A morning, of all extremes

It was all going so well.

The new determined generous sunshine pushing our planks to yet more new limits, as we explored the vast gorges of powdered off piste at Le Grand Montet; gargling with glee as we glided to higher glistening points- stopping now + then to check that none of our team had fallen off any edges, until pushing further beneath the simmering sky. Everyone on fire, with the heavy heads that sat around the croissant ladened breakfast table subliminally subsided to form a team of eagerly enthusiastic adrenalin pumpsed up powder goats. Didn't think we'd be able to top these trails, until we bumped into a pea green hard hat with a shining Dan within it, fashioning two free UnLTD passes that would take us all the way to the top of the glacier; as high + as close as you can get to Mont Blanc the massive. 3275metres high and we were suddenly looking at mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains. Miles + miles of mountains and nothing else. Perfection. Fully aware that the only thing between our perching on the peaks + a jolly good feeding was a pretty extensive ungroomed black run, so after a high altitude bon-ski embrace clinking rosy cheeks we got to work on the downhill. Ecstatic with how it was all going, we wiggled our bums + sliced through the frozen sea of moguls, stopping occasionally to keep a check on reality- that we really were somewhere this beautiful. After we made a deal to return to this place one day with sandwiches + stolen champagne to climb the rocky gorge like goats + indulge in a highly romantic end of season wonder moment, we negotiated our sweet way down to find familiar snow roads. But then?? z-z-z-z-d-o-o-o-o-o-m-!-!-! There goes Smith, the giant tumbling snowball ricocheting down a near vertical drop; skis ejecting into the sky like flying arrows embarking on a journey as if to find someone else's more competent churning feet to attach themselves to. Knee in place; check. Head facing the right way; check. Remembering what my favourite animal is; check. Location of Dan;

wait,

where is Dan?

As I hacked my toes into my new climbing area several times to create each foot hole that would see me venturing on a good 15mtr scramble to reclaim my discarded goods, I searched around for that beloved pea green head but with disconcertingly, no visual relief of his whereabouts. Until? z-z-z-z-d-o-o-o-o-o-m-!-!-! Rocketing past me at twice the speed of my recent calamity, was a ski-less, pole-less, goggle-less Dan; displaying powerlessly frantic attempts of quarrying every available edge and limb to instigate an ending to this plummeting palaver. Fifty heart stopping metres later, my Dan, my man, was still + safe + in one piece once again. But the next hour and a half was an interesting one, as the poor bugger had to embark on the same exhausting ascent peering over moguls the size of sky scrapers in a fatigued attempt to collect his belongings.

Needless to say, the sandwich when we got back home tasted really nice.