Fear and Loathing On The Freeride World Tour: The Val Thorens Pro

We arrived Thursday night and the entire village was already drunk.

Not metaphorically drunk. Actually drunk.

Val Thorens, which houses the highest ski resort base village in Europe and is part of the legendary Les 3 Vallees resort network (largest ski area in the world), is a bowl of concrete and wood hotels with glowing windows pressed against raw alpine nothingness. It’s a manufactured village perched at 2,300 meters, walled-in by wind, snow, and cliffs that seem carefully carved by gods who thought much about beauty and death.

There is nothing here to do except ski and drink, and everyone who hadn’t showed up to compete had apparently chosen to start with drinking.

Every bar throbbed. Boots clomped. Laughter ricocheted off ice. Ski racers, freeriders, instructors, patrollers, tourists, interns, journalists, bartenders—everybody lubricated and vibrating, like the night before a collective exam in survival.

The SnowBrains European Division had landed.

Cory, Will, and I—three Americans loose in the French Alps, officially here to cover the Freeride World Tour Val Thorens stop, unofficially here to figure out how gravity, ego, alcohol, and competition coexist at altitude.

Outside the hotels: wind, snow, darkness, and the competition face itself looming invisibly above the village, waiting, lurking, contemplating…

FRIDAY: SAFETY, VIOLINS, AND DANCING WITH GERMANS

Morning arrived politely. A warm light flooded the room with our crusty eyes meeting gold dusted clouds as the mountains gently yawned awake. It’s not always that peaceful in the Alps.

Val Thorens guide Freddy introduced us to the mountain, then our team conducted a face check of the venue with rookie French freerider Zoé Delzoppo who was as calm as if cliffs were just poorly designed staircases. She and the other riders we’d met on the tour during our stay gave the impression of extreme focus. They were really only here to do one thing: win. Some were more attached to outcomes than others. We chatted for a few more moments and then went off, skiing the resort, learning where the wind had stolen snow and where it had given it back.

Mammut and Recco ran a safety workshop.

This mattered.

Because freeride is not theater. It is not Instagram. It is not a trick contest. It is a negotiation with terrain that is actively trying to kill you. Transceivers, search protocols—every beep and shovel stroke a reminder that this sport exists one slide away from an obituary listing.

That night the welcome dinner was held at Fahrenheit 7, the riders’ hotel.

We ate standing up. We drank from an open bar and mingled. Then the music began.

A violinist in a purple sparkly coat attacked his instrument like it owed him money. Another man beat bongos with cool style and a glint in his eye. Will, German reporter Chris, and I danced until the concept of knees became theoretical.

Somewhere in there I realized this tour is not just a competition—it is a traveling ecosystem of adrenaline, ritual, focus, superstition, brand partnerships, and a funny sort of joy.

SATURDAY: POWDER, DRONES, AND THE SLOT BAR THEORY OF HAPPINESS

We toured with another French local guide, Nicholas, and then found bottomless snow in Les Menuires, part of the Les 3 Vallees resort network. It was real powder snow: cold, deep, and forgiving. The kind that makes you remember why you chose this life instead of law school.

We tested a HoverAir self-flying drone, which obediently followed us like a curious mechanical bird, quietly rewriting the future of ski filming.

Afterwards, at La Folie Douce, we danced on tables because the world’s most famous après bar demands obedience.

That night, we ended up at Bar La Timbale, a local joint with walls covered in stickers, filled with beanie-wearing ski bums, and a soul suspiciously similar to the Slot Bar at Palisades Tahoe, which Jeremy Jones told me was “one of the best bars in the world at the base of a mountain.”

At Alpen Art we ate gourmet fondue, drank wine, and sipped génépi while pro surfers sat with magazine writers and social media influencers. Snowboarding icon Jeremy Jones sat quietly with his wife in the background, chatting with a former French slalom snowboarder waitress who had competed against him in 1994 in Lake Tahoe.

History, just casually ordering cheese.

Victor and Leonora—the Freeride World Tour media architects—floated through it all, orchestrating chaos with smiles and clipboards. Everything ran smoothly because someone invisible was making it so.

Back at the Hotel Portillo, the bathroom wall featured three small black and white leopard cubs woven into a tapestry above the sinks and toilet, frozen mid-pounce, eyes glassy, fur stitched in hypnotic loops. It was cute.

Breakfast the next morning was perfect.

Croissants. Eggs. Coffee. Then more coffee. The Alps performing hospitality like an apology.

SUNDAY: SPECIAL FORCES SKIING AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF HOT SAUCE

Salt Lake City’s own Ross Tester told me that the previous venue in Baquiera Beret “caters most to my riding style” and confessed he travels with hot sauce, which immediately elevated him as my spiritual brother.

And then Tester denied rumors of a fight that allegedly broke out on the Val Thorens stop of the tour last season.

“People were saying a chick bit my lip at the after party…or that I kneed myself in the face skiing.”

Both explanations felt equally plausible.

Fog rolled in and killed the hope of forerunners coming and skiing the face in order to show the riders how the snow skied since they couldn’t put their skis or boards into until it was game time. Later we skied with 2015 Freeride World Tour Champion George Rodney, FWT rider Kelly Hilleke, and their buddy Annabelle, who were all moving like a special forces ski unit in matching red jackets: calm, synchronized, and violent as they infiltrated and destabilized the surrounding alpine government.

Rodney slashed pow above exposure in Orelle as sunset painted the face gold.

I asked him about the evolution of the tour.

“Some days I feel like I could do this still and other days I’m like—’Naw I’m good.’ They’re doing really big lines and rowdy tricks now.”

And later:

“Yeah, yeah it’s definitely evolved. I did a backflip my first comp and biffed it and then I didn’t do a trick the rest of the year. I just skied big, gnarly no-fall zones.”

He won that year. But now tricks are crucial to getting a high score in the comp.

Progress, apparently, is mandatory.

That night was the rider meeting. We could see the athletes had slight nerves and skepticism.

“It’s gonna be the best conditions of the year,” the FWT organizer said in front of the slide show with a picture of the face—a statement that was met with a mix of scoffs and groans.

Then mental health resources were announced calmly and wholesomely—an acknowledgment that courage does not exempt you from panic.

COMP DAY: SUN, COLD, AND BEAUTIFUL VIOLENCE

Bluebird. Blower powder. Perfect.

Agostina Vietti stood radiant after her run.

“It’s such a pleasure to be representing Argentina as the first woman to do the comp.”

She won and currently holds a Golden Bib as the leading athlete for Ski Women. It’s history in the making.

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In the media tent as more athletes raged downwards, Snowboard Men’s champion Victor de la Rue watched with his wife, sons, and mother, all leaning forward together like synchronized hope.

American skier Toby Rafford detonated a D-spin and crashed.

At the top of Rafford’s line, all of us already in total awe, Victor smiled at me and said, “his run is not over yet.”

Afterward Toby staggered in to the tent and demanded, “Where da beers man?”

There were no injuries during the competition. Thank God.

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THE MEN: CIGARETTES, HEARTBREAKERS, AND THE ART OF GOING LAST

American Joey Leonardo smoked cigarettes outside the riders’ hotel in the nights leading up to the completion, cooling there friendly and mellow, before skiing a virtually flawless line on competition day with a big 360 over a cliff to backflip. He sat in the Hot Seat until the very end when he placed 2nd.

Ross Tester finished third, smooth and methodical.

“Find the key features based on line score and just kind of piece it together,” he told SnowBrains.  “I’ll be a grandpa by then, but it’d be a dream to be in the Olympics.”

Marcus Goguen crashed after refusing interviews.

Weiten Ho skied for himself.

“My goal for this season is just to ski for me.”

His mother told us about Whistler, about Pedro the instructor, about dreams.

And then finally, Kiwi rider Ben Richards went last.

360 over a double cliff above exposure. Hand-drag three over the Heartbreaker Cliff, which so many riders were crashing on. Richards showed no signs of hesitation nor fear. His landings were not shaky but solid like a tree with big roots gently swaying in the wind.

He won.

“I grew up ski racing,” he told SnowBrains. “It wasn’t until I did a work holiday in Revelstoke that I got into freeride.”

“I spent a few years on the tour not really winning. I decided to start doing bigger tricks, to do something different. It’s seem to have paid off.”

On going last, Richards said:

“I was going to change my line, but Fynn and Toby called me and said it was chill. I’m glad they did—it worked out.”

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THE WOMEN: COURAGE WITH MAKEUP INTACT

Molly Armanino dropped last in Ski Women.

Green eyes set on a near perfect line. Then she hit the biggest cliff any woman attempted that day.

She double-ejected, tomahawking rudely before standing up, her makeup untouched.

All or nothing; go big or go home—that’s Molly Armanino’s style.

“I’m really hard on myself,” she told me. “Even when I win, I’m never really happy about it.”

“I’ve cried a lot…it’s helping me appreciate the opportunities I have.”

She spoke about guilt, about kindness, about her dad, and about her late brother.

The bravest people, I am learning, are also sometimes the most complicated.

MIA JONES: GRAVITY’S DAUGHTER

Mia Jones is twenty years old, a rookie on the tour, got third place on the day after crashing near the top, and is still leading the entire Freeride World Tour overall for Snowboard Women.

Which sounds impossible until you meet her, and then somehow sounds inevitable.

She stood at the bottom with the calm of someone who does not give the impression like the mountain owes her anything.

When asked about her win at her first ever Freeride World Tour Event in Spain earlier on the tour, she said:

“It’s pretty exciting. I honestly never really expected that to happen. I didn’t go into it with any expectations, so to walk away with a win feels kind of surreal. It’s an amazing start to the season.”

The absence of expectation, it turns out, is often a competitive advantage.

“It’s important not to put too much pressure on yourself. I try to focus on snowboarding and the line I want to ride, instead of everything else that’s going on around me.”

Her process is stubbornly unromantic.

“On a venue this big, I try to simplify. I choose zones I like and lines that I would actually want to ride on a normal day. I don’t want to pick something just because I think it might score well. If it doesn’t look fun or I’m not excited about it, I’m not going to ride it.”

She grew up at Palisades Tahoe, steeped in chaos and cliffs and speed.

“I’m a little biased, but I really think Palisades is one of the best freeride mountains ever. The amount of fast laps you can do, hitting airs, riding steep terrain—and honestly, riding a lot of not-so-great snow—all of that shapes you.”

And then there is the double life.

“I’m in school studying mechanical engineering at Dartmouth College, on the East Coast. I like having that whole other side of my life—academics, meeting totally different people. It’s kind of like having two different lives, and I really like that.”

When asked what would remain if snowboarding vanished, Jones said:

“Definitely being outdoors in general and then also my academic life.”

At the bottom, Jeremy Jones watched quietly, hands in pockets, the most influential freerider in history reduced to the simple role of supportive father.

“Free riders’ mindset—free riders have to be patient,” he told us, as if explaining weather rather than philosophy.

Then, about his daughter:

“It’s surreal. I’ve been snowboarding with her since she was 6. I certainly didn’t think she’d end up here when she started and then she got into competing and yeah I’m very proud. I’m overflowing with pride.”

When Will asked him whether he prefers the Slot Bar or Le Chamois at Palisades Tahoe, his home resort, the alpine oracle answered without hesitation:

“Based on my age you should already know that question. But I’ve had more fun at the Slot Bar.”

Legacy, apparently, includes bar preferences.

ZUZA WITYCH: POLAND ENTERS THE MOUNTAIN

Zuzanna Witych carries an entire country in her bib.

She is the only Polish rider ever to make the Freeride World Tour.

“It feels like a huge honor to represent my country, but at the same time, it’s a lot of pressure. I’m the only one here, and I really want to get good results—not just for myself, but for everyone in Poland.”

Her presence is not symbolic. It is infrastructural.

“We started a freeride academy and this season we’ll probably have 15 to 20 people competing for the first time in their lives, including juniors. It’s epic. I’m super hyped and really happy about where things are going.”

• Related: From Ice Rink Shavings to the Freeride World Tour: The Rise of Polish Freeskier Zuza Witych

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She nearly didn’t make it here.

“At the end of last year, I completely destroyed my knee. This first competition was basically just to test my knee, because it was still really fresh after surgery.”

On the face in Spain, the fear finally loosened its grip.

“Once I was on the face, I stopped thinking about my knee, and that felt really good.”

After surgery, after doubt, after the careful weeks of wondering whether the body would remember what courage felt like, the mountain returned her to herself.

Success, for now, had a smaller definition.

“Honestly, I’m already super happy just to be here this season.”

Confidence arrived not as bravado but as relief.

“This was my first real test of the season, and my body handled the stress really well.”

And when asked where beauty still lived in this gut-churning geometry of cliffs and couloirs and avalanche paths, she smiled and answered without hesitation:

“I love that backy from Astrid [Cheylus]. Her style is just epic—really beautiful.”

Poland, it turns out, has entered the freeride conversation not with noise or spectacle but with patience.

A nation, quietly, learning to fly.

NIGHT AGAIN

“Bonswah man, can I have a beer please? Thanksss.” Us tired Americans, far from home—thoroughly used up and depleted and at the same time equally grateful for the wild ride of the past few days and nights—decided to keep it mellow for a change after a heavy tour, one that left me sick with a sort of virus—the “Freeride Flu,” as I’ve heard it called. Meanwhile men of various ages and haircuts played hockey in the rink outside of the hotel in the cold, colorless night while DJ AfroJack played at the FWT afterparty.

Val Thorens glowed, drunk and snowy and infinite. Inspiration whistled in the wind as it circulated around the mountain tops standing sentinel over this friendly, debaucherous little French village.

This place is a hole in the sky where people come to test themselves against consequence, to party in the shadow of cliffs, to chase the powder flying off their friends’ tails, to chase meaning, to chase the feeling that for one run, one turn, one landing, everything just makes sense.

We came to report.

We left convinced.

Freeride is not a sport.

It is a sacred practice practiced at terminal velocity and with total style.

And Val Thorens, strange and windy and absurd, is one of its most holiest of temples.