Saint-Moritz began as a bet. It is not currently clear that anyone is losing. In 1864, a hotelier named Caspar Badrutt invited a group of English jollymakers out to a Swiss mountain village for the summer season, to frolic in its lake, romp in its forests, and take in the curative air. Before they left, Badrutt challenged the group to come back in the winter, once the snow had fallen and the lake had frozen over and the fair-weather tourists had departed. Winter? You must be mad!, they said. Ice is for cocktails! But Badrutt bet them that, should they make the journey that December, they would discover just as many sunny days as in the summer—or he’d pay for their entire trip. They came, they saw, they fondued. And it’s been downhill pretty much ever since.
I mean that as a compliment. The Alpine village—set at the foot of the Upper Engadine Valley, beside a vast and usefully frozen lake—is set up to find ways to go down. The skiing is reliably excellent and stretches across both sides of the valley: chiefly in Corviglia (a sprawling sun trap, with thrumming après terraces) and in the beguiling Corvatsch, a more purist pursuit.
