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It is a winsome fate, to be a nonskier in a world-class ski resort. To be in Davos without skis is like visiting L.A. without a car. People wonder what you're up to (in my case, an assignment at the avalanche research center).

It doesn't help that Switzerland is in the midst of a record-breaking snowstorm. The snow is coming down hard, in knuckle-sized rafts of flakes, big pillowy chunks that hit your glasses and explode into fluff. Roofs are mattressed with snow, a foot since last night. A car goes by with bits of white still clinging to its exterior, like a man who's gone out with shaving cream on his face. (You can tell at once who has a garage and who doesn't.)

Outside my hotel window, pedestrians steady themselves with ski poles. A pair of teenagers ski down the street and park their equipment in a rack outside the pastry shop. (They have ski racks here the way we have bicycle racks.)

I have to get out and do something in it. At the information kiosk, a woman suggests "sledging," which I've never heard of. It has the sound of an arcane ice sport, like curling, which they do daily here in Davos. (Originally a Scottish sport, curling combines the joys of bowling and scrubbing floors and has gained great popularity in both Switzerland and Canada, countries with too much winter on their hands.)

Sensing my confusion, the information woman draws me a picture of what appears to be a person in a rocking chair. Then she points to the mountain behind the building. God love the Swiss! They slide down mountains in their rocking chairs! Then she points out the window at a girl who is pulling her little sister on a sled. Sledding, is what she means.

Sledding is apparently something of a trend these days. Ski resorts are building sled runs that hairpin down the sides of mountains for 1, 2, even 7 miles. I am directed down the street to the Shatzalp funicular railroad, at the base of which is a sled rental shop. A funicular is the precursor to an aerial tramway. It's a cable car that trundles up the side of the Alps at preposterous angles, an elevator with a slouch.

The sled rental man takes my 8 francs and hands me a sled. It is simple, made from wood and painted bright red. I hold in my mittens 35 pounds of sweet, unadulterated childhood. This is going to be great.

Next page | Learning to be a kid again