The view up Grand Montets yesterday cast raindrops in our eyes, punctuated by low clouds that killed visibility for a few runs. A coffee break helped, and me, Matt & Pat got back onto the Bochard Bubble with hope.

Halfway to the top, the bubble cruised out of the clouds and, though there was no sunshine as on lucky days, visibility let us see our way down the trails. Bucketsful of Euro-skiers dotted the slopes like a picnic lousy with ants. The slushy conditions—though snowing consistently—made speed through the people an effective approach to skiing.

The Ryan boys huffed and puffed at each break down the runs. I chortled, I chuckled, I laughed. Then I remembered how I do the same on runs that beat the shit out of me.

Aprés-lunch let us pick more lines than earlier. By now, though, Pat and Matt were pretty knackered, and I could see their legs wiggle as they pushed through the building snow on some of the steeper runs. It was time to call it quits. Painful moans came from their mouths down in the car park as they yanked their feet from their boots.

That’s what skiing is all about.