les collons – TeamLouka

As an emergency physician, I’ve probably developed a little too much alarm fatigue. So when the fire alarm started blaring through the chalet at 6:30 a.m., my first thought wasn’t, We should evacuate. It was, Is this thing actually real?

Fortunately, it wasn’t.

Unfortunately, we were all awake.

Since sleep was off the table, I grabbed my camera and stepped onto the balcony. The early morning light over the valley was spectacular, and the Matterhorn was putting on a show. If you’re going to get jolted awake by a false alarm, this is about the best view you could ask for.

We walked up to Thyon Resort and found the ski lift called Trabanta which took us to the top of Thyon 2000. The kids were surprisingly brave on the ski lift. For the two youngest, it was their very first time ever getting on—and more importantly, getting off—a chairlift. They handled it far better than I ever did.

I couldn’t help but think about my own two legendary ski lift failures.

The first happened when I was three years old. I don’t remember which ski resort we were at, but I was skiing with my parents. I’d just climbed onto the lift when, apparently, I sat on a patch of ice. As the chair pulled away, my tiny three-year-old body slid right underneath the safety bar.

By nothing short of a miracle, one foot caught on the bottom of the chair, catching my boot strap, leaving me dangling upside down instead of plummeting to the ground below.

My mom later told me there was a retaining wall approaching that I was moments away from colliding with while everyone below frantically tried to get the lift operator’s attention. Somehow the lift was stopped in time, and—if family lore serves me correctly—my dad was able to reach down and haul me back into the chair.

Not exactly the confidence-building ski experience most toddlers have.

#1BibSister and I rode together, which turned out to be the perfect pairing. We were equally excited to finally see real Swiss cows up close—the kind with enormous bells hanging around their necks that we’d been hearing long before we ever spotted them. We also share a mutual appreciation for a well-timed selfie, so we managed to capture a few favorites while floating high above the valley.

As we approached the unloading area, however, we noticed the lift had stopped a few chairs ahead of us.

Turns out Amir and #1BigBrother couldn’t get their safety bar to lift, so the operator had to come help them before they could get off. #1LittleSister and Lidia disembarked without incident, and #1BigSister and I stepped off just fine.

So technically…the Louka family ski lift mishap count still belongs entirely to me.

Scooter “bikes” you can rent and ride down

At the top of the mountain, we took a short—but surprisingly steep—trail down to a little mountainside restaurant that looked like something out of a postcard. There were horse stables nearby, a trampoline, a bounce house, a giant bull statue, and panoramic views in every direction.

I ordered the cheese polenta, which was rich, creamy, and absolutely worth the hike.

After brunch, we continued our descent, stopping to finally meet the famous Swiss cows we’d admired from above. Their oversized bells echoed through the valley long before we reached them. Some had impressive curved horns, all were enormous, and surprisingly few seemed interested in staying behind fences. They were calm, friendly, and completely unfazed by a family of American tourists taking far too many pictures.

By this point, everyone was feeling the miles. Several of us had also come to the shared realization that Crocs are wonderful vacation shoes…right up until you decide to hike down a Swiss mountain.

As we reached the bottom near the chairlift, another childhood memory came rushing back—my second ski lift disaster.

Ironically, it had also happened in Switzerland.

I was about eight years old, traveling with my parents, my sister Kristin, and our family friends, the Wrights. It was my very first trip outside the United States. We had come to Switzerland for spring break to ski, and I remember thinking it was the greatest adventure imaginable.

One day, my parents went ahead while Kristin and I lined up for a T-bar lift—the kind that pulls skiers uphill while they remain on the snow. The bar tucks behind you, with one person on each side. In theory, it’s simple.

In reality, it requires both riders to be roughly the same height.

At eight years old and with my teenage sister beside me, we were…not.

Looking back, the contraption resembled equal parts ski equipment and an oversized IUD.

We didn’t make it very far before our balance gave out. As soon as we let go, the T-bar snapped back toward the cable at full speed and smacked me squarely in the back of the head.

Instantly there was blood everywhere.

Let me tell you—bright red blood against fresh white snow is a visual that sticks with you.

Meanwhile, my parents were already well up the mountain, completely oblivious to what had happened.

A kind stranger took off my skis, carried me like a toddler, and skied me all the way down to a small medical clinic. Remember, this was long before cell phones. Kristin and I had no identification, no money, and no way to contact anyone.

As luck would have it, the physician working in that tiny Swiss clinic was an American—from Pensacola, Florida, where we had once lived. We had never met him before, but after hearing our story he simply said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll send your parents the bill.”

Two weeks after we got home to Virginia, the invoice arrived.

Total amount due: $40.

My dad happily paid it.

Kristin and I somehow found our own way back to the ski lodge, only to discover our parents and the Wrights sitting comfortably by the fire with their boots off, completely unaware that we’d made an unscheduled stop at Swiss urgent care. Looking back as an adult, I’m fairly confident they had enjoyed a drink or two while waiting.

Thankfully, everything turned out just fine.

Back at the chalet, I attempted an afternoon nap, but sleep wasn’t happening. Instead, #1LittleSister convinced me to join her in the hot tub.

I tried explaining that a hot tub is not a swimming pool—it’s more of a sitting pool.

She respectfully disagreed.

Within minutes she was splashing with Olympic-level enthusiasm while I abandoned any hope of relaxation and simply accepted that parenting, much like ski lifts, rarely goes exactly according to plan.

For dinner, we piled back into the car and made the 30-minute drive down the mountain to the charming village of Evolène, a postcard-perfect Swiss town nestled along the river. Dark wooden chalets lined the streets, each balcony overflowing with colorful flower boxes, while restaurants buzzed with the unmistakable energy of people lingering over good food and good conversation.

We wandered into the first restaurant we came across, Restaurant Au Mazot Chez Raymonde, which, as luck would have it, also happened to be the highest-rated on Google.

Stepping inside felt like stepping back in time.

The restaurant is more than 350 years old, complete with its two original stone fireplaces that still anchor the dining room today. The atmosphere was everything you’d hope for in an old Swiss mountain inn: cozy, bustling, a little noisy, delightfully unhurried, with the warmth of the fireplaces filling the room and the unmistakable aroma of melting raclette drifting through the air.

The woman tending the open hearth had worked there her entire life and was dressed in traditional Swiss clothing. Looking around at the centuries-old photographs and drawings hanging on the walls, it was remarkable to see that the women working there today are still wearing essentially the same attire as those who came generations before them.

Every meal at our table was excellent, but by this point the early 6:30 a.m. fire alarm, the mountain hike, and the fresh alpine air had finally caught up with all of us. We were ready to head back to the chalet, crawl into bed, and recharge for another adventure.