Youth is Not An Age

by Alex Elliott

Youth is not an age - it's a state of mind: so Picasso apparently said.

It takes a certain state of mind to keep pushing the body to its limits, whatever miles are on the clock. It takes a certain state of mind to keep prodding and testing even though the motor is a bit more temperamental, parts are getting more difficult to find and the patches outnumber the real thing. But it's the same state of mind at play at 40, 20 or 70 years.

And so it was I found myself with a bunch of like-minded folk at the Gasthof Raiffeisen in Innervillgarten. All of us on the same wavelength. All of us testing ourselves in different ways on the AAC(UK) Senior Ski Tour. Definitely not a tour of has-beens, but a tour of those who have in abundance. Have the ability to ski down a mountain in any sort of condition. Have the capacity to keep skinning to that final slope. Have the experience of world travellers, explorers and tourers. Have joie de vivre in endless amounts.

Our group
Photo by Alex Elliott

The intrepid Jacky Rix-Brown organised the trip and fifteen AAC(UK) members signed up, representing Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland. So at least for one week in Innervillgraten the union remained intact. We even had a coalition leadership in the shape of Bergführer Hannes Wettstein and Bergführer Robert Thaler. It's hard to know what they made of the motley crew of enthusiasts they met on the steps of the Alpenvereinhaus in Innsbruck. But then nothing seems to phase the polite professionalism of the Austrian Mountain Guide.

Innervillgraten is a village in an idyllic setting, halfway along a blind valley, with no mechanical uplift. It cosies up to its spired church and town hall with the usual air of quiet self*sufficiency and contentment. Here, even the Spar shop sells ski touring guides and maps. The surrounding peaks are not high but the terrain is varied, unspoilt and beautiful. Every day our tracks followed meandering streams up through the pines and shepherd huts until they gradually led us out on to open mountain slopes.

From the tops we glimpsed the tall spires of the Dolomites. The red line of the border confused our mobile phones, some welcoming us to Italy, then Austria. We lunched at a customs hut just below a ridge. Filing up in rhythm, it would have been no surprise to see an official stepping out to check our 'sacs for contraband. Our guides would not have been pleased to have their apparently endless supply of cigarettes confiscated!

As the weather warmed the smoke breaks were a welcome relief to delay and have a drink. New to me was the rose hip tea supplied by the hotel each morning: so refreshing, and part of the excellent service provided by the hotel. The Gasthof Raiffeisen, run by the Familie Steidl, is comfortable, warm and welcoming, as is the food, the beer and the local Zweigelt wine! I must admit that what I lagged behind in a few years was made up for in my bar bill! However the oldest living thing in the village was not one of us but the 150 year old pear tree in the Gasthof's garden!

The one and only ski shop became a regular haunt as bits of gear needed to be replaced or repaired. Our German speakers were brought along to interpret and at times retrieve the owner from the upstairs bar. As with everyone in the village, the owner went out of his way to help, ensuring no one had an enforced rest day. Even when I decided to leave early on the last Friday, everyone in the bar joined in the debate as to whether I should take the bus or the train. Once the communal decision was made I was presented with a handwritten timetable. The chef supplied me with a goodie bag full of sandwiches and fresh fruit as "Niemand verlässt mein Hotel ohne Futter."

And of course, over dinner, alongside recounting each other's many and varied escapades, there was much talk of 2016. Where will we go next to write our names in summit books? What is the definition of this group? I think a little car analogy might help this debate.

You're rushing along in your brand new fast hatch, all tuned up and raring to go. You hustle up behind a car. It's a big old charabanc. It seems to be packed with folk on some sort of outing, laughing and chatting. At the first opportunity you zip past and race on up the hill. At the view point you get out and stretch, trying to de-stressfrom passing all those other cars on the way up.

A low growl of gears and crunch of an old gearbox makes you turn round. The charabanc noses its way up over the rise, steam hissing noisily from under the long bonnet. The passengers pile out, taking photos, drinking tea and generally disturbing the once empty silence of the top. So off you go again. Down the other side. A loud honk from behind makes you jump. You stare in the rear view and see the sleek nose of the charabanc right on your tail. The crazy looking, cigarette smoking, driver salutes and with a volcanic roar of gears speeds past, the tail slides dangerously out on the next bend, tyres kicking up loose gravel, like a plume of powder snow. The cheers of the passengers linger in your air conditioning.

Youth is not an age.

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