In my mountaineering adventure, rest is a necessary step in the training process

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I always knew injury was a possibility, as I wrote in the opener for this series chronicling my endeavour to master ski mountaineering. I nearly died while ski mountaineering in Russia in 2017, and I came into my new renewed attempt with physical frailties as well as mental ones. What’s more, my capacity for raging hypochondria makes it difficult to assess the genuine seriousness of an injury, something that recently came into sharp focus.

My anticipated injury happened just more than a week ago. I’d moved from Chandolin to Zinal, the village up this Swiss valley, to continue training. I was not due to meet the head of the Zinal ski school until Monday, but I had a sense that I needed to use my time to the max. So that Sunday, I skied alone.

I rode the gondola up to the Zinal pistes, broader than those of Chandolin, and facing east not south. The ramparts of the Imperial Crown – the 4,000-metre summits at the head of the valley – glistened as if close enough to touch. After warming up I found myself drawn to the “freeride zone.” This area is secured – controlled explosions above it can pre-emptively release avalanches – but it is not groomed. The freeride zone would be my workshop for February, I told myself, where I would acquire the kilometres in delicate snow the instructors said were crucial, once the basics of technique had been established.

The first descent was okay. On the second I fell. Skis, for all the quick-release wizardry of modern bindings, are still massive levers attached to the feet. I ended up upside down, and my right ankle tendons banjo-ed about where they just should not be. Had I, I wondered, messed up my foot? (Except I used a choice expletive.) Dark thoughts arrived. Was this project over? Could I still write the book I had planned chronicling my experience? What would I tell the nice Canadians following this series? Every instructor and guide I’ve worked with so far has had a high-calibre injury story, a broken back, smashed legs. Had I joined their ranks?

Before I came to the Alps I’d done careful physio to fix an Achilles issue, but had also tweaked another ankle tendon. I worried I would have problems. But in fact, throughout January, my feet were fine. Tonya Olson, a physiotherapist based in Florida and co-author of ultrarunner’s bible Fixing Your Feet, recommended a “modified J-strap” taping technique, twin bands of no-stretch Leukotape, running underneath the arch and up around the calf. (I know Tonya from when, in perhaps the most niche act of journalism ever committed, I wrote nearly 5,000 words for Runner’s World on the scientific, sociological and cultural history of the hiking blister.)

The tape provided support. I had some discomfort in early sessions, but that decreased. My ankle strengthened, and ankle-related anxiety lessened too. The post-ski routine I’d started, sequential application of ice and hot water and stretching, fell away.

Then I fell. Was that it, I wondered, lying in the snow.

It seemed, initially, that it was not. I could still ski, gingerly. I traversed back to the piste. I took the boot off. The foot looked okay, though there was definitely some pain. I came off the mountain and dunked the offending appendage in a bucket of watered snow.

I sent Tonya a video. “I’m sorry to hear about your ankle. It sounds/looks like you just tweaked it a bit and the damage is minimal,” she told me. I felt relief. Over the last week I have definitely engaged in reassurance-seeking, asking for someone professionally-qualified to say things are okay. Reassurance-seeking maintains anxiety. But at the same time, I had fallen and I had turned my ankle – I hadn’t imagined either of those events – and I did need to know what the deal was. This line, between indulging neuroticism and looking after my body, is not easy for me.

In the past my tendency toward hypochondria has generally not concentrated on anything as banal as musculoskeletal injury. But now this project literally hinges on my own joint articulation, so it was obvious that anxiety would cluster there. In retrospect, I rate my handling of this recent episode – in terms of sensible self-care vs. unjustified concern – at perhaps seven out of 10.

I wanted to get out again. I skied the next day. The foot felt swollen, the medial boot buckle seemed tight, but I could ski. The day after that I took myself back down the same ungroomed run where I’d fallen. That afternoon I climbed some 750 m. It seemed to be getting better. Then Wednesday and Thursday saw two demanding days out with a mountain guide – a magnificent experience, which deserves a separate write-up – but the second day was long. By the time we made it down I was in considerable pain. I’d pushed too far.

Friday was a planned day off; Saturday and Sunday I had lessons scheduled. At the start of the Saturday lesson, focused on off-piste, things seemed fine. Then I fell again, the same leg, the same place, the same wrench. I got up. I carried on for a bit, then decided this was stupid. I curtailed the lesson, cancelled the one for the following day. I booked to see a physio down the valley.

When I stopped, I realized I was dead tired. From all the skiing, but also everything else. My other life hadn’t stopped when this project began. In January I had to close a major magazine piece, which meant sequential 5 and 6 a.m. starts before training on the mountain. It was good to have downtime. But my mood plummeted. How serious was the ankle damage? Should I have completely stopped when I first fell? It was touch sensitive. I slipped on a wet floor getting out of the bath and felt the same wrench.

As my mood darkened, the physical environment seemed to shift. The valley went from a place of beauty to one that seemed topographically overbearing. I spoke to an American friend who lives in the French Alps. She immediately identified “valley fever,” the claustrophobic sense that comes from an extended spell in a remote place. Two days in Paris was a recognized cure, she joked. I couldn’t sleep well.

I think it will be okay. After two days off the ankle was feeling better. As I write this I’ve just been to my in-person physio. The practitioner there echoed Tonya. It should be fine to get back on skis tomorrow. Take it easy for a few days, then follow the body’s instructions. It’s just a sprain. But navigating that stretches my head as much as any tendon.

Simon Akam is a British journalist and author. His first book, The Changing of the Guard – The British Army since 9/11, published in 2021, was a Times Literary Supplement book of the year and won the Templer First Book Prize. Simon can be found at @simonakam on Twitter, @simon.akam on Instagram.

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