Within minutes, I'm breathing hard, heart thumping, and thinking, irritably, how quick and easy skiing down a slope is in comparison I peel off layers, slow my pace, pick up a rhythm. The wamp-crunch, wamp-crunch of my snowshoes is hypnotic; it's a comforting sound, like a steam locomotive pulling out of a station.Winding my way up the trail, I step on the fading tracks of yesterday's snowshoes, and slowly the mountains open up around me. When I stop to catch my breath, I'm shocked by the intensity of the silence. The village has dropped far below and lies hidden and muffled by fat, snow-covered hills. It feels unthinkably distant from the bustle of the ski slopes further up the Engadine Valley.After an hour of stiff climbing, I trudge over a layer of powder, leaving a row of Donald Duck-shaped prints behind me. I'm like a pioneer, I think, dizzily, looking out over the peaks.
Perhaps it's the altitude, but I feel euphoric and throw myself back to make a snow angel. I sit up quickly, feeling foolish.The path winds into a dense wood, and, as I arrive at the first trees, a long-forgotten childhood fear of forests bubbles up. The trees rise, black and menacing; I half-expect a woodcutter, crazed by a lonely winter, to come tearing out. But then the sun breaks through the snowy haze, the shadows are brightened and the feeling disappears. Moving between the trees, I notice things that I've never seen on skis: the moss that hangs from fir trees; rocks poking out of the snow with patches as bright as polished platinum; animal tracks criss-crossing the forest floor; the earthy smell of deer droppings.The rhythm of my snowshoes lulls me, and I realise with a start that I've cleared the forest. After a punishing, thigh-burning stretch through knee-deep powder, I arrive at the top of Sura, at 2,120m. I breathe deeply, staring at the horseshoe of jagged peaks.Within minutes, I'm shivering, the sweat turning to ice on my neck.
Setting off down the fresh slopes, I long for my skis, but then discover that moving downhill in snowshoes is a joy, a bounding long-legged sensation that sends me flying down. I race through the forest and cross fellow-snowshoers coming up They are locals and they nod and say, "Allegra!", as I pass. I assume that it's some sort of hero's welcome for making it to the top first, and grin proudly. Within an hour, I'm back in the valley, feeling super-fit and ravenous.That night, over a cheese fondue, I regale my fellow-diners with stories of silent forests and breathtaking views Some of them have snowshoed before, and they nod knowingly. But the following day, when Benno leads us all out on a guided tour, any notions of silence vanish.