Slash! My tips glide over the edge of a huge pillow line. With a total drop of around 4 meters spread across 3 great, big granite boulders, I slowly accelerate towards my destination, calmly slashing out two more turns as I hit the edge of each pillow. Riding out, I look behind the sight of the snow slowly falling off, with my fresh tracks poised, almost as a sign of victory over the line. I won.

Next thing I know, however, I am accelerating onwards through the glade. I now fly swiftly through the fresh powder, making occasional turns in huge, slow slash style. The snow comes up to my thighs: all the recent storms culminated in a 30 centimeter dump last night, although I'm sure you remember that. As I get closer to the tree we built the jib at last night, I notice the complete lack of other tracks. Only me, the mountain and regularly spaced, snow-laden trees, glimmering white in the morning sun. I fly through the powder, getting a face-full of fresh snow every time I make a turn. Bliss. Out of the corner of my eye, I see what probably used to be a tree stump, creating a perfect, big step down. I stop, and check out the landing. I'll have to gap a little tree, and take it at least 10 meters deep to hit the sweet spot. Sketchy, but doable. It will involve a bit of stamping on the in run and the base of the lip, but the landing is good enough.

I traverse across to it, and start slipping the in run, or at least the last 10 meters of it. 5 minutes of stomping is more than enough, and I unclip my skis to take a little breather before heading back up to hit it. I sit down on a conveniently placed log right next to my stump-kicker. Probably the tree that fell to make my kicker. Looking around myself I realise just how much needed to happen to enable me to ski here today: Trees being destroyed in violent storms, water evaporating from the mediterranean and coming all the way here before finding a resting place beneath my skis, ready to be slashed as I make my way down my line.

The view is breathtaking-the spot I found is situated on a little knoll, so that through the trees I can vaguely see the outlines of magnificent mountains gleaming in the midday sun. Some snow occasionally drifts down from the high branches of trees with the breathing of the wind.

I grab my skis and start hiking. It is hard work trudging through the waist deep snow, but nevertheless rewarding. I am going Candide style, carrying my skis in front of me and placing them flat on the snow for stability every time I move. After about 20 meters of climbing, I attempt to flatten out a little space for clipping in, and start getting ready.

DROOOPP! I shout as I get ready to go for it. My pulse quickens, the world slows down, and all sounds around me cease: I hop around 90 degrees and start sliding towards my step down. I transition to the packed in run, then I hit the tranny, and then I feel my tips breaking the crust of fresh snow I didn't pack down, spraying the bit of powder everywhere around.

The feeling of weightlessness takes control of me, and I extend my chest up, curling my legs back. I can feel the world sliding around: first the snow disappears, then the trees are gone and all I can see is the azure sky. Then I can see the trees again, and the snow, and then my landing comes into view. I feel my back extending and my feet trailing behind me. As I get closer I whip my legs around, and stomp the biggest and cleanest backflip of my career. I slash to cut some speed, spraying a fine mist of snow into the air around me, which doesn't have time to settle before I disappear off into a thicket of trees nearby in search of more excitement.

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As always, if you enjoyed reading this, tell me! If you have any ideas for other stories, post them up as well and I will write them when I have the time. See you next week!


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