Day Nineteen.

Chris Booth. Image by Louis Garnier. http://louisgarnier.wordpress.com/

The weather had blasted Val Thorens with wind, thick fog and even thunder. But having left a mere 3 cm of new snow, it was about as welcome as a sweaty Hulk Hogan dancing to nouveau disco in your underwear.

Worse even, it was set to continue into the last day of the Ripraw trip.

Having driven the hour and a half from La Plagne, Kieran and I met Rob at the Fitzroy Hotel where he had stayed in chalet-esque luxury the previous night. This we had agreed, would be advantageous given Rob’s recent lack of health and tight shooting schedule in Val Thorens. He could eat a square meal, get a good night’s sleep, pack his things for his Geneva departure and shoot the sunrise the following morning. What we could not foresee, was that a both fortuitous and catastrophic collision of fate had occurred. French public holidays had coincided with Danish ski week, and Val Thorens had transformed into a monstrous heaving brothel for the night. This Handsome Rob, being handsome, would be a fool to resist.

As it were Rob did not eat a square meal, nor did he pack his things and nor did he get a good’s night sleep. Though it is quite possible he saw the sun rise. Tough to say though, as the last thing he remembers entails dancing to nouveau disco in his underwear, with a sweaty hulk Hogan in his underpants.

By 10.00am the next morning, as Rob bathed in the guilt of last night’s public excesses, the wheels had visibly fallen off. But Rob knows more than anyone that Ripraw waits for no man. So, smelling like aromatic alpine liquor, Rob set off to the Frostgun Invitational press conference where Russ Henshaw, being last year’s winner, was set to give his views on this year’s event to a similarly hungover group of Danish TV reporters.

By the press conference’s end Rob was in need of a strong cup of coffee. So being true team players, Kieran and I decided we also needed a coffee. So together we headed back to Café Face West, which had become somewhat of a refuge for Ripraw, a place we could go and stare at beautiful people and pretend for a moment we didn’t have a job to do. Over coffee we formulated a game plan: the intrepid weather continued to restrict our skiing options, and every time Rob bent down he would almost pass out, so getting his boots on was outside his means at least for a few hours.

It was at this moment we discovered something beautiful about Val Thorens. If you can’t ski, you can always go rally driving.

Kieran McLaughlin and his Renault Clio with studded tires.

The Alain Prost Ice-driving academy, situated conveniently just below the village and bordering the ski slope, is just about the most awesome après ski activity imaginable.

Val Thorens rally track, located next to the ski slope.

Though slightly misleading (as Alain Prost himself has little more to do with it than have it named after him) the Alain Prost Driving Academy is a place where you learn to be both in control and a little loose at the same time.

Rob Norman sets up the shot for ripraw.

Unfortunately all I learnt was that I am a below average driver, and someone to stay away from on snowy roads. Kieran however seemed to get the hang of it pretty good, hanging sideways around the corners and downshifting like a champion.

Rip Curl athlete Kieran Mclaughlin hangs the rear wheels.

Our skills we’re firmly put into context though, when our instructor took us for a spin in the race-stock Mitsubishi Evo. From the moment he set off it felt like we were going to crash. I know they put studded tires on and everything, but it just felt wrong to drive a car that fast on snow without sharting.

Get weight to the front tires, down-shift, accelerate, handbrake, negative steer and try not to shart.

Though Ice driving was great, bad weather continued late into the afternoon leaving us with few options to shoot.

“As soon as they open the jump its just gonna go blue” announced Rob. I don’t know where Rob got his reservoir of meteorological know-how, but to me it seemed that, given the conditions, the likelihood of the sun just coming out in the middle of a snowstorm for the few hours we had left in Val Thorens was not high.

“Trust me” he said smiling, “it’s gonna happen mate.” Then I realized that he wasn’t being blindly optimistic, but corralling positive energy. You see, this whole trip we have been surrounding ourselves with optimism. “Come on Chris and Rob” we would say. It could well be neo-hippy garbage, but from the results we’ve had I am lead to believe that its possible to talk things into existence. You summon the world with enough conviction and the world will respond.

But this time nothing was coming to save us. It was 4pm in the afternoon, the weather was deteriorating, our boots we’re wet and Rob had a flight departing Geneva (a 3 hour drive away) at 7am the next morning. There was no possible way, in the physical universe that we occupy, that we were getting to hit the Frostgun kicker that day.

We trudged back to the car, Rob packed his camera equipment away for the last time and we left to collect his bags from the hotel. Next stop Geneva.

At the hotel we made a last-minute idiot check to ensure nothing was left outside. Passport, check. Wallet, Check. Phone, check. It was go time.

We set up the camera for one last group photo and, at that moment, the bloody sun came out. The sun came out, the clouds cleared, and revealed to us from the sky above, was the most beautiful late afternoon light this earth has surely ever seen. Fuck you Hulk Hogan.

The sun opens up.

And the mountains light up.

With new energy we unpacked the gear, grabbed our skis and raced to the Frostgun jump site, where the event organizers we’re experiencing equal euphoria.