Oops, the Black run

One of the first things I was told about the mountains of Mont Blanc: "the Blues are more like deep Reds, and the Reds are more like a purple shade of Black. And the Black? Ha, you just don't wanna go on them unless you're r e a l l y feelin' brave". So, because I'm being Sensible Smith this season, I've avoided the complex blue prints of the ferocious looking Black runs ever since I started sliding here. So you can imagine my fear when exploring a new area today beneath a feast of afternoon sun perfection, when the piste pole colours seemed to change ever so quickly, but ever so alarmingly, from shades of Tomatoes to Sooty Shaded Cats. "keep it together PoWWow" I whispered to myself, and I took a slug of wondrously warm mint tea that'd been loyally glugging about in my fanny-pack all day and went to work on this horror of an ungroomed piste with moguls seemingly the size of the very bleeding mountain I was trying to tear apart. In the end though, it wasn't so bad [+ who cares if I looked like a broken legged goat with my haphazardly embarrassing attempts to stay upright] and I made it to safety. An option of returning to the valley in the cable car or skiing the home route through the trees, which just so happened to also be a Black, suddenly presented itself to me. Another pontificated slurp of the green stuff was needed to arrive at my decision and with the new burst of heated power surging into my tummy; I hesitated no more and made movements to return down to the houses that looked like snowflakes in their fierce distance. And it was just me and my shiny slithering lollipop sticks that weaved through the leaves all the way down to the thank-fuck-i-made-it bottom. This photo was taken at the very point when my heart was allowed to start beating again.