A typical finale

"There's only one person I'd be this stupid with" admits Curly Wurly, somewhere in the middle of nowhere and at some point in the middle of our second, and considerably far more adventurous excursion into the extensive unknown terrain between the slightly more sensible pisted runs of The Grand Montet. The sumptuously untouched and pristine-powered-perfection of the undulating white diamond coverings between the dense abundance of obstacles, as if the formations of the trees were adopting their own magical stance of a uniquely designed slalom run, that existed only for us. Flickers from the ever maturing sun pierced through every available space belonging to the woods that was now firmly immersing these two young women- each displaying almost identical levels of elation, adrenalin and anticipation brushed with an unknown potential great fear for what could unravel to be one great huge fuck-off walk all the way back up the tracks we'd just pierced and punished with our sharpened planks carving their way, working in perfect tandem to one another. Another realisation hit home, that time was also not on our side and that even if we did endure + enable our way back up the ascent, we probably wouldn't make it in time to catch the adjoining lift that would connect us back to civilisation. So I suppose it was just a very good thing that eventually- after some rib-tickling red-faced trekking uphill after all, that we made it triumphantly to the other side where we were relieved to join an abundance of other scraping zig-zagging descendants, impatient to regale our amusing exploits to the rest of the Epic8. And with miraculous timing, the clouds came out of nowhere + loomed down extensively lower than where we had been peeling our way through the unidentified mountain markings, where our fated question marks had been dominantly present alongside us. After some extortionate demis bought for everyone by the ever giving Si Si, we embarked on a few finale runs that would sadly mark the impending departure of my Wurls. Please note, this is when my dear friends hair began resembling some sort of funky-granny-come-scrappy Cruella Deville, featured in the bottom left of today's montage.

Après-ski in our local haunt was followed by cocktail hours leaping about to lavish tracks like lunatics in the comfort of our own home4one turned home4seven. We'd find ourselves expressively bumping + grinding to tracks like this, and this, and this, and this, and this, on the poor wine stained innocent floors, in great honour and appreciation of free expression. But most importantly, perhaps it was a celebration of finding small but sturdy clusters of like-minded people who share this great formidable need to rebel against the act of behaving 'normally'.

We went out for veggie burgers that Rose articulately described as Shag Burgers, in gratitude of their great taste. I think she might be onto something.

Then a quick wiggle in a Swedish joint.

Then, ah, rest. If only for a few hours.