Morgan McGlashon makes the most of a low-vis day in Grand Teton National Park, WY. Photo: Katie Lozancich

The wind was howling violently, swirling into my jacket from the top and bottom. Visibility had decreased to just barely past my ski tips. My stomach churned as I tried to ski downhill—my balance was so precarious, I spent at least two minutes “skiing” before realizing that I actually hadn’t moved an inch. 

We saw the storm coming but we couldn’t help ourselves. How bad could it be? We wondered, trying to justify a foray into the cirque behind the Westfalenhaus, a mountain hut in Austria’s Stubai Alps. We wouldn’t be skiing on any glaciers, and we told ourselves that walled-in couloirs had plenty of definition.

Max and I had already been shut down a few days in a row on our week-long trip to Austria. It was a fickle March week in the Austrian Alps—either too snowy to safely ski above treeline, or so sunny and warm that new snow flushed down from the steep walls above us. Today was the former, and we optimistically barreled out into the storm, ignoring our fellow hut-goers who were wisely planning to sleep in and play cards next to the roaring wood stove. 

After a few hours of vertigo-inducing pow turns, we bailed on venturing into anything steep and beelined back to the hut—tail between our legs, equal parts irritable and nauseous. 

Collapsing inside the cozy wooden walls, the warm smell of sugar and butter wafting from the kitchen immediately erased my disappointment. A few words of German from Max to the hut keeper and we were staring at a towering plate of sugary, pancakey goodness. 

A sugary plate of Kaiserchmarrn at an Austrian alpine hut is the best remedy for poor ski conditions. Photo: Lily Krass Ritter

Kaiserschmarrn—which roughly translates to “emperor’s mess”—is traditional Austrian hut fare, named after Austrian emperor Franz Joseph I who was fond of this scrambled eggy pancake during his reign during the turn of the 20th century. It’s standard in most alpine refuges, often served with applesauce, jam and orange slices, scrambled in a pan with butter, then getting doused in a healthy sprinkle of powdered sugar. 

We soothed our sorrows with butter and sugar (as one does), dunking our scrambled pancake in homemade strawberry jam. We laughed about our whiteout escapades, disorienting powder turns and gloppy spring snow just a few days before. We had dreamed of knocking out couloir after couloir, exploring nooks and crannies of the Austrian Alps until we could barely stand. But it was that messy plate of scrambled sweet pancake scraps that we still talk about to this day. 

Traveling across the Atlantic for a ski trip comes with a tall order of expectations. Cost, time off work, the stress of planning a complex activity in an unfamiliar place. A week-long trip can really be a crapshoot. But while the mountains are fickle and impossible to predict, some things are guaranteed—mainly the ability to acquire a delicious dessert in an alpine hut. 

“We probably should have just done this in the first place,” Max said after we’d dusted the last of our pancake mess. 

As the snow swirled around outside the steamy windows and we fought over the last miniscule crumbs of Kaiserschmarrn, I let go of the heavy weight of expectations I’d been carrying. Our trip wasn’t perfect, in many ways it was as messy as the dessert we’d just devoured, but curled up in the warmth of the Westfalenhaus’ wooden booth, everything felt just right. 

Flat light, no problem. As long as there’s Kaiserschmarrn waiting at the hut. Photo: Max Ritter