Switzerland: There's no shoes like snowshoes

Already a keen skier, Francisca Kellett was happy to try a new activity. Until she discovered she was going alone...

I've signed up for a taster weekend of snowshoeing in Switzerland on the premise that it would be a mini adventure, an exciting alternative to skiing. Snowshoeing, usually associated with frostbitten explorers, is becoming fashionable. Snowboarders have taken to hiking up mountains in search of fresh powder, and skiers see it as an alternative to a day on the busy pistes, a way of accessing areas not usually open to skiers. I love skiing, but rather fancy the image of trudging over steep passes behind a rugged mountaineer, head bent against the searing wind, tennis rackets strapped to my feet.

But doing it alone - that seems like an altogether more serious endeavour. I'm partial to a stroll in Regent's Park, but I don't think I qualify as a hiker, let alone climber. "Tomorrow, we'll all go together," Benno says, finally emerging. He laughs at my terrified expression and hands me my snowshoes. They're smaller than I'd imagined, and nothing at all like tennis rackets; more like slim aluminium frames with taut strips of plastic. I look at them dumbly and he points out the pink-dotted route on my map. Walk up, turn right, follow the pink markers to the top and come back down. It sounds simple enough, and he assures me that there's no danger of avalanches.

As I've only got two days in the mountains, I'm keen to get going. I warm to the idea of setting out alone. I imagine telling friends back home that I'd conquered one of the Alps on my own, that I'd trudged over glaciers and leapt over ravines to stand, fearlessly, on a wind-lashed peak. I deflate a little when Benno points out Alp Sura from the porch - it looks more like a hillock than a mountain, but then perhaps I shouldn't be pushing myself too hard on my first day... He helps me to strap on the shoes and watches me waddle off. I feel like a toddler on her first day at nursery school, unsteady on my feet and launching into an unfamiliar world, watched by my burly, sunburnt mother.

It's still early, and I'm completely alone, a light dusting of snow covering yesterday's prints. At the first pink pole marking the beginning of the trail, I peer up at the cloud-shrouded peak of Sura - it looks more foreboding from this angle - and feel like Scott of the Antarctic. I take a last look at the village, gulp down a lungful of air and begin to climb, digging my sticks into the icy crust with each step. Within minutes, I'm breathing hard, heart thumping, and thinking, irritably, how quick and easy skiing down a slope is in comparison. I peel off layers, slow my pace, pick up a rhythm. The wamp-crunch, wamp-crunch of my snowshoes is hypnotic; it's a comforting sound, like a steam locomotive pulling out of a station.

Winding my way up the trail, I step on the fading tracks of yesterday's snowshoes, and slowly the mountains open up around me. When I stop to catch my breath, I'm shocked by the intensity of the silence. The village has dropped far below and lies hidden and muffled by fat, snow-covered hills. It feels unthinkably distant from the bustle of the ski slopes further up the Engadine Valley.

After an hour of stiff climbing, I trudge over a layer of powder, leaving a row of Donald Duck-shaped prints behind me. I'm like a pioneer, I think, dizzily, looking out over the peaks. Perhaps it's the altitude, but I feel euphoric and throw myself back to make a snow angel. I sit up quickly, feeling foolish.

The path winds into a dense wood, and, as I arrive at the first trees, a long-forgotten childhood fear of forests bubbles up. The trees rise, black and menacing; I half-expect a woodcutter, crazed by a lonely winter, to come tearing out. But then the sun breaks through the snowy haze, the shadows are brightened and the feeling disappears. Moving between the trees, I notice things that I've never seen on skis: the moss that hangs from fir trees; rocks poking out of the snow with patches as bright as polished platinum; animal tracks criss-crossing the forest floor; the earthy smell of deer droppings.

The rhythm of my snowshoes lulls me, and I realise with a start that I've cleared the forest. After a punishing, thigh-burning stretch through knee-deep powder, I arrive at the top of Sura, at 2,120m. I breathe deeply, staring at the horseshoe of jagged peaks.

Within minutes, I'm shivering, the sweat turning to ice on my neck. Setting off down the fresh slopes, I long for my skis, but then discover that moving downhill in snowshoes is a joy, a bounding long-legged sensation that sends me flying down. I race through the forest and cross fellow-snowshoers coming up. They are locals and they nod and say, "Allegra!", as I pass. I assume that it's some sort of hero's welcome for making it to the top first, and grin proudly. Within an hour, I'm back in the valley, feeling super-fit and ravenous.

That night, over a cheese fondue, I regale my fellow-diners with stories of silent forests and breathtaking views. Some of them have snowshoed before, and they nod knowingly. But the following day, when Benno leads us all out on a guided tour, any notions of silence vanish. Tramping out in a straggling line over the snow-covered fields, I'm amazed at the noise our snowshoes make. Together, we sound like a 12-carriage steam train thundering across the valley - a shock after the peace of the previous day. The mood is light-hearted, though, and I quickly adapt to walking with others, chatting and pointing out sights on the way. I soon see the benefit of having a guide: Benno leads us through the freshest snow, over the safest river crossings, and to the best views. He also shows us how to "fly" through deep snow - big, bounding steps that speed us down the slopes in a flurry of flakes. As we approach our hotel, we pass an elderly couple hiking. "Allegra!" they shout; "Allegra!" Benno replies, heartily. I ask him what allegra means. Congratulations? Bravo? No. It's hello in Romansh.

Never mind, I reason: I felt pretty intrepid yesterday, even if the locals weren't congratulating me on my bravery. And I've never felt intrepid on skis. Looking up at Sura, smudged by clouds, I still feel a flush of pride for making it to the top on my own.

TRAVELLER'S GUIDE

GETTING THERE

Inntravel (01653 617906; www.inntravel.co.uk) offers week-long snowshoeing holidays in the Engadine Valley from £795. This includes seven nights' half-board accommodation, return flights from Heathrow to Zurich with BA, transfers, three guided snowshoeing excursions and a horse-drawn sleigh ride. Departures for next year are 14 January, 4 February and 11 and 18 March.

Zurich airport is served by Swiss (0845 601 0956; www.swiss.com) from Birmingham, Heathrow and London City; BA (0870 850 9850; www.ba.com) from Bristol and Heathrow; and Helvetic (020-7026 3464; www.helvetic.com) from Luton.

STAYING THERE

Hotel Meisser, Guarda, Graubünden (00 41 81 862 2132; www.hotel-meisser.ch). B&B from Sf186 (£82).

FURTHER INFORMATION

Graubünden Tourism (00 41 81 254 24 24; www.graubuenden.ch).
Switzerland Tourism (00 800 100 20030; www.switzerlandtourism.com).