All-Natural High

A persistent alarm clock in the background prompts a tiresome reach. It's too early to be getting up on a weekend. What am I thinking ?
A yank of the curtains reminds me why I inflict such discomfort upon my tired body: snowflakes swirling in the wind, a foot of fresh powder piled up on the balcony glistening in the fading moonlight, and the sounds of the neighbor shovelling his doorstep.
Last night was the first serious snowfall of the season. The defining one, the one that officially launches the season, the one that makes me get up at the crack of dawn to be the first one on the slopes (unless the shovelling neighbor beats me to it).
After a hearty breakfast and strong coffee, I go through the usual routine of picking out the appropriate equipment for the day: goggles since it's still snowing, but sunglasses just in case, ski hat for sure, balaclava and extra layer in case it's below zero up at 9,000 feet, freshly packed bowl...
All suited up and ready to go, now comes the slow and tedious walk uphill to the first lift. It works well to warmup those thighs. Watch out for those ices patches, the snowplows cant do much against them.
The lift lines are almost inexistent at this ungodly hour in the morning. Most people were probably out late last night, expecting bad weather today. That should give me a good 3 hours before the slopes get crowded. Suckers...
I ride the gondola alone, scoping out the surrounding landscape for some good open hillsides, still unspoiled. The fog is too thick though and my vision is pretty limited. It seems like an appropriate enough time to fog up, and yet... no need for it now; maybe later, as a reward.
The second gondola pulls me away from the clouds, racing upwards to the clear skies and a timid rising sun. Goggles are coming off and are replaced by sunglasses. No time to waste on the intermediary slopes. There's only one place I need to be headed for, before anyone else. The time is near, the mission's clear.

High!
3,330m to be exact or 10,925 feet.
It's bitter cold, 12 degrees below zero. The wind blows strong and the snowflakes whip what little skin I have protruding from under my balaclava. I stand at the top of the ridge, looking down onto the empty glacier, ski-tips dangling in empty space, waiting to bury themselves in thick powder, casting in the mean time a long shadow on the slope below as the rising sun slowly beams upwards.
I soak in the moment and savor the sights: the mountains gleaming in the morning sunlight, towering over the sea of clouds and fog which keeps the towns and the crowds buried below.

Off we go, down the steep incline, knee deep in powder, light snow spraying my face as I bounce from turn to turn in regular rhythm. Mouth wide open to breathe in the cold air and taste the fresh snow. As the incline reduces ever so slightly, I break the rhythm of tight turns to initiate long swooping curves, letting my inside hand drop into the powder like a windsurfer would in the coral blue sea. All I can hear is my rapid breaths and the smooth swoosh of snow flying by my face. Thighs start to burn but it'd be criminal to stop in the middle of this blissful descent. The incline reduces some more, forces me to pick up more speed lest the powder slows me down to a stop. Turns become scarcer, I open my arms to embrace the snow and the wind, lifting my head to the sky and letting out a "whoooohoooo" of delight as I fly over the last ridge, under the gondola cables to the bottom of the hillside.

Heart pounding and still panting, but with a radiant smile, I look back to admire my fancy skiwork: the first tracks of the day on the glacier, symmetric, clean, smooth.

What a High!

No better way to start the weekend.