One man laces and re-laces his colorful ski boots red, yellow, purple, green. And the race is on. At times, it falls nearly silent except for the shushing of skis or the pricking of poles in the snow.
Most athletes travel by bus, on a road barely wide enough to accommodate a passing cyclist.
Bordered first on one side and then on the other by a steeply rising mountainside dotted with tall evergreens and an occasional, lonesome cabin, the path snakes and trudges upward, switchback by tricky switchback. As we travel along the rim of the ridges surrounding the Canton Valais, the small sprawl of Sion, its capital, can be seen following along the thin line of the Rhone River that runs through it. More and more snow gathers as the bus ascends, and only the prickly tops of evergreen trees are visible and nothing more until the road settles back and eases toward Siviez a skiing outpost far smaller than Nendaz, and without the many local shops and specialty restaurants and hidden night spots. Here skiing is the thing the only thing and the cross-country course awaits. On a protruding platform just off the designated course and crowded by the looming mountain peaks, the 40 or so men and women mill and fidget, speaking different languages, shaking hands, and raising voices of greeting or advice.