Switzerland DH Trip with Wade Simmons & Big Mountain Bike Adventures

Nov 8, 2010

I stood on the shores of Lake Geneva, looking across the water. Towering on the horizon were the gargantuan peaks of the Swiss Alps, their gnarled peaks raking the clouds. Like solemn sentinels, they held secrets of legendary descents that plunged from peaks to valleys. Soon, their secrets would be revealed to me. For the next 9 days, I would rock the alpine with Big Mountain Bike Adventures on their Alpenrock DH trip. Wade Simmons and young gun Stephen Mathews from Calgary would be our guides through what, at times, seemed like the pages of a medieval fairytale, railing deep-dish dirt on rarely ridden trails with names like Rolling Orgy and Medieval Flow. Each day would be filled with massive descents that would take us through loam filled forests ending in the cobble-stoned streets of mountainside villages.

Described by Chris Winter, Big Mountain founder, Alpenrock was a downhiller’s dream. “Paradise on a bike, the equivalent of Mavericks for surfers.” Since Winter has created bike adventures throughout the world from Morocco to Mexico, his word is good as gold.

“All those red lines are trails,” Wade had the topo map unfolded on the table, excitedly showing me our proposed routes. Looking up, he had a big smile on his face, confessing how much he loved maps, especially those here in Switzerland. They were truly works of art, incredibly detailed with topo lines drawn in tight increments, red routes splaying out from peaks in every direction, snaking down 10 000 foot faces in endless armadas of switchbacks. Trails seemed to be everywhere. “Shandro and I did recon missions out here years ago,” Wade looked back to the map, “you can go pretty much anywhere.” The longer you stared at the map, you soon realized the possibilities were endless. You could easily link descents into epic journeys, traversing over saddles and mountain passes, exploiting elevation, finishing miles down the valley from where you began. 5000 foot descents were only a matter of a gondola ride and a chunk of Gruyere away. Switzerland surely must have the most trails per capita in the world, I thought. We rarely encountered anyone else on the trails. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any issues of trail use or land ownership that can plague other riding destinations. Switzerland is a nation that embraces mountain culture as a right, not just a privilege, and it seems everyone has an equal right to use the trails. So here it was, a biker’s utopia; trails for all. Everything was game, from bike parks linking multiple valleys to walking tracks that plunged from peaks, their virgin surfaces sprinkled with petals and pinecones. Here there was enough for everyone. The descents would be huge, and the scenery epic, each happy ending filled with buttery cheese and local brews. It is paradise.



I soon realized that Switzerland is a special kind of place. Rich food, breathtaking scenery, and warm-hearted people seem to be the norm. But what makes a trip like this so exemplary is the breadth of access to the mountains. It’s mind-boggling. The Swiss had been foraging in the mountains for centuries, and had an expansive trail network to prove it, plus the infrastructure to easily access it. They had harnessed the mountains long ago. The Alps are filled with trails that have been boot tamped for centuries, and are now accessible by modern conveniences like vernacular railways and paved roads that hug perilous mountainsides. Options like this put into the hands of adventurer’s like Simmons and Shandro inspired them to create an itinerary that uses combinations of cogwheel trains, funiculars, gondolas and cable cars to link up seemingly endless descents. Combine that with the fact you could pull over in the high alpine for a cappuccino at one of the many trailside Mountain Chalets, and it was a decadent experience that offered all the creature comforts one could ever want. But I couldn’t understand why there weren’t truck loads of shuttlers punching out the trails like we'd have back home. When meeting one of the local rippers, Florian Brunck, who introduced himself simply as Flow, explained that downhillers in Switzerland mostly ride the bike parks, of which there were many to choose from, and each with enough terrain to keep the hordes entertained. This left the ‘back door’ trails unridden and in sublime shape.



The rides were creative combinations that seldom, if ever, see tire tracks outside of Big Mountain trips. La Vallee Express being a perfect example. Our first day began with globs of Nutella and churned butter on fresh baked croissants with rich cappuccino yoghurt, choco flakes cereal, fresh fruit and orange juice. It was apparent the Swiss have greater pursuits in life than counting calories. Suiting up for a day in Verbier Bike Park, we coasted from our front door, through forest trails to the next village, boarding the lifts for Verbier Bike Park. After a day of shredding everything Verbier had to offer, including the rooty loam fest known simply as 'the New Trail', we took the last lift back to the top. Starting high in the alpine, we traversed through the clouds, dodging the sacred cows of Switzerland who eyed us menacingly with their giant horns and big brass bells round their necks, the herd clanging in a symphony of disjointed harmony. When we turned off our grassy traverse, we entered tight Alpine singletrack, getting my first taste of riding the backdoor trails in the Alps. Soon we entered loamy forest single track and dark dirt was roosting high off our tires as I watched Mathews relentlessly karate chop his rear wheel into the high side of the trail, kicking up plumes of rich chocolaty soil. The dirt was perfect and our tires bit deep and predictably, with not a brake bump or rut to be found for 4000+ feet. But you had to be careful not to get carried away, there were some spots with significant exposure. “Mandatory walk!” Mathews was stopped well ahead. He stood at the trail’s edge where it switch backed across a section of slope that dropped off into oblivion. Peering over the edge, you could see our destination of Loutier, far, far below. Not a good spot to blow a corner.



The trail finished in a grassy cow field just above the village after a countless series of switchbacks and more loamy roosting. It ended with a wide-open straight away through the trees that made my eyes water behind my goggles, Mathews really letting it hang out now for the last three kms where I’d guessed we’d easily hit 70km/h, maybe more. We shot out of the forest, back where our morning began. We pulled our helmets off, exhilarated, standing under a cliff band that towered overhead. “That was ridiculous!” Mathews was continuously stoking the fire on every ride. When you looked back from whence we'd come, you wondered how the Swiss ever got a trail through the perilous terrain. We were amped. It was a massive descent in pristine condition under blue bird skies after a day of shredding the park. What more could you want? “Cold beer and melted cheese?” Mathews asked, turning for our chalet. “Ridiculous!” Mathews drew out every single syllable this time. He was right, it was.



Where La Vallee Express finished, we were only a short downhill coast into the quiet village of Loutier. Cold beer and melted cheese awaited us at Hotel La Vallee, our home chalet for the week and the strategic staging area for our adventures on local trails and bike parks in neighboring valleys. Run by the warm hearted family of Jean Marc Pellissier, they are a family of passionate rider’s and never scoffed once at our dirty shoes in the lobby or our pleas for a case of cold beer even after his neighboring grocery store had long since closed. Or the French lessons Simmons eagerly engaged him in nightly. ‘Beurre, beurre’, we would listen to Simmons practicing his French, never quite getting the proper echo of Jean Marc’s perfect French, but entertaining nevertheless. Jean Marc was shuttle driver, Inn Keeper and Chef. Monsieur Pellissier would procure delicious repasts nightly using fresh vegetables from his garden, creating local delights such as seared venison, served flaming on morning star like skewers, in which Mathews insisted we make our ‘angry meat faces’ as we wrestled the sizzling meat from the iron spikes. On another night, we watched incredulously as Mathews scoffed down plate after plate of Raclette, a local favourite in which provincially procured cheese was delicately melted and crisped, then, as according to custom, served endlessly, plateful by plateful with pickles, potatoes and dried meats, until the guest, stuffed to capacity, finally refused. “Schwartz & I share the record. We ate 8 plates each,” Mathews confessed, “but I didn’t feel very good afterwards.” This would be a feat, and something your capillaries wouldn’t do well on an everyday diet of. Jean Marc had a look of victory on his face as we one by one cried “No More!”



With Simmons and Mathews as our guides, there was no shortage of style on our rides. Mathews was fast as a lion on the Savannah, and had the t shirt to prove it. He was a full on pinner who’d digested enough laps at Whistler that he now rode everything full on. He had one gear, and it was wide open. Simmons needs no introduction, and attacked trails with his trademark panache. Attempting to tail Simmons you gain a new understanding of his talents. He’s not only stylish, but incredibly fast, refusing to rest on his laurels, pushing limits all the time, taking me down secret short cuts filled with rare tech sections. He charged full tilt into rock gardens, boosted over gaps and doubled up long rooty sections I’d have thought were out of reach. He’d suddenly manual his bike at 50km/h then whip his back end around corners, roosting like a moto, or turn highside on the trail, turning the high banks into loamy wall rides. Stoke factor was off the charts with these two at the helm and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face the whole trip. On the loamy back door trails, like Pet Cemetery (named by Mathews for the crumbled tombstones at the trails’ exit in the vineyards), Wade would eagerly ask at the bottom, “You got roost?” Leaning over looking at my bike, he’d smile triumphantly as he skimmed a finger full of pine needles and chocolate dirt from my downtube. "Got roost!"




Crossing into France we hit the Portes du Soleil region to session the conglomerate of bike parks that enabled us to ride backside into adjoining valleys accessing lifts that seemed to go on forever. We soon found a small road gap off a wooden platform that looked enticing. We’d already ticked off the 25 foot creek gap and were feeling frisky. Wade’s confidence rubbed off. We stopped to spec it out. “You lead,” Simmons said to me, as we grabbed our rigs. Me? Lead you!? I took a deep breath. “You got it!” He was good at blowing smoke. “Just don’t crash, I’ll be right behind you.” He clicked on his helmet cam. No pressure. Just little ol’ me in the Swiss Alps about to lead the Godfather of Freeride off a road gap! Crashing was not an option, and I landed it clean, Wade hot on my heels. Big smiles and high fives all round, another beauty day in the office! Our confidence brimming, a handful of us went to have a look at the Slopestyle course at the top of the mountain. Mathews & Simmons were inspiring. Confidence can be contagious. But in the wrong hands it can be downright dangerous as I would soon learn.


The skies were now grey and light rain began to fall. Rolling onto the course, the stunts loomed above us, looking much bigger up close. Before long, Wade was dropping big rock faces while Mathews hit one of the biggest platform drops on the course, nearly 30 feet! It was like a circus, and these guys were the main attraction. Inspired, I followed them onto a step up, to drop. The run out was long since un-maintained and well rutted from rains, peppered with ugly boulders. Landing clean, I was too fast and quickly out of control on the rancid run out, spearing my front tire into a boulder, launching into the scree. Thankfully, I was able to get up and shake it off, albeit slowly, but not unscathed. Still to this day, my pinky finger has a funky zig zag in it and there’s a chunk of fibreglass missing out of my helmet. Not all souvenirs are pretty.


We sampled the various bike parks like Verbier, Crans Montana and Port du Soleil through our itinerary. What really impressed here was the fact you could take a lift to the peak, then ride backside into the next valley, accessing whole other trail systems and lifts, opening another Pandora’s box of endless possibilities. It was like having Whistler Bike Park, backing onto Silver Star, which backed onto Sun Peaks. Echoing our parks in North America, there were stunts to challenge your skills, with berms and jumps along the way. But the true gems on this trip would be the voyages that took us off the beaten path to those untouched secret Swiss stashes. And when we made our sojourn to Zermatt for the last two days of our trip, we found ourselves in the motherland of epic descents, with the heavens only a cable car away.


The birthplace of mountaineering, our two days in Zermatt would be the crowning glory of the trip. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better. Its centuries’ old chalets and cobblestone streets took you back in time. Automobiles were banned here so the only vehicles allowed were silent electric utility vehicles that shuttled goods and taxied people through the village. Zermatt sat in the shadow of the Matterhorn, its jagged peak dominating the skyline no matter where you went in town. We posed for pictures on our rooftop patio on our first night with the ‘Horn, excited for tomorrow which promised huge descents. Steep mountain slopes surrounded us on all sides, each filled with routes leading down from the many peaks. We were on our first gondola by 8am the next morn. Combining cable cars and vernacular rail, we found ourselves standing at 10 000 feet, under a wall of massive glaciers, their giant tongues of ice flowing between peaks. Now thousands of feet above the treeline, the winds were howling and clouds raced across the sky. There stood the Matterhorn, unobstructed. At this height, we could look her in the eyes. Often shrouded in cloud, being at nearly 15 000 feet, the unobstructed view was cause for celebration, and Wade let out a bellowing “HOOOOOOOORN!” But we wouldn’t be celebrating long.


The sky was unstable as we watched the dark clouds on the horizon moving towards us. As we charged across the ridge line into the heart of the storm, silhouetted by the morning sun against a back drop of glaciers, it was a moment to be savored. It was as high as I’d ever been with my downhill machine. The trails were well tamped, tight and fast. We hopped over knife edge waterbars made from slabs of rock, scrubbing our speed before tight corners, only to watch Wade weight his front end, pivot his back wheel round, making the tight switchbacks look easy, nose manualling on occasion just for show. Soon we were letting the bikes roll as fast as we dared on open scree slopes that went on for miles, the only need for braking coming through our fear. While reliving it later sipping cappuccinos, Marco Griffin from Connecticut dubbed this section “Ride the Lightning”, an obvious Mettalica fan. I tailed Simmons through the lightning field, going faster then I’ve ever gone on two wheels. He dared me to follow, letting it go faster and faster, until I finally let the fear overcome me, feathering my brakes, watching Wade pull away into the distance as chunks of scree the size of my shin kicked up from his rear wheel. The wind blew harshly across the slopes and the black clouds were upon us. The rain started to fall before we hit the trees, and by the end of our descent, it was pouring and we were soaked, all of us forgetting our rain gear, lulled into complacency by the consecutive blue bird days prior. Most of the group threw in the towel, while a handful of us waited optimistically for the skies to clear, nestling ourselves at a streetside café. Tourists from around the world breezed past us looking at us curiously, a sodden group of adventurer’s with wild eyes and mud speckled faces, sipping cappuccinos with bailey’s, laughing and reliving our first descent. It was as though we’d just drank from the Holy Grail, we were elated. Like addicts at the till, we salivated for more.



“Let’s go hit it,” the weather had let up a bit, but it was still raining an hour later, “when do you get descents like this?” Wade would know, he’d ridden pretty much everywhere there was riding in the world, and then some. He professed over and again how much he loved Switzerland throughout the trip. There were only five of us now, Marco, Todd Reynolds from New York, our two guides and myself. Cranking our way up on the vernacular railway, the cogs ground under our feet as we crept through the clouds. Making our way up the first few thousand feet, it was still wet and grey. But soon we emerged from the cloud into sunshine, the weather now below us, an inversion holding the blanket of rain in the valley. The dirt seemed to get better in the wet. The trails shed water with the well-placed waterbars, and the soil in the forest seemingly became grippier. The conditions were perfect. We raced across the lightning field, an inevitable flat giving us a convenient excuse for a nip of Jamieson’s to warm our cockles at 8 000 feet, compliments of Marco. When we dove again into the forest, we found the dirt moist and chewy, “gateau terre” as I would dub it in my poor French, even though they actually spoke German here in Zermatt. Wade was railing corners, his rear wheel spinning on the ragged edge of overturning, but staying on it and pulling it out every time. It doesn't get any better than this.


Winter’s right, Switzerland is “Paradise on a Bike”. The abundance of trails and their ease of access, thanks to an infrastructure that required little more than wheeling your bike on a train or gondola, made for some mind-altering descents. Big Mountain had created some unique combinations, offering incredible descents that even the locals didn’t know about. Jean Marco took care of us like we were family, the food was as good as the riding. The condition of the ‘backdoor’ trails were sublime, with nary a brake bump or a rut. And who could ask for better guides to make every ride a great ride, showing us the goods and pinning lines for us to follow if we dared. All this under breathtaking scenery. It was a once in a lifetime trip. Or perhaps twice in a lifetime. I promised myself I’d be back. It was too good to do only once. Beurrrrrre…


Video from Stephen Mathews (shot in 2009):




Visit Big Mountain Bike Adventures to learn more about all their trips.

-Mark Woods

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Please note:

For those of you that can't wait until next summer to go on a holiday and are already eager for warmer days then there is the Pura Vida trip to Costa Rica in February, 2011.

When most of us think of a tropical holiday, our thoughts drift off lazily to a beach with a cold drink in hand, the sound of waves in the background and the smell of sea salt and suntan lotion...and maybe a bikini in the distance...

Ahhh, that’s a nice thought. Well, shake that off, for now. Instead, picture yourself on your big bike, full-face helmet on and railing down a 3000-foot natural bobsleigh trail in the jungle.

Read the rest of the posting on Pura Vida here.