La Grave- and the craziest downhill race in the world- the Derby De La Meige
Written: Dec 02 '99
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Product Rating:
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Pros: If you have backcountry skills- this place must be visited in your lifetime. and the Derby rules.
Cons: dangerous if you know nothing about backcountry skiing.
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| kristenulmer's Full Review: La Meije-La Grave |
I'm not being hunted by attack dogs. I'm not the screaming, reckless star of some cheap horror flick. Actually, I'm racing in the Derby de la Meije, at La Grave, France. It's a 7000 vertical-foot ungroomed downhill race through death chunks, crevasses, frozen debris and rock hard moguls. There are only two gates, one at the start, one at the finish.
It feels like a horror show though. I'm gasping like a Texan at altitude and going so fast my face is starting to peel back. Abort! Abort! I screech to a halt and start rubbernecking crazily. Where the hell AM I?! There's a swoosh of air; it's a man with a numbered bib blowing by. I lurch and push off, following until my body gets rattled in another direction. This damn knee brace is cutting off my circulation and my underwear is really giving me a wedgie now, baby! So much adrenaline and pain with no end in sight. It has to be near…oh PLEASE! I put my head down and keep charging…
This is why I came to La Grave, to race in the sickest ski challenge on the planet. Now, tired and lost, I know that I should have spent the previous week preparing for the hardest experience of my life. But I got sidetracked. It's that funky French attitude and the outrageous freedom of La Grave; I couldn't help it. It made me stray…
LA GRAVE
I had heard the rumors. I knew La Grave was total anarchy. Even European death-sport Mecca- Chamonix, well known for it's freedoms, had succumbed to a ski patrol, and some groomed runs, fixed ropes, warning signs and a bit of avalanche control work. But La Grave was RAW. There's nothing to guide you except the nasty creaks of massive, snow covered mountains.
Every rumor reeked of adrenaline and death. Outside Magazine published an article suggesting only elite alpinists should visit La Grave, and that America's hard core ski and snowboard crowd "would flail" there. Ha! And how about the Derby; a race sick and prestigious enough that people straight-ran 45-degree mogul fields at 90mph to win the thing. I ran over children and old ladies to get on the next plane.
La Grave is one hour east of Grenoble, in the steep, rolling hills between enormous jagged mountains, five creeping glaciers, and the ominous spire of 13081 foot Le Meije. La Grave itself is tiny- only 600 people. It doesn't suffer from massive tourist migration, big holiday centers, signs, shopping malls or luxury hotels. This is authentic French, with old churches and nearby farmers still using scythes, amazingly protected from development. Or, as they say in the tourism office, "preserving a near-virginal originality" (Hmm). The skiers who visit or live in La Grave are hard mountain bums who don't give a damn about crisp towels or pedicures.
It's a quiet place, but it resonates with a very serious big mountain experience. Show up without back country skills and you'll get spanked, hard.
La Grave seemed mellow when Mike Powell and I arrived, but it was Derby week, and the next few days were to build in energy as 500 colorful winos swarmed into town. We stayed at a place called La Chaumine. For one price they give it all: decadent meals in a happy communal dining room, transportation, a full-time party, a sick view, and daily guiding on the mountain. Avalanche transceivers, shovels and harnesses are not required, but if your life isn't worth the investment, visit Vail instead.
Still swimming in La Grave rumors, our first day we decided to try the guide service. The tension in La Grave was building, and we needed relief to our nervous fears. Then we checked out the "trail map", choked on our croissants, started laughing and everything was fine. It showed the lifts and the names of the glaciers only; which to us Americans, familiar with hand-holding resorts that give names to every last mogul and advertise "34 green circle, 57 double black runs!", this was absurdly vague.
The lift system appeared limited; four connecting lifts- two 5 cabin, 6 person trains, and two t-bars, but in 45 minutes it took us up a sick 7000 vertical feet. This ain't Kansas.
Being with the La Chaumine "fast group" guide, the first dozen turns were on a 50 degree face, jumping over a crevasse at the bottom. For the next three runs he took us down endless fields of untracked powder. The group was beaming with ecstasy.
I, on the other hand, couldn't care less about skiing powder in La grave. There was plenty of that at home in Utah. All around me were these scary, near vertical walls of snow and THAT is what I came for. At lunch I sulked over my pate and ignored the group. My attention finally focused on a long steep descent that seemed an easy hike from the first t-bar.
If you want to ski "you-fall-you-die" exposures in La Grave, you have two choices: hire a French specialist who knows the area and will carefully risk his and your life, or go for it yourself. I'm not one to feel cocky about my backcountry knowledge, but I do spend some time away from the lifts. So after lunch I left the group and started my lonely hike up the backside of that yummy face.
Reaching the top, I snapped on my skis and heroically began stomping through a jagged rock pile to reach my route. I was the stud of the alpine world, I was a lonely martyr, I was, uh, I was… hmmmm. Craning over the edge I was struck dumb. The face was around 50 degrees in steepness, covered with deep, wind-loaded snow. Where I planned to ski was perhaps 1800 vertical feet with exposed jagged rocks, open icy crevasses, and another 1500 feet of cliffs below it to ragdoll hell. "Ha Ha!" it mocked me, "ski down here little girl and rock your world… This is La Grave, where everyone DIES"! I could see the head lines: "Stupid American Woman Buys Farm on First Day".
I squirmed for ten minutes up there; chewing on those La grave rumors and thinking about my life and what I had learned. This was serious exposure, I knew how it felt to be in an avalanche, I had seen friends die on big faces. Often slopes this steep naturally slide and can be safer than faces under 45 degrees, but there's always a question and that day it was whether I was too hungry too soon after a storm. My stomach groaned a greasy, bad feeling, so I turned around and hiked back down.
It was the right thing to do, but I had rarely felt worse. What good is a raw mountain if you can't attack it? The greater the risks, the greater the rewards. I am woman… hear me choke! I ached for something cool and radical, something to make me feel alive.
I rode to the top of the last T-bar without a plan.
I was the loser of the alpine world, I was the lame weenie, I was…OH! But what was this? Two fresh tracks leading down the steep backside away from the lifts and into some unforeseeable future. Ah HA! My mind snapped into focus. I followed the tracks, panting like a puppy, and caught up with two rugged mountain men carrying big backpacks. They were international mountain guides from Belgium, and I talked them into letting me tag along. We skied 4,000 vertical feet of steep windblown powder and ice, explored a beat-up refuge hut, traversed 3 miles through a canyon, crossed a river 3 times, and wound up 30 miles away from La Grave in a tiny, almost deserted town called St. Christoff. I was concerned Mike might be launching a search party, so I jumped in front of the first car I saw and finagled a ride back to La Grave.
Back by 7:30 PM, I was buzzing with adventure. Mike was sitting relaxed and unconcerned outside of a bar called Marcels with a bunch of locals. I tried so hard not to talk about the tour I'd just experienced. Nobody cared where I'd been or what I skied that day. Chamonix is the see-and-be-seen place. La Grave is mellow and uncrowded, with little hype and no ego toleration.
But it was Derby week and the new scene was building. Each day as the energy level grew, so did my confusion. I just wanted to explore the wild terrain. I didn't care about the party scene, and even though I came all this way for the Derby, I made no attempts to learn a route.
I resigned to spending the week climbing around, taking responsibility for my own decisions and skiing some of the most amazing runs of my life. It was a wild ride; one day Andrew from Salt Lake and I climbed an emaciated, pin-like 50 degree chute. He dug a snow pit and announced that if it slid, it'll be 5 feet deep and massive. We reasoned "Well, La Grave is a dangerous place", and skied it anyway.
Another day two Chamonix locals and I found ourselves picking down a steep face through crevasses and massive seracs. One of the guys skied through a narrow, 50 degree convex chute and stopped abruptly after his fifth turn. From above, we kept asking if there was a problem, but he didn't answer. He was moving like a tightrope walker, taking his backpack off with painstaking slowness. The second his ice ax was free he lunged at the slope in panic, exhaling the breath he'd been holding for the last minute. The slope was sheer ice dangling above a frozen waterfall with 1000 more vertical feet of steep jagged glacier below. We had to ski it too…it was the only way down.
FRENCHIE FREESTYLE
All skiers NEED to visit France. Why? Because of a cultural phenomenon euphemistically (and with great respect) called "Frenchie Freestyle". It's where a truck driver can violently flip a rig 5 times down a 200 foot hillside, crawl out of his cab, lean against a tire, shrug and casually remark "I appear to be off the road". It's crashing a hang glider on a rooftop and no one gives it more than a shrug. Sunbathers tan naked and who cares? Park your car on the sidewalk and the police think it's a good option. In skiing terms, "Frenchie Freestyle" is falling into a crevasse and dying, and your family celebrates that you've lived your life to the fullest.
To an American skier, Frenchie Freestyle is the ultimate nectar. There are no rules, none! It explains why places like La Grave exist. Here, you have complete freedom; traverse where you want, jump over crevasses, swing from lift towers like a monkey, ski naked, ski on fire, or whatever. If there's a five foot powder dump causing the worst avalanche danger in the history of man, go ahead and ski a 40 degree slide-chute, no problem! You'll probably die, but there are no patrol to stop you, the police don't care, and there are no lawyers ready to draft a lawsuit arguing it wasn't your fault. The lifties will just take your picture, shake your hand , and say au revoir. Maybe in a few weeks some town guy will find your body stinking up a crevasse.
THIS is what skiing should be all about.
THE DERBY DE LA MIEJE
Frenchie freestyle also explains why a backcountry downhill race like the Derby De La Meije exists. The Derby, an off-piste (non-groomed) 7000 vertical foot top-to-bottom (no gates) speed race is reputed to have killed or crippled a few people every year. The race used to be held in Chamonix, but was considered TOO DANGEROUS for Chamonix (too dangerous for the death-sport capital of the world?) so 8 years ago it was moved to La Grave.
Before leaving the States, I had told some friends about the race. "7000 vertical feet!" they said loudly, "That's more than TWICE the length of a downhill race!" But to compare The Derby to a downhill race is like comparing Niagara Falls to your sprinkler system. The Derby is serious vertical, but the real charm is the fact it's OFF PISTE! Going 90 mph down a groomed, gate covered course is challenging, but blindly skiing wherever you want on a big, uncontrolled mountain, 90 mph through crud, moguls, ice chunks, crevasses, cliffs and traversing tourists? THIS is Frenchie Freestyle, THIS makes a downhill race, or the Saudan Couloir race in Blackcomb, or any other radical ski race I'd ever heard about, look like a bunny event.
It's death-defying reputation stems from a number of 45 degree, 1,500 vertical foot chutes near La Meije called the TriFides. It is here that around thirty people have died while free skiing. A few years back it became obvious that a racer must STRAIGHT RUN one of the chutes in order to win the Derby. The death count on these chutes became linked with the Derby, creating it's reputation. No doubt the Derby is a wild race, and that many people do get hurt, and hell, it's even sponsored by an energy drink made from bull testosterone called Red Bull. But you can take your time or ski the flats if you want. It's the racers that are truly sick, not the race. And here's some disappointing news- for the last two years the Trifedes have been off limits during the Derby.
Most of all, The Derby is a party to celebrate the joining of all snow sports. It's when skiers, telemarkers, snowboarders, monoskiers, and even big-footers all gather to have a wild celebration. There are other Derby's, one at nearby Cerre Chevalier, and one at St, Foy in Switzerland. The La Grave Derby is by far the most prestigious. The winners earn cash. The top male and female finisher in each equipment category (except Big Footers) each win $500, plus the top-3 teams (with 3 racers all on different equipment with at least one girl) win $1400, $1000 and $600. All for the $50 entry fee. This year, because of limited snow, the race was a shorter 6000 vertical feet.
I was in a full freestyling mood by Derby day, but I had no idea where to ski. Of the two different types of competitors; those serious about finding their lines and kicking ass, and those not concerned about the race and focusing instead on the nightly rage, I was an outcast. I figured just being involved was cool enough.
At 6:30am, all 500 well-dressed competitors were in line chugging bull testosterone, smoking cigarettes and ready to rally. The organizers were actually organized- and at 8:00 the racers were being sent, 5 at a time, to their fates.
I was one of the first out the gate, which was good because I was still asleep and not thinking too hard, which was bad because the slushy, gooey mess from the day before had frozen solid and I was speed-racing the whole way on frozen farm animals. My head was rattling so violently I thought my teeth were going to fall out. I stopped three times, making weird heaving noises similar to a cat choking on a fur ball, before seeing a numbered bib shoot by and making a spastic attempt to chase after it. I don't remember much else except this numb fixation I had to kill vertical. Eleven minutes total and my cramping, weak legs dragged me through the finish line.
Racers were flailing in, trying desperately to kill speed in a crowded area the size of your living room. A few years ago the finish area was even smaller with a big scooping berm that threw each exhausted racer ten feet in the air onto an expanding collection of ski equipment and lycra suits.
In just a few minutes at the finish, I saw a five person pile-up, half a dozen oddly painted faces, a large, serious woman on 225cm skis in a tight pink disco-downhill suit, and two buddies jerking around trying to ride one pair of telemark skis.
Mike, on the mountain taking photos, felt like he was in a blender. There was the constant rush of tired, spastic skiers in bibs who, seeing his camera and hoping to impress, dropped into floppy, wild tucks. There were monoskiers looking with their arms thrown straight out looking like Jesus, or snowboarders writhing, skidding and sending onlookers running for their lives. One woman on big foots stopped right next to Mike and passed out ("That's the effect I usually have" he insisted). Then there was a glut of racers in their bibs stopped everywhere on the mountain, smoking cigarettes.
It was an equipment race, those on downhill skis could rally, those on soft snowboards could only bounce like a pinball through ice chunks. Eventually, intermixed with the racers, the public showed up to free-ski. Mike was about close his eyes and offer himself as a sacrifice when at 11:30am, all 500 racers had run. It was over.
The French, with years of mountain freedom and experience, raged in every winner category. The fastest male skier with a rowdy time of 5 minutes, 47 seconds was Yannick Guerillot. The fastest female, Sandra Reymond, finished in 7:52. The slowest time was just under two hours. Mike, not even a racer, kicked his ass and took pictures the whole way.
Sleepy, quiet La Grave was chaos that day- like a zoo had been blown up. People swarmed everywhere. The lifts were a pushy, tangled mess of skis, cigarettes, shrugging Frenchmen and defensive Swedes. I wanted out. By noon I was off to St. Cristoff again. On the way, a group of American snowboarders and I climbed a perfect steep powder run, occasionally falling to the ground in heart attacks as the BOOM! of nearby ice-fall shook loudly around us.
Two days later, like the door had been slammed shut on the worlds greatest party, La Grave was again deserted. It was a windy, black, evil day and Mike and I were on the mountain alone trying to rappel into a rarely-skied chute called "The Ygrek". It was scary; the rope was too short and one of the old anchors popped out of the rock. Famous French extreme skier, Pierre Tardivel, had recently skied the chute and was the only one in it that year. You could still see his lonely tracks creeping down in between the dark rock walls. I skied by myself next door on a long, fierce 45 degree wall of ice, narrow chutes and deep holes called the Pan du Rideau. I had to stop and huddle to the ground a few times because of the ripping wind and churning white out. It was the most ominous, spiritual run of my life.
We left for Grenoble. Squealing into town, me white-knuckling the dashboard, I saw a woman prancing in a leather miniskirt and 4-inch platform heals. Off in the distance the sun shined dully upon the Golden Arches. It all seemed so crude. Mike had to fly to Colorado next, would he be happy there? Holding back tears, I looked out the window and ached quietly for a lifetime of peace and freedom in the mountains. La Grave is real. La Grave is what life should be. If the right people visit, and not too many of them, please, please let it stay that way forever.
Recommended:
Yes
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Epinions.com ID:
kristenulmer
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Member: Kristen Ulmer
Location: Salt Lake City, Utah
Reviews written: 25
Trusted by: 91 members
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