"Gaomardjous" – CHEERS!

It's barely 7:00 pm and like every evening for almost a week now, dinner is served on the main table of our guesthouse's common room. Nano has prepared a real feast with the help of his mother in law. We are starving after having spent a second long day in the mountains, and even if the menu is the same as yesterday and the day before, it is still really delicious. We've only just sat down when Jeremy suggests we honor the meal and celebrate this second day of proper skiing by drinking a glass of "Chacha", a traditional Georgian grappa. How could we refuse? It has been a week since we arrived in Svanetia, the northwestern part of Georgia.

After three days in Mestia, we traveled to the village of Ushguli, supposedly the highest inhabited village in Europe. We are at 2,200 meters in the middle of the Caucasus, the mountains around us rise to 4,500 meters and 5,500 meters, and the last snowfall transformed everything into a real winter wonderland. All Svanian villages are surrounded by dozens of towers, some of them dating back several thousands of years. Historians do not agree on the origin of these buildings, which can reach up to 20 meters. They are rumored to have protected the villagers from avalanches, tax inspectors, or bloody family quarrels. Whatever it may have been, they have survived time, weather, wars, and religions.

The Svanian is proud of his traditions, his village, proud of welcoming you, and proud to share a glass or two of Chacha. The first glass of Georgian grappa burns my throat, eyes reddened by the power of this 70-percent alcohol. We dig into our meal as we debrief our day. This morning, we climbed the "hill" rising above Ushguli. A hill with 3,200 meters, offering great slopes with perfect views of the surrounding 5,000-meter summits. When we share our doubts about the snow stability, the villagers tell us four skiers died in an avalanche last year in more or less the same area. To fight bad luck, Jeremy pours another glass of Chacha. We respect the local tradition and pour a drop of the liquid on the floor to honor the deceased.

The terrain we had skied the past two days wasn't especially difficult, with a safe layer of snow and no wind impact on the western slopes, yet some doubt remained. We discuss the choices we had made and the risks we were exposed to while pursuing our work (with the cameraman and the photographer on the same slope as the skier). We didn't have a choice; the local topography didn't offer many options. Calling our conversation a wrap, we conclude our meal. Every Sunday night, one family organizes an "apéro" session around a fire in front of the small village chapel where people share prayers, the local brandy, and generous helpings of Khachapuri, a cheese tart. As we arrive, the locals greet us with handshakes and full glasses of Chacha.

We try to tell them how touched we are by their warm welcome and generosity as they keep filling the glass that we pass from one to another. Many tourists visit the region in summer, but only a few in winter. The 45 kilometers between Mestia and Ushguli can take up to three tiring hours. Avalanches often block the only access to the village. A woman hands me the glass. I drink up, and we decide to leave the party. Loris, Jeremy and I walk to the small monastery above the village where I had left a camera to record the sunset. We want to introduce Loris to the local wardens, as he was sick at the beginning of our trip and had yet to meet them. We enter the common room of the old building.

The three bearded men watching TV invite us to join them around the table. They want to share a few glasses of Chacha. Like magic, plates of fruit, biscuits, and honey appear on the table. Jeremy proposes a toast, thanking our hosts for their warm welcome, and with glossy eyes glances at us showing that he too fears the worst of headaches. It was Jeremy Bernard, our photographer, who convinced us to come here to Ushguli. One of his friends had mentioned it as a spot with lots of potential. Seduced by his descriptions and our Web research, we did not hesitate. We came without expectations, but we were curious. We only had two days with sunshine, and the snow conditions were great.

We did a lot of fun skiing, but the real treat was meeting these incredible people and sharing their traditions, turning this trip into the most authentic experience I have ever had "on skis". I have no idea how long we sat around the table. I am seriously starting to feel the side effects of the Chacha. I need fresh air and excuse myself pretending I need to get the camera, the reason we came here in the first place. The night is clear, the star-filled sky beautiful. I lie down in the snow to absorb the view. Laika, one of the guard dogs, approaches me. I bury my head in the hood of my down jacket, trying to ignore the world spinning around me. I feel safe, Laika is keeping an eye on me; it is not even -10 degrees celsius.

I wake up at 7:30 am, in my bed. My memories are blurry, and I don't have the slightest idea how I made it back from the monastery. Jeremy and Loris are still asleep. I decide to go and film the old lady milking cows as she has done every morning for probably more than 70 years. Her hands pull mechanically on the skinny cow's udder; the tiny cowshed is almost dark. I almost forget my horrible headache. The little old lady leaves the shed and walks towards the village on the slippery path, carrying a tinplate bucket containing the fresh milk from which she will prepare the cheese that we have been eating all week.

As the sky and my mind clear up again, I realize there's so much more about this region than the all-dominant grappa: the village, the people, the food, and foremost these impressive mountains.