The experiential travel company Eleven whisks me – and my photographer friend Phoebe Rolls – to Le Miroir: a small hamlet in the foothills of Sainte Foy. Our home for three nights is Chalet Hibou, a palatial five-storey chalet, complete with hot tub, an après ski bar named ‘The Bunker,’ and a handsome chalet boy named Thomas: the Nate Archibald of Miroir. I am lulled into a false sense of security after my first day of zipping up and down red runs in a nearby resort, Tignes. Even more so after my lunch of caviar pasta on the mountain at Panoramique (an order which resulted in my French instructors naming me ‘Caviar’) and two dirty martinis in the copper hot tub back at Chalet Hibou. So far, so glamorous.
Yet in the cold light of morning, everything looks a little different. Especially when I am suddenly being strapped into a harness in the chalet’s boot room. I protest that the straps – which loop around my waist and legs – really ruin my outfit: a ski suit from Fusalp in the colours of the French flag. What is it for? I ask dejectedly, tugging on the harness. ‘In case you fall into a crevasse, Caviar,’ cackles Ben, one of the instructors. Falling into a crevasse? Not ok. Even less fabulous is the heavy backpack that I have to wear. This bulky offence contains a parachute, which I am to only use if ‘I see the snow moving beneath my skis.’ Which translates to ‘an avalanche.’ Where do we meet if that happens? I timidly ask Jean-Noel, another instructor. ‘In ze hospital.’
Before any bones are broken, we spend the morning skiing in La Rosiere and over into Italy, to San Bernardo, where there is a small cafe brimming with Italians sipping espresso and piles of pizza boxes. Everyone stops to look when a helicopter suddenly appears, ducking and diving behind the majestic mountains. ‘He’s a very good pilot,’ muses Phoebe, as we watch in awe. The chopper lands beautifully behind the restaurant and Jean-Noel declares: ‘Our taxi has arrived! We approach ‘the taxi’ with caution, staying behind the ‘barrier’ which Jean-Noel has ‘drawn’ with our skis. Moments later, Jean-Noel gives us the nod – and we clamber into the helicopter, one-by-one, crouching to avoid decapitation.
