me to Tommy (a very long time ago), a colleague of hers, who had overshared his penchant for Italian-looking women, and I ticked that box.

Our romance moved along rapidly, as he wined and dined me and introduced me to his tight-knit family. After only a month or so into our coupledom, Tommy invited me to join him on a Christmas skiing trip along with his sister, Rosie, her husband, Greyson, their teenage son, Brody, and their stroppy nine-year-old daughter, Scarley. She didn’t really talk that much, just scowled a lot.

I had been living with my sister and working full-time, but my salary wasn’t on the plump side, and so Tommy suggested I move in with him to help me save for the trip. I happily moved into his gorgeous flat down by the coast. Skiing is an expensive activity, and I needed to cover my ski lessons, lift pass, and ski hire. I asked friends if I could borrow salopettes and other winter gear; nothing wrong with second-hand outfits, and I needed a helping hand.

Brody, being brought up within a privileged environment, had a posh but catty tongue and was openly sarcastic about everything, including his mother’s old-fashioned attire. He even turned to Tommy and me well before the trip, during a summer lunch, and bitched, “I can’t wait to see what Oxfam gear you both will be wearing!”

I was mortified by this remark as Oxfam means charity, and that meant he was looking down on us. Tommy just laughed it off, nothing bothered him, but I was shamed so much in my younger years, that I felt some pressure in joining a skiing jolly with Tommy’s wealthy family.

But I’d never been skiing before, and although somewhat nervous about the ‘rich tribe’ side, I was bubbling with excitement. The trip sounded so joie de vivre. I was on cloud nine imagining the exhilaration of gliding down white snowy runs, the après ski, the connection of a new group of people who loved life, and lived life to the full, with no expense spared.

I couldn’t wait!

Christmas Day arrived, and we’d planned to drive to the ski resort in France after Christmas lunch. I met more of Tommy’s relatives in Tommy’s brother’s stunning home, and being the new girlfriend, I felt a little like the guest of honour. I tried to be me but felt I would be ‘found out’. I was comparing myself again.

It was time to set off, and so the six of us climbed into Greyson’s Mercedes Estate, with Scarley solemnly jumping into the rear bench seat, and off we headed for the long, ten or eleven-hour drive. Tommy decided to entertain us, singing lots of funny rhymes and songs. We arrived exhausted but relieved.

Méribel ski resort is part of Les 3 Vallées, and one of the world’s largest interconnected ski areas. It has about seventy marked slopes and pistes, offering around 150km of runs suitable for all levels. There are approximately 8 green runs for beginners, 30 blue runs, which are easier to navigate, 24 red runs for the intermediate skier, and about 9 black runs for the expert skier.

I would be sticking to the green runs for now, and possibly the blue — the blacks sounded like death to me.

But first, I had to get my boots and skis sorted and get to my ski lesson. I had booked a lesson for each morning; I wasn’t able to even stand up on the first morning, and that was after trying to learn how to walk in my ski boots before I’d even attached my skis. I would have felt like Bridget Jones had that film premiered three years sooner.

How many times I fell and cried; I lost count. But I was an agile learner and was skiing as if I owned it by the second afternoon. I discovered I had one big disadvantage, and that was: there was no snow that year, and so the runs became pure ice! I was parallel skiing in no time, after finding out this was a better way to not fall over, and it looked a lot cooler than the snow plough.

Day three, and I was able to join the group. Everyone had a map, but not me; I had zero maps, and the 90’s phones weren’t all that; we didn’t bother with them. Tommy had a map, and so he was my map, as well as Rosie and her old-fashioned bright yellow onesie. It happened to be one of the outfits Brody took the piss out of, but it came in handy this time — I just had to follow it. And to be fair, no one could miss that suit; it was in your face, YELLOW.

I couldn’t believe it; I was skiing effortlessly, even with some grace; Tommy was impressed and said I was a natural. Greyson didn’t have much to say, apart from a permanently raised eyebrow. Scarley never said anything, and Brody constantly mocked everyone.

I was just happy that I wasn’t crashing into other skiers as much as I had the day before; I had learned how to say ‘shit’ in French, but I always remembered the rule: look over your right shoulder to check for others when changing course, otherwise I’d be saying ‘merde’ a lot more often.

I kept a mantra of instructions going through my head, as well as making sure my vision stuck on Rosie’s back and her bright yellow suit. Skiing felt magnificent; I was free, and it felt wonderful; the crunch of snow beneath my skis and my cheeks stinging from the cold, clean air.

I was aware that the crowd of skiers in front of me started to thin out. With so many offshoots, skiers had forked off onto different runs. I had noted the few red and black routes in the area I was now in, but I felt safe as I knew my group were mindful that I was only a beginner, and I trusted their knowledge and experience.

As I looked up again at the yellow suit ahead of me, I gulped. I suddenly realised, with great panic, it wasn’t Rosie! I quickly looked around me, anxiously searching for Tommy and any other familiar face, but there wasn’t one person I knew. I had followed the wrong yellow suit for I don’t know how long, but it was too long, and the group were well and truly gone.

What do I do? Don’t panic. I panicked; I had no idea how to get down to the bottom, where the runs end up at the base of Méribel Centre. I remember passing a black run at one point, but there was no way I was able to ski down in one piece with my beginner abilities, plus I didn’t have a map, and it wouldn’t have meant anything to me, being my first time skiing.

I was completely and utterly lost, and as I continued to ski, fear washed over me. I tried not to freeze up from panic, but it was hard not to feel frightened, and as I looked around me for any signs, other skiers became more and more scarce.

As I slowly skied on, I found myself in an off-piste area that was a desolate, deep snow-covered terrain. I soon realised it must have been near the Altiport area; I was able to hear the drone of a small aircraft’s engine in the vicinity of the large, empty, unpatrolled expanse. I had ended up in another world with not one human in sight, and it felt like the back of beyond. I had no local knowledge and no understanding of what was safe and what wasn’t.

My chest was tight.

My brain scrambled to think what to do, and as the time moved on, I knew I wouldn’t be able to think my way out of my predicament. I needed help. The light started to dim as the afternoon began to turn, and I knew that I was powerless and had no way of finding my way out of my frightening dilemma.

After an hour or so, I was going to have to accept that I might end up spending the night there while a search party was sent out, and would they be able to even find me — the snow-covered area was so vast and hidden, along with the trees and hedgerows that framed and darkened the edges as the day got darker.

I silently prayed, asking God, ‘What shall I do?’ A little later, out of nowhere, I could just about make out two women at the perimeter of the terrain, walking in a ridge just beyond a scanty thicket of trees. I called out to them, desperately hoping they could hear me, being so far away. I continued to call out for help and slowly tried to make my way over in their direction.

Thankfully, after some time had passed, they spotted me; if it had been just a little later in the day, it would have been too dark for us to see each other.

When I finally reached them, I tried to explain, but not being fluent in French, I was unable to verbalise how I got to be there: even I didn’t know how I got to be there. Somehow, they understood I was lost, perhaps because of my anxious mannerisms, but more to do with where we were: in the middle of nowhere!

They spoke in a little pidgin English, telling me, “You are very lucky, no one ever comes here, it is very rare. You ARE lucky we are here and saw you!”

The relief in my chest was huge.

I used a lot of gesticulating to see if they could show me how to get to the bottom, although I didn’t know how I would manage it as it got darker, and I was tired too. They guided me to their beaten-up white Renault and drove me to the base; it was quite a drive. I was flooded with happiness when I recognised where I was and, full of gratitude, thanked them a hundred times, and, clicking my skis back on, found my way back to the meeting point.

In the near evening light, I could make out Greyson standing alone, and as I skied up to him, the tension and fear, as well as the relief, caught up with me, and I burst into tears and told him the short version of what happened.

He showed no emotion or surprise.

That must have been the toff in him I’d thought at the time, but it’s a story that has continued to be talked about with my daughter, for many years, with its magical ending. She loves hearing it.

To this day, I am almost certain that those two women were angels. I knew in my gut when I found myself in that deserted area that no one went there, and I don’t know how I got there, but I thank God for sending me human compassionate angels who drove me all the way down to the bottom.

Adventures are unpredictable, that’s why they are called adventures. Nowadays, I like to stay in my comfort zone, yet in our comfort zone, we aren’t able to create stories. And the world loves our stories.

Years later, Rosie left Greyson. He turned out to be a cold-hearted narcissist and had been since the day she married him. I had seen that throughout that skiing trip. Even after almost a decade of leaving him, he still gives her hell and turned Scarley against her. It’s all about money and status.

Over the years, I began to see how their money wasn’t so great after all. It didn’t make them better people; it destroyed them and turned them into angry people.

And I now understand why he hadn’t reacted to the fear I had experienced as a brand-new skier all those years ago.

It didn’t put me off skiing, though.

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