Fresh Tracks

Yesterday’s return to work was predictably traumatic. Our fingers had forgotten how to type, the mouse felt like an alien object in our hands and the freezing/wet cycle to work was as welcome as a poke in the eye. Especially after a week spent shredding up Morzine/Avoriaz in the (bloody cold) sunshine. As much as you can shred up a place that’s been converged on by virtually every Frenchman and Englishman on the planet that is. Half hour lift queues and pistes like the M25 at rush hour don’t make for a chilled day on the hill, but luckily the mild dump on the day before New Year’s Eve sorted the men from the boys and it was much quieter and the freshies a treat. We sessioned the Burton Stash and it’s nice little log-rides, and I overcame my nemesis – boxes – in the nano park. Stoked.

Of course, sod’s law, it dumped a good-un on New Year’s Eve and those who hadn’t peaked at 8pm, passed out in posh new restaurant Numero Dix by midnight, resurrected themselves and partied on at the Cavern until god knows what time got some amazing powder. I, however, fit into the afore-mentioned category so didn’t make it up the hill til 2pm, then spent an hour in Chang-a-Bangs eating chips (4 euros = £4 = bargain) and drinking coke (3 euros – ditto) before doing any snowboarding. Ahem. Got a few fresh tracks before my chips started to come back up and I decided to go back down. Check out the bootiful clouds on the home run to Prodain. Immense.


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