Out of the Comfort Zone

Seeking a change from crowded, ultra-fashionable Alpine ski resorts, we headed into the beautiful, snow-laden Jura for a whole new set of challenges

On the wide open snowfields around Lajoux, more than 1,000 metres high in the Jura Mountains and at the heart of the Haut-Jura regional park, I was attempting to stand still while awaiting my first cross-country ski lesson. Attached to each foot was a long, slender and unfamiliar ski not given to adhesion with the snow beneath.

It was all I could do to stay upright as I took in my surroundings. Overnight, snow had fallen heavily, smoothing out every wrinkle and augmenting the many hillocks. Dotted across the plateau were isolated chalet farmsteads, their zinc roofs layered with snow almost half a metre thick. Beyond, and glinting in the low sun, were pine trees so heavily iced they resembled a party of petrified brides.

Lajoux, the small village away to my right, was described as a ski station, but it was unlike any I had ever encountered in the nearby Alps. There were no queues, even though there was only one tow; there were no brightly coloured fashionistas; no ski instructors marshalling troupes of precocious tots towards the lifts.

Rather, this was a resort devoted to cross-country skiing, snowshoeing and, above all, farming. And I was here because the thrill of downhill skiing and the otherworldliness of expensive Alpine resorts had waned. My passion for mountains, deep snow’ and winter, was, however, entirely undiminished; I had been convinced that the Jura Mountains, which straddle the French-Swiss border to the north of Lac Leman, would offer new challenges and an authentic experience. I could see immediately that the high rolling crests and the long boat-shaped, tree-filled valleys – known locally as combes – offered endless scope for exploration, rather than the instant gratification of an Alpine blue run.

In this landscape, the valleys are cold and fill easily with snow. There are high limestone bluffs and the odd craggy peak to give the area a proper mountain air; but, in general, the margin of error is wide enough that even a novice can feel safe. With more than 7,000 kilometres of marked pistes and snowshoeing trails, I was unlikely to run out of possibilities.

Survival techniques

This was a four-day break that promised self-propelled expeditions to cosy mountain huts warmed by pot-belly stoves, insights into winter-survival techniques, lots of cheese and hearty mountain meals. Throughout the week, Valérie would be my host, ski instructor and snowshoeing guide. A beaming enthusiast for all things outdoors and jurassien, she started the first lesson with some local wisdom: “Ski alpin, ski pam-pam, ski Parisien.” I was not entirely sure of the French but the logic was clear. Downhill skiing was for softies, and Parisians were the softest of them all.

There was also an implication that I was not in for an easy ride, but the reward, ventured Valérie, would be a form of skiing entirely in tune with the mountains and the forests: silent and unobtrusive. It would, she assured me, be a Zen-like experience. Certainly the skiers, athletic-looking in their skin-tight Lycra suits, seemed to move effortlessly across the snow in a graceful skating motion. By comparison, I felt clumsy and overwrapped in my usual ski jacket and salopettes. The generous padding, however, would come in handy later.

The skating technique would be beyond me, for the time being. As a beginner, explained Valérie, I would first master the technique known as ‘classique’. This meant my skis had a small textured area under the midsole which, allegedly, made it easier to remain upright. Also, my skis would be mostly confined to two continuous channels pressed into the snow each night by a piste basher. To the side of the channels, there was a wide strip of beautifully groomed snow for the more accomplished skiers.

Just like with downhill skiing, these cross-country pistes were graded green (easiest), blue, red, and black (hardest and longest). The pistes linked villages, snowbound restaurants and mountain huts, making skiing the most reliable and efficient way of getting around.

Moving forward in the channels was much easier than standing still. My soft, comfortable boots were attached to the skis only at the toes; to move forward, all I had to do was lift each heel and push through the knee, with arms and ski poles “swinging rhythmically. On the gentle downhills, where I could straighten up and slide, I experienced a giggle-inducing exhilaration way out of proportion to the speed.

If the uphills and downhills were not too steep, I could remain in the channels. Otherwise, I had to step out on to the piste and either ‘herringbone’ uphill or snowplough downhill, pushing hard into the skis with knees that were almost locked together.

When the first lesson was over, Valérie directed me towards Les Molunes – an easy route of around seven kilometres. I would be there in time for lunch. At first, I was certain I had it sussed: although being stuck in the channels made me feel like a kid on a bike with stabilisers, I was sure I looked convincing.

Undisturbed silence

It was true: I did feel in tune with the landscape, as I skied past farms and along tracks that moved with the terrain. In the forests, I made no more than a slight wisping sound; the silence remained undisturbed. Even the snow weighing heavily on the branches would not be shaken free by my presence.

I knew that lynx and deer lurked in these woods. I might not spot any wildlife, but my chances would not be compromised by a noisy approach.

My newbie status would, however, become apparent with the first steep-ish uphill. Now I had to leave the safety of the channels and herringbone again. By the time I reached the ‘summit’, my jacket was fully unzipped and my face the same shade of bright red. On the downhill, the skiers making their way uphill had no option but to stand aside. Stopping involved falling over; only my ski jacket, I reckoned, saved me from multiple internal injuries.

Soup, charcuterie, a hunk of Morbier (a distinctive Jura cheese with a vein of chimney soot running through it) and a hot chocolate fortified me for the return. What I hadn’t appreciated was that I had been gaining altitude since leaving Lajoux: the way back was terrifying, if mercifully quick.

The exertion involved in cross-country skiing is possibly the reason why apres-ski amounted to no more than reading a book by the log-burning stove in Valerie’s eco-chalet, and sipping on a Vin Jaune, the local sherry-like wine, while the snow piled up outside. Cards and conversation followed a substantial five-course dinner that always featured Comté, Morbier and Bleu du Gex, the famous trio of Jura cheeses.

With each day, the snow grew deeper; on the last, the landscape had lost all sense of the tree-roots, paths and boulders that normally gave it texture. In such conditions, walking would have been impossible without snowshoes.

On the penultimate day, Valérie escorted the group and me to a high mountain hut over the border in Switzerland, where we lit the woodstove and prepared a three-course lunch centred on cheese fondue. From the highest crest, at more than 1,500 metres, I had a view over the cloud-covered Lac Léman that ranged from the peaks of the Bernese Oberland in the east to Mont Blanc and the Grandes Jorasses in the west. The Eiger and the Matterhorn were easily picked out.

On the final day, there would be no home comforts. Rather, I would learn how to light a fire and cook lunch in the snow. Beforehand, there would be lots of snowshoeing, and I was given the job of breaking the trail. Thankfully, the snow had stopped and the heavy grey clouds cleared to reveal a cold blue sky.

Wandering in such deep snow meant there was no need to stick to the usual thoroughfares. We struck out into the forest, brushing snow-laden branches, causing mini-avalanches that dumped snow down my neck. Occasionally, we would come upon isolated and entirely snowbound chalets that were clearly inhabited, judging by the smoke billowing from the chimneys. “The Jurasiens are like bears,” explained Valérie, “shy and solitary creatures who are first and foremost self-reliant.”

Despite snowshoes, every step was exhausting as I sank up to my knees in deep, soft snow, my walking-pole often completely disappearing as I leant on it to heave myself forward. We could not have covered much ground by the time Valérie announced the lunch-stop. Our first task was to batter down the snow to create a firm base. Then we were sent out to break branches from the pine trees, which Valérie placed in a trench. On top of the pine branches, she set the dry logs that she had been carrying.

Before the fire was lit, Valérie insisted we strip off and take a jurassien shower, rubbing our exposed skin with snow before putting on fresh thermal vests and long johns. Such a shower was essential, she claimed, if we were to prevent our already-sweaty clothes from freezing while we dined. Fortunately, it was only minutes before there was a fire burning and slices of the local Morteau sausage cooking on a grill.

Once we had eaten – with the temperature hovering around -10°C – it was important to pack up quickly and get underway again. We wandered, like will-o’-the-wisps, among slow-growing pines that Valérie informed us were valued by high-quality violin-makers for their resonance. “In the autumn, when the sap is low, men spend weeks tapping trees and listening closely until they find exactly the right one.”

It was sunset before I was back in country that I recognised as being close to Lajoux. Now there was more of a crunch with each step, rather than the soft flump of earlier in the day: the snow was turning to ice. With the rapidly cooling air, a fog was forming in the valley. Even with the effort of walking and a well-insulated jacket, I was starting to feel cold. I was surrounded by snow deeper than 1 had ever known: it could be said that I had left my comfort zone. But it was what I had come looking for. Despite being less than half the height of the Alps, the Jura had brought me new challenges and experiences in harmony with the spirit of the mountains.

Take to the Grandes Traversées

The distinctively relaxing nature of the Jura Mountains means they lend themselves to yoga, watercolour painting and other gentle pursuits.

At La Chandoline, it is possible to combine walking in the summer or snowshoeing in the winter with both activities. Walk in the morning and, suitably refreshed and inspired, paint or stretch in the afternoon.

The best ways of exploring the Jura are to follow one of the many marked routes known as the Grandes Traversées du Jura. There are different routes for mountain-bikers, cyclists, horse-riders, skiers, summer walkers and snowshoers. All are carefully thought-out, with food and accommodation stops at regular intervals along the multi-day routes, which each takes around ten days to complete.