Heidi is haunting me. Outside my train window, traditional wooden chalets with red shutters and slate roofs dot the snow-blanketed countryside, nimble-footed mountain goats and sheep graze on hillsides, and snow glistens on the mountain summits. I expect to see the beloved storybook character around each bend.

Snow brought me to Switzerland, Heidi’s homeland. I’ve come to ski, snowshoe and toboggan; bask in the glitz of chic St. Moritz; savor views and lunch aboard the Glacier Express en route to sprawling Zermatt; and pop over Zermatt’s summit glaciers to Cervinia, Italy, and back, just because I can. In between, I pad my winter adventure — and, unfortunately, my body — with as much cheese, chocolate and strudel as I can devour.

A 1968 Rolls-Royce Phantom, previously owned by the British royal family, eases me into this winter adventure, transporting me from the St. Moritz station to the aptly named 5-star Badrutt’s Palace Hotel. In 1864, hotel proprietor Johannes Badrutt promised four English guests that if they didn’t enjoy the hotel in winter, he’d reimburse their travel costs. They came, returned tanned and relaxed, and St. Moritz has been a fashionable winter destination since, even hosting the Olympics in 1928 and 1948. I assuage travel kinks in the hotel’s spa, an adventure in itself with rooms designated Ice, Mist, Aroma Therapy, Salt-steam, Massage Shower and Rain Shower.

The next morning, Badrutt’s Ski School instructor/guide Rudolf Bachman and I head to Corvigilia, one of four non-contiguous alpine areas rimming Lake St. Moritz. We emerge from the funicular into a white sea of wide-open slopes zippered with chairlifts backed by a bluebird sky, a common occurrence in a village boasting 322 days of sunshine each year. I flash a grin and we’re off, run after endless run on the 31 named trails lacing the bowls and slopes. The pitch is predominantly intermediate, the experience as 5-star as Badrutt’s. Rudolf stops at a children’s snow park and points to a rustic shelter. “That’s the original hut from the movie Heidi,” he says.

After wrapping around the back side of Piz Nair, we work our way to lunch at El Paradiso, a tucked-away treasure overlooking St. Moritz and the Engadine Valley. We bask in the sunshine, lounging on a sheepskin-lined bench, and begin with a platter of local air-dried meats, cheeses, salami and Parma ham, followed by pizzocheri, a hearty local casserole of potatoes and cheese with pancetta and chard. As we eat, Rudolf points across Lake St. Moritz to the Diavolezza area. “You can ski by moonlight on full-moon nights,” he says. I immediately regret not being around for that. Rudolf interrupts my pity party. “We must have dessert — the vanilla cream pastry is famous.” What arrives is a slice of sin, a confectionery masterpiece light as air yet rich with cream.

The next afternoon, after nibbling Engadiner nutcakes and Swiss chocolates, I transition from the grandeur of Badrutt’s via horse-drawn sleigh to Lej da Staz, a secluded and cozy 10-room lodge and restaurant tucked in a nature reserve. I’m smitten from the minute I arrive. Some of the region’s 200 miles of maintained Nordic and winter walking trails pass by the door. I grab a map and set out for an afternoon jaunt.

If I’d hoped for a reprieve from indulgent dining, I don’t find it here. I savor a spinach salad with local bleu cheese followed by hay soup, a local specialty that reminds me of a light mushroom bisque, and then a saltimbocca with basil risotto, a house specialty. A couple at an adjacent table strike up a conversation, and when they learn I’m American, beg me not to tell too many others about this hideaway.

It’s snowing lightly as I depart St. Moritz for Zermatt on one of the world’s most scenic rail excursions, the Glacier Express. During the seven-hour journey, I’m never bored. We cross 291 bridges, including the iconic Landwasser viaduct; pass through 91 tunnels; and chug over the Oberalp Pass, where the snow is 40 feet deep. We pass ski areas and toboggan runs, cross-country skiers and snowshoers, houses decorated with sgraffito and ancient churches, frozen veils of ice and castle ruins. When we roll through the town where Heidi filmed, I expect her cantankerous grandfather to emerge from a mountain hut.

Zermatt | Photo: © Serban Enache | Dreamstime.comsw

St. Moritz is modern, tony and intimate; Zermatt is traditional, charming and massive. St. Moritz has the lake; Zermatt, the Matterhorn. Neither private cars nor combustion engines are allowed in Zermatt, so the air is clean and the buzz of electric vehicles replaces the vroom of motors.Getting around is easy, thanks to a free bus system along with funiculars, gondolas, trams and railways that ascend the mountains from downtown. I meet my guide, Urs, at the train station, plan a dinner rendezvous, then check in at the 4-star Hotel National. From my balcony, I immediately begin snapping pics of the Matterhorn against the twilight blue sky.

Urs planned a double treat. We catch the Tuesday night late tram to the mountain village of Furi for fondue at the Restaurant Gitz-Gadi, followed by a nearly two-mile slide back to town on a sledge. The air is clean and crisp, the sky clear, and the full moon illuminates the snow-packed path. Steering and braking are by foot, and I’m slow to adjust to anticipate the many twists and turns. As my confidence builds, so does my speed. We careen through the woods with only the soft whoosh of the runners breaking the silence of the night.

Zermatt’s countless peaks are etched with 73 lifts and more than 153 miles of marked trails, not to mention innumerable acres of off-piste terrain. The next day we begin on the Matterhorn Glacier Paradise, an area of open slopes laced with groomed highways serviced by gondolas, high-speed six-packs and a summit tram. Our initial plan was to ride the tram and then drop over the back side into Cervinia, Italy, but clouds shroud the peak. Instead, we concentrate on Zermatt, barely carving tracks in the vast terrain before stopping for lunch at Restaurant Alphitta in the Riffenalp area, one of more than 50 on-mountain restaurants. Over rosti and grilled meats, we plot the afternoon.

Thanks to Zermatt’s many high-speed lifts, we ratchet up the miles but by no means conquer the terrain. When my legs beg for mercy, we descend to Cervo, a happening après-ski spot just above town. After one Glühwein, I’m ready for spa time, but being the lone female with a group of naked German men is a bit more adventure than I want.

Day two dawns without a cloud in the sky, so we return to the Matterhorn Glacier Paradise, this time riding the tram to the 12,740-foot summit station. The oxygen-deprived air leaves me sluggish and gasping for breath. “Gawd, I’m out of shape,” I wheeze. “It’s the altitude,” Urs kindly replies, and then leads me to the top of the world.

The unrivaled panorama takes in 28 peaks higher than 13,000 feet. I gaze over Switzerland, Italy and even France, eyes lingering on the Matterhorn and Mount Blanc. The engineering feat required to build this tram and summit station is beyond comprehension, and then Urs tells me there are plans to add another summit tram from Zermatt as well as one from Italy.

We descend the year-round glacier-skiing area and then drop down the south-facing side in Italy. There is no border check, but I’ve pocketed my passport just in case. It’s roughly seven miles down to Cervinia, and I loop big arcing turns on the groomed route. We ride a succession of trams and gondolas to return to Zermatt. After refueling with a traditional macaroni and cheese dish paired with applesauce, we ease back to town on Europe’s longest ski run. The 11-mile thigh burner leaves me begging for mercy.

I’m on my own the third day. I plan to ski the entire resort and over to Italy and back, a ridiculously ambitious plan, beginning with the day’s first Gornegrat Express train, something I’m pining to experience. It chugs through the lower forested slopes and emerges above the tree line, occasionally passing through tunnels in avalanche zones. Others exit at lower stations, but I ride to the summit and have the Gornegrat slopes practically to myself. I linger too long before moving to other sectors, and when my stomach rumbles, I’m at Rothorn, about as far from Italy as possible.

After scarfing down a huge bowl of pasta and a generous slice of strudel, I begin weaving my way across the peaks — except I misread the map not once but twice and end up at an on-mountain train station. Instead of zipping up the Matterhorn Express gondola, I’m chugging up the Gornegrat train. By the time I’ve skied down and taken the gondola to Furi, planning to ascend from there, I’m cooked. My return to Italy will have to wait for another time, and besides, Heidi doesn’t live there.

INFO TO GO

International flights arrive from the United States at Zürich International Airport (ZRH). Trains run regularly for the 12- to 15-minute ride from the airport’s Flughafen station to Zürich Hauptbahnhof, the main station, for connections to St. Moritz, a 3.5- to 4-hour trip requiring one change. The Glacier Express, a full-day trip, connects St. Moritz to Zermatt. The return rail journey from Zermatt to Zürich Airport takes three hours and requires one change.