Black Diamonds Are Forever

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PHOTO: YAMADA HIROYUKI (COLUMBIA RIDE WEEK)

It’s snowing heavily and night has fallen. But that doesn’t stop us from setting off on the 25 kilometres of mountain passes that lead to Courchevel 1850, the highest and swishest of  five villages at the Trois-Vallées ski resort in the French Alps. As we climb, sea level recedes further and further and the summer tires on our Mercedes do us less and less good. To think, I almost laughed out loud when the guy at the car rental company “strongly” recommended that we bring along a set of those playful-looking orange and purple chains for the tires.

Soon I’m on the side of the road trying to read the chains’ assembly instructions under the wimpy beam of a flashlight bought at the gas station. Crouching in the snow, my ski buddy wrestles with them while her hands freeze. With jet lag already setting in, I wonder if we would have been better off staying overnight at Albertville, which would have given us the chance to see the old Olympic village. But when we get to Saint-Bon, the first Courchevel village (located at an altitude of 1,100 metres), my fatigue and doubt evaporate. Then comes Le Praz at 1,300 metres, Courchevel 1550, Courchevel 1650 and, finally, Courchevel 1850. The snowflakes fall in front of the pretty blue and white lights that border the roofs of the homes, making us feel like we’re inside a giant, enchanted snow globe.

After only a few hours of, nevertheless, blessedly deep sleep, the deafening boom of falling chunks of snow tosses me from my bed. I open the shutters and see that the snow is still coming down, as if the sky has turned into a mammoth salt shaker. The sun, pushing through the clouds, transforms each snowflake into a tiny, brilliant diamond. Ready to hit the slopes, I’m surprised at breakfast when our waiter tells us, “You can’t go skiing today. There’s far too much snow.” But I didn’t come all the way to Courchevel to settle for day-old snow cover.

I entertain myself on the chairlift by sizing up the slopes. My prediction is almost spot-on: three metres of powder, which, of course, mustn’t go to waste. Having arrived smack in the middle of Columbia Ride Week, a sporting event and freeskiing film competition, we cross paths with freeriders from every corner of the globe. This particular species of skiers are instantly identifiable by their low-crotch pants, movie camera-equipped hats and abnormally large skis. They’re drawn to mountains most of us never see. They ride self-invented runs bordered by towering cliffs and are pursued by avalanches that, like quicksand, threaten to swallow them whole.

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