I believe every skier has a dream. It hits you early in the morning. You get yourself out of the hut, while the sun is still just a pale glow behind a distant ridge of mountains, and the air is brittle, as if a loud noise will shatter it, sharp against the skin and in the lungs as you breathe it in, breathe it out again and watch your breath hang in the stillness. You look up to the glazed peaks around you as you unfurl your skins, crispy and crunchy where the night’s cold has frozen them in the shape you hung them, and you work quickly with ungloved fingers to stop your hands freezing, stretching them over the smooth bases of your skis and clipping them into place. Your heart beats a little faster as your skis drop to the snow with a soft whumph, the loud clack as your boots clip into the bindings, the rustle as you nestle your poles into your gloves and adjust your pack. You’re ready…
