ALPINE TALES

The first thing that strikes me every time I visit the Alps in winter isn’t the cold—it’s the magnificent silence. The kind of deep, crisp quiet that only a snow-covered mountain can hold. It stretches out in every direction, wrapping itself around the towering peaks and settling into the thick forests lining the slopes. And then, just as suddenly, the silence is broken—by the sharp swish of skis on fresh powder, the echo of a child’s laughter, the giddy thrill of a first successful turn.

This winter, we decided to travel to the Austrian region of Montafon. Nestled in the heart of the Alps, it transforms into a winter wonderland during the colder months, offering skiing for families as well as semi-professional athletes. What makes Montafon truly special in winter is its blend of untouched natural beauty, small villages, and outdoor activities. From the tranquil silence that blankets the valleys and historic downtowns to the thrill of skiing down its immaculate slopes, Montafon in winter captivates visitors with its magic and majesty. One of its lesser known mountains is Golm, a smaller ski area that offers easier slopes and numerous on- and off-slope adventures for families.

On this winter day, we step onto the gondola at Latschau, our gateway to the slopes above, bundled up and buzzing with excitement. My sons press their noses to the glass, watching the world shrink below us as we float higher. The trees, dusted in fresh snow, look like something out of a winter fairytale. We admire the snowy peaks in the distance, and for a moment, everything slows—the anticipation, the rush, the outside world. Up here, there are only mountains and sky.

As we step onto the mountaintop, a hushed reverence washes over me. It happens every time I stand before a mountain—their magnificence fills me with hope, their enormity with peace. This panorama of snow-capped peaks stretches as far as the eye can see, the sky an impossible shade of blue. It sets everything right, engulfs all the ups and downs, and makes everything whole. And here, on top of Golm in the heart of the Alps, the panorama of endless snow-covered peaks is simply striking.

I cannot explain my fascination with mountains. I don’t even know when it began. I’m fairly certain I didn’t have it as a child—I used to roll my eyes when my mother, once again, marveled at the beauty of the distant peaks. Was it her wistful tone that eventually lulled me in? Or is it the sense of freedom that washes over me every time I ascend to the top of these peaceful giants?

What I do know is that on this very mountaintop, on this very day, I am reminded of the beauty of life—the magnificence of nature, the wonder of our existence. So many things that seem significant down in the valley below are put into perspective up here. It instills in me a reverence for nature, for the millions of years that have forged this landscape, for the millions of years that will come after me. Just as I lose myself in the vastness of it all, a familiar tug at my sleeve brings me back. While I stand in awe of life’s grandeur, my children are eager to embrace it—impatient to carve their way down the pristine white slopes, leaving giddiness and excitement in their wake.

The fresh snow crunches under our boots. The mountain is still almost untouched, bathed in the soft glow of the low morning sun. The air is crisp, pure, and brimming with quiet anticipation. Wisps of breath curl into the cold air as we drop the kids off at ski school, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They barely glance back before racing toward their instructor. There is no hesitation in their step; they have been counting down to this ski trip for weeks, eager for their adventure.

I take a deep breath and sit down at the edge of the slope, tightening my boots and adjusting the bindings. My fingers fumble slightly with the straps of my snowboard, a mix of excitement and anxiety settling in my chest. It’s the first ski day after a long time, the very first ever for one of my kids. Yet they bounce with anticipation while my stomach knots with uncertainty. Will my legs remember the rhythm? Will I find my balance, or will I spend the morning tumbling into the snow?

I push off cautiously, my body struggling to find the familiar flow. The first turns are hesitant—it feels like I am on a snowboard for the first time. I try not to worry about being the obstacle on the slope. The snow beneath me is forgiving, soft yet stable, and I remind myself that this is the perfect canvas for rediscovering my balance. A winter walk suddenly seems like a far more appealing alternative.

I force myself to stay present, to take each curve as it comes. I breathe in the crisp air, listen to the whisper of my board gliding over powder, and take in the way the soft snow stretches endlessly around me. I tune into my body, feeling how each movement dictates my snowboard’s path. Halfway down the mountain, something inside me shifts. The rhythm is still faint, but it resurfaces like a tune I once hummed flawlessly. Each turn becomes more fluid, more instinctual. I am far from an expert, but the joy is there again—the love for being in the moment, being absorbed by what I do so much that everything else falls away.

The slow ride down is peaceful, grounding—this is what I came here for. I reach the bottom, pick up my board, and head back to the gondola, ready to start again. By the end of the morning, I know which turns to take, which routes to choose for a smooth ride. I am exhilarated, proud that I have overcome my anxiety and rediscovered my confidence—even if it only applies to the simple blue slopes. I wonder how my kids fared this morning. Did they hesitate before their first run? Did they feel the same nervous anticipation, or did they launch themselves into the adventure without a second thought? The thought of reuniting with them for lunch, seeing their exhilaration, hearing their stories, makes my chest swell with anticipation. As I take the lift back up, I watch the mountain stretch wide before me, a vast playground of possibility. I hope they faced it with fearless joy. And maybe, just maybe, I tell myself, tomorrow I learn to do the same.

 I sit in the sauna, the heat wrapping around me in a tight embrace, muscles and mind relaxing after a long day on the slopes. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, the towering peaks of the Alps push their edges into the evening sky, their snow-covered beauty untouched and serene in the soft glow of dusk. This is my place to recharge—an oasis of peace and calm. The heat seeps into my bones, and my mind is left to marvel at the nature in front of me. This is my place to let go—of the ache in my muscles, of the running thoughts in my head, of worry and anxiety as I watch my kids run down the slopes. I take deep breaths, more heat filling my lungs and my body. The heat pulses through me, untangling tension, softening the edges of my thoughts. The sweat beads on my skin, each drop carrying away the remnants of worry and to-do lists. My heartbeat slows, in rhythm with the steady stillness around me. The longer I sit, the more I surrender to the moment—to the simple, powerful act of just being, of existing in this space between exhaustion and renewal. The heat stills my mind and for a moment its just my breath and me.

Ultimately the heat gets the better of me. Stepping out of the sauna, I brace myself for the cold plunge. My body goes tense in anticipation of the cold biting my skin, the shock that travels all the way into my bones. I lower myself quickly into the cold plunge, every nerve ending firing as the icy water closes around me. My breath catches, my senses sharpen, and for a moment, all that exists is the contrast—the burning heat lingering within me and the bracing cold wrapping around me. And then, as suddenly as the shock came, it fades, replaced by a deep, invigorating clarity. My body relaxes, my mind is crisp and alert. I emerge, wrapping myself in a thick robe, and sink into a lounge chair. The warmth slowly returns, a deep, lasting heat radiating from within. My body is exhausted, yet relaxed and at peace, my mind still and present. For me, this is where Alpine winter days culminate: peaceful exhaustion, a wholeness that comes from days spent outdoors, from laughter, from movement, from surrendering to the moment.

Eventually, it’s time to give my husband a reprieve and take my turn with the kids, so he can find his peace in the middle of our Alpine adventure. I step into the pool area, which is more like a waterpark, echoing with laughter and splashes. It is the opposite from the serenity of the spa I am coming from. The children race from one slide to the next, shrieking with delight as they plunge into the warm water. While my body is still soft and pliable from the sauna, their energy is endless. And with a sudden push from their little arms, I hit the water and find myself right in the middle of it all.