I think I am about to get my ass whupped on the slopes today, the best thing going for me is that my cousins are exhausted from their two week marathon session of midterms–an unfortunate circumstance that happens after the holidays in Europe, meaning Christmas is anything but merry, and for this, I am entirely thrilled to have done my studies in the US of A, where midterms take place in the beginning of December–and sore from a power ski session yesterday, their legs still burning.
And, thank god, because this is day two on the hill for me this year, and on this day any given season, I’m still riding the white ribbon of death at Keystone, not hurling myself down bump runs at inclines unlike what Vail Resorts could ever dream of boasting.
No, no, I hold my own on my cousin Virginie’s skis, following my cousins Thibault and Quentin as they glide past me in the most effortless of arcs and turns, mountain babies, ski fanatics, mesmerized by their skill and facility, the result of having grown up with skis attached to their appendages.
Luckily, the weather is wonderful, bluebird, bright, cheery, the snow soft and plush, and we take a sample tour of Verbier, a warm up run to the Mount Fort for pristine views of the Grand and Petit Combin, the Matterhorn, acres and acres of ski terrain, days of exploration; then, a slow chair lift to a piece of land the likes of Breckenridge, Nendaz, infinitely flatter than its big mountain neighbor, for a hike up to another view, the sun beginning to splash watercolor stains on the peaks, signaling a return to Verbier.
Thibault and I take a last run together, the snow harder, icier, and holy f, the vin chaud at Le Pub is a sweet reward for a most excellent day, cousins.