Sking The Cedars

The group of local ski addicts I had hitched a lift up the mountain with had been trying all morning to convince me to try the ski jump they had constructed in the middle of the Cedars main ski run.

'Come on Aussie', they would yell at me as I cautiously snaked my way down trying to remember when to 'up' and when to 'down'.

'Aussie, jump!'.

It was going to take more than a few good natured taunts to get me to attempt their makeshift snow ramp. I had no intention of leaving the slopes with any broken bones, sprains or concussions.

I decided to avoid their jibes and instead of taking the Tbar back up the green run I had pretty much mastered, I skied on over to the foot of the more advanced slope.

An hour or so earlier, one of my new Lebanese lift share buddies had convinced me to try this run, and at the top I became overcome with anxiety. Nearly in tears, I almost refused to go down at all. There's nothing scarier than being stationary at the top of a steep incline. As soon as you start moving, it becomes simple- up, down, up down, and as long as you stay in control and remember that the mountain is your friend, nothing disastrous can happen.

But, with a well meaning coach dragging you by your poles and giving you all kinds of contradictory advice in stilted English the steep drop seems impossible.

I did make it down unscathed- but with my new friend right behind me I couldn't concentrate on my own rhythm and was constantly distracted and nervous, not enjoying the smooth powder beneath my skis.

This time, I was all alone. Not a soul on the slope, no one behind or in front of me on the Tbar. In fact, the bottom Tbar station was deserted when I skied in, and it was only after a ineffectual swipes at the Tbars flying past my head that the attendant finally emerged from the cabin and helped me on my way.

At the top of the T-bar, the slope drops away sharply and I realise that I am fast approaching a wall of ice. I let go of the Tbar and don't even have time to attempt to swerve sharp left. I smash straight into the ice, and fall flat on my arse. I'm not wearing any gloves, and the snow burns my hands as I push my self back up to standing. The expression 'cold as ice' has never been more relevant.

I ski cautiously across the slope and look out across the valley. The scenery is stunning, imposing mountains blanketed with sparkling white snow, craggy rocks descending into a green valley. In the distance I see only foreboding clouds, but know that down there somewhere is the Mediterranean sea.

And I'm facing it again. The incline takes my breath away, but without someone trying coax me down, I instantly become fearless. There's no-one to sympathise, to hear my whimpers. There's no one within a kilometer of where I stand, and I doubt even those a the bottom of the mountain would hear me if I yelled out.

I take the plunge, making wide curves, using my poles to help me swivel left and right. Up, down, up, down.

I'm skiing. Really skiing. On my own, without coaching or coaxing. Without fear.

I snatch glances up at the mountains as I make my way down. I can't believe I'm really here.

On the way back to Bcharre, perched on the handbrake between two of my ski buddies, I look out, and see how steep the drop is from the side of the road into the valley. Our driver, a snowboard champion and certified dare devil is swerving to overtake slower vehicles and narrowly avoiding head on collisions, so I'm getting a good look over the edge. I have to admit I'm a little scared, and the picture of Jesus on the dashboard, who is staring down my crotch, isn't providing any reassurance.

But I look up at the snow covered mountains, and remember the wind in my face, and the feeling of absolute freedom. And I'm not scared.