Day fifteen and like a bad hangover, fatigue is starting to set in. You hit the pillow at 9pm and wake at 8am, but it still feels like 9pm. Your best mate bumps you with his pack in the lift line, you shoot him a foul look, he responds in kind thinking it was you who bumped him. For a split second you are sworn enemies. But then you remember its your mate, and you’re both just tired. Burnt at both ends you press on, lacking that essential zest which was in such abundance two weeks ago. Pack-sleep-prepare-pack-ski-repack-drive-unpack-sleep-repack-prepare-drive-ski, your shit is all over the place and things are starting to go missing.
You’re in the best place on earth on what most consider a holiday, but all you can think about is a holiday of your own, somewhere, where drinks have little umbrellas in them.
But then you buckle your boots, zip up your vents, turn on your GoPro, take a deep breath and drop. And for all that douleur, your reward is measured in vertical meters, and there’s plenty of those here in Chamonix.
ripraw 