It is early in the morning. The sunshine, which has just popped out above the plateau is beginning to caress the Pale’s tips. Some rays slice the terse air; crampons, clipped onto boots which hardly weight a kilo and a half, spurt up blue, minuscule fragments of ice. The sandwich built skis, light and performing, stand out above the three heads. The sharp edges capture the pure morning light, biting only into the air, for now.
Silence. Only the delicate sound of increasingly narrow turns cut out by three pairs of skis slices through the air with regular harmony.
Every ski mountaineer has looked for the perfect line sooner or later. Probably the perfect line does not exist. Probably, because dogmas belong only to fundamentalists. Probably every descent is perfect: the issue is to understand why.
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