Hi!
First we must back up in time as it takes a forty-five minute sequence of lifts, a poma, a chair and a gondola, before arriving even near to any of the summits.
From there, the hearty strap their skis to their backpacks and climb. Depending on the particular objective, the uphill walk may take from 15 to 45 minutes. Thanks to the 3,000 metre elevation, I struggle with the climb. Difficult enough in ski boots on the crusty, uneven snow on the edge of a mountain top where one slip can ruin your day, the rarified air intensifies the effort. Climb a little too fast and it begins to feel like you are breathing through a straw! But we do this because so very few skiers do and the otherwise inaccessible couloirs that I will soon ski down take my breath away. But I'm jumping ahead of myself.
I arrive at the summit -- only here can one gaze around in any direction of the 360 degree palette of options, and see forever! The immense blankets of snow spill away below me, the wind having sculpted them into arrays of textures further enhanced by the myriad of shadows realized by the sun's rays, that slowly fade downhill into the distance. Very far below, there is no longer any snow remaining and one can see across to a hamlet, a handful of centuries old homes, patiently awaiting the warmth that always comes with spring. I look up at the horizon, 20 or 30 km even 40 km away to see ranges of snow-covered mountains, some presumably perched above their own ski villages. The air is crisp and so transparent that it feels as though I can reach out and touch the other side. Not a cloud in sight, the sky is perfectly blue although broken now and then by the wispy contrails of jets passing so very high above in all directions whisking their passengers to and fro. I imagine that some of them are straining to see straight down to the very summit on which I stand. It is magical on this sun-drenched day for how can my eyes tire from this that is nature's splendour?
We approach the couloir with trepidation, its pitch is so steep that I cannot see the slope itself even whIle standing at its precipice with my ski tips over the edge. Almost scarier than the steepness is the narrowness, I must manage each turn immediately after the previous one -- there is no space to serpentine downhill as when skiing the vallons. One more concern: falling is not an option. I would slide down at least 250 metres and possibly crash into one of the rock walls on either side of the couloir. It is not terrifying, frankly, as I know I am capable of navigating the challenge, but I am apprehensive, which emotion I conclude will keep me safe. All my senses heighten as I enter and make my first turn. I not only feel the snow's reaction under the weight of my skis but I can hear the comforting sound it makes, I can see the powder kicking up behind me in my peripheral vision, I can almost taste it as I breathe in and out. I have no time to revel, I turn again and again as I advance down the (did I mention?) narrow, steep, scary couloir, stopping every 15 turns to catch my breath and look up at what I have just successfully accomplished. My confidence is boosted, and coupled with the gradually widening couloir, I continue with more finesse than before, and with more satisfaction, too! I cannot be sure that I am skiing better than ever (which I doubt) but I am certain that I am replete with contentment, with the joy of taking the chance to succeed as opposed to abstain, to marvel at the beauty with each pause as opposed to passing up the opportunity and descending an easier slope. Unlike other sports that require motors (like water-skiing) or opponents (like tennis), or even cycling (which requires a path to follow), skiing hors-piste avails the athlete to choose his own route, and speed, and style so long as the laws of gravity prevail. The fluidity or sense of flow that can be experienced is lacking in most other sports but ever-present for me here, now.
Just yesterday, a man was skiing a couloir (alone) at the neighbouring ski resort and fell. All we know is that he was found dead, below, an hour or two later. I suppose with all the millions of skiers that love the sport, and the many thousands that crave the hors-piste challenges, these horrific accidents are bound to happen. Of course I am safe and never alone when I ski. In fact we wear a location beeper if ever the unlikely avalanche occurs and our backpacks contain collapsible shovels, in case.
There are few areas in the world where one can ski down steep, untracked hors-piste slopes from a 3,200 metre elevation down to 1,200 metres, the last 300 metres through the woods, without seeing another human other than those in your own group. And for me, the frequent pauses to recover my breath give me pause to gaze around and remember that the possibilities are infinite!
Here's hoping you can pause, breathe and be grateful, from time to time, too.
Barry
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