Following this ridiculous heat, obviously it had to dump 2.5 meters in 6 days. It all began in a little place called Courmayeur.
At the beginning of the end of the high pressure, we decided to check out Helbronner as some flocons of precip had finally made their way to the massif. Upon arrival to the top of Helbronner, we were greeted with blue skies and inquisitive faces. Not a single person had yet skied down the Toule Glacier and everyone was worried that the stupid Americani were going to take this Ragazza Bionda to her death. Well, they were only partly right.
Tom teeing up his jib.
Why aren't they here?
After picking our way down the glacier in deep powder and getting caught in the worst white-out EVAR, we made it to Courmayeur where we made a pact to ski trees the rest of the day. Then it started to rain a little. The only thing I have discovered in my years of being a skier in the northwest that makes skiing in the rain better is alcohol, and lots of it. What better to start off with than the Negroni (1p. Campari,1p. Gordon's, Splash of Vermouth, Garnish with Slice of Pulgiese Orange)?
Luckily, everything in Italy is approximately 80% cheaper than France, even in the most expensive town in the country. After having a brief tailgate, we rejoined the slopes just in time for a sporty romp down half-pow, half-mank treachery.
Team USA, getting ready to soil our reputation even more.
The facilities here are impeccable.
New 2012 shit.
We wanted to bathe in the colors. Instead we force-fed the shopkeeper 5 euro a liter Pastis.
Facciamo un giro. Andiamo Ragazzi.
We followed this New-Wave Afro-pop band around while grinding so hard, the cobblestone had to be replaced.
After that, we took our wormhole back to reality. I didn't drive.
A few days later, I found my car keys and went outside to get some toilet paper when I realized it had nuked all the way down the valley, and it had beaucoup. Liz and I went into panic mode as I gathered materials that were packed in my still-soaked bag and made a mad dash for Flegere. I stomped on some kittens and kicked the fat Beagle that guards Les Praz and traded him chocolate for permission to enter the parking lot.
It was so deep that it made me angry. Angy that I didn't get any good shots that is.
Jewlz and Lizz.
All this treachery culminated yesterday when the weather finally cleared. I went to go to Glacier Rond (very, very hanging for those who don't know) and while skiing the upper face, my dynafit toepiece ripped out again in the worst place in the Alps, nearly sending me careening into Mexico. I watched as my ski skittered all the way down the face as tom sat the bottom near the exit couloir ready to play catcher; however it came to a stop just before the abyss. Hard snow nearly prevented me from climbing out and I had to watch my friends as they were on their way to skiing miles of neck deep blower all the way to the tunnel.
The Glacier Rond on the right, you can see how it would suck to lose something over the end (including your life).
Luckily nice guy Scandi Dave leant me some crampons and supplementary ice tool in addition to mine so I could climb out and subsequently posthole for 3 hours back to the Midi. While on my way up, I witnessed a whole cadre of shitbaggery including someone tomahawking down the Cunningham Couloir (right below the bridge on the Midi, not very tomahawkable).
I don't know what this all means. I guess they're calling for more snow tonight.
Thanks for being patient through all this. /endblog
