Old Friends New Friends

It's mid-January, and proper conditions for freeriding can occasionally be found around Innsbruck, but the amount of snow is below average. Anne Wangler, Eric Hjorleifson and I had a different idea of what high winter would be like. When a massive winter storm is finally announced on the western main ridge of the Alps, we spontaneously decide to head for Chamonix. After about seven hours we reach Argentière in the middle of the night. At least it is not raining when we park our car in the driveway in front of Stian's house. Instead, it is snowing heavily. Eric had briefly called his longtime friend and Arc'teryx teammate beforehand to see whether he was around and would like to accompany us for a day.

As a mountain guide he perfectly knows the mountains around his chosen hometown. He offers that we spend the night in the guest room next to the bouldering wall. Little do we know that we would stay with him, his wife Andrea and their two children for almost a week... "Okay, that's really crazy!" I only speak out what Anne is thinking. At the Grands Montets cable car, there's a wild scramble. Ten of us get squeezed into the small gondola. Upon exiting, I haven't even taken a breath or closed my ski boot yet as the powder freaks are already pouring into the terrain and all directions. Stian is wearing a red helmet which we follow in the dense snowfall into unknown terrain. 2,600 vertical feet later, we are back in the lift queue.

"That's what Chamonix is like. A bit crazy. It's the first real storm of the season, so people are super hungry for powder," Andrea, who used to travel the world as a pro and now looks after Völkl's athlete team, tells us. We are used to a different pace on the mountain and have to get used to this first. But Stian wouldn't be Stian if he didn't keep surprising us with new, untracked lines through the open larch forest. Without a local we would be lost. But like this we can entirely focus on skiing and enjoy the half-meter fresh snow to the max. It's hard to imagine that the mountains were still predominantly green a day and a half earlier.

After three days of waiting for avalanche blasting, epic tree runs, and fun evenings in the bars of Chamonix, complete with live music and tech talks, the weather finally clears up and presents the mountains dressed in a brilliant coat of white. Instead of indulging in the hustle and bustle of the resort we skin up. Stian tracks to Col des Rachasses with the precision of a Swiss clockwork. Anne, Eric and I follow with our down jackets and hoods completely zipped up, the heating socks running at full blast. It is -18° Fahrenheit. But it's not only the cold that almost takes our breath away: As we cross a hilltop the mighty sight of the Argentière basin reveals itself.

Above us, the hanging glaciers of Aiguilles Verte, on the other side of the valley, the low January sun streaks across the peaks of Aiguilles d'Argentière and Aiguilles de Chardonnet. Our destination for today, the 9,934-ft Col du Passon, is already visible to the left. However, for the moment, the run right ahead of us down to the shadowy glacier basin provides much more excitement for us. We critically examine the slightly steeper terrain. The wind hasn't harmed the snow cover. Anne's first turn stirs up a gigantic amount of fluff, followed by a loud whoop. And another! "This is the best snow ever!" she tells us over the radio.

Due to the freezing temperatures and a clear night, the snow is extremely dry – real champagne powder that even the pros in our group usually only know from overseas. The rolling and somewhat flatter slope invites us to ski playfully; it's probably the best day we have had all season. Pumped with endorphins and adrenaline and a big grin on our faces, we finally throw our skins back on. The leisurely hike up the sunny side of the mountain almost spoils us. But the finale – a rock-riddled gully leading to Col du Passon – presents itself rather unpleasing: Spindrifts force us to interrupt our run repeatedly. As we reach the exit of the chute, we have to be careful not to lose our equipment to the storm.

I pause for a moment, feeling the wind pulling on my jacket and ice crystals hitting my face like needles. I feel more alive than I have in a long time. Finally, we drop back into the shadowy northern slopes of Glacier du Tour. Ahead of us lie 5,600 feet of the most precious fresh powder.