Yesterday was the last day of my ski trip to France.

Twenty-two powder days in a row.

I’m completely exhausted and utterly satisfied.

One of the best ski trips of my life, and maybe the most powder I’ve ever skied in a 22-day stretch. Here, you don’t have to hike backcountry. You just keep riding lifts and skiing sidecountry powder all day, every day.

There’s simply more powder than can be skied.

The plan Pierre and I made the day before yesterday was to ski a big line off the back of the Aiguille Rouge at Les Arcs.

I lay awake at night thinking about it, going back and forth.

The avalanche danger here right now is no joke, and after reading the report carefully, it was clear we couldn’t go up there.

I texted Pierre early in the morning and said it was a no-go.

He wrote back saying he’d fallen ill and wasn’t going to make it.

It felt like the universe was conspiring to help us.

With no partner, there was no way I was heading anywhere scary.

So I made a quick plan to ski the last run we’d skied the previous day and ran out the door.

It costs about $4 to park at the funicular, and the ride up is free.

I rode up, battled the crowds for two lift rides, slapped my skis onto my pack, and started bootpacking up to the north-facing chute zone we’d explored the day before.

I studied my photos from that day and found a chute that didn’t have tracks. Mostly.

It took two bootpacks and a long traverse to get there, and I took my time.

This was my third day in a row skiing in just base layers and a shell.

It was hot.

I cooled off on the ridge and studied as much terrain as I could. The mountain is so damn big I found myself squinting, trying to make out which lines were most prized.

I dropped in and found pretty darn good powder right away, with a little sluffing.

I crossed a couple of tracks midway down, then zagged hard left into the virgin chute.

The snow was tougher in there. Thin in spots, rocks showing.

I tried to ski it like a golden god, and it backfired.

Too much speed in the choke in funky snow, and I had to throw on the brakes and shut it down for a split second.

“Damn!” I yelled (and edited it out of the video, ha), then finished out the base of the chute onto the apron.

I was disappointed in myself and trying to give myself some grace. It was the last day, the last run, and I was beyond overtired.

After the chute, I glided down to the chair and was engulfed in a few massive lift lines. It’s the busiest week of the year here. Eventually, I made my way back to the funicular and down to the parking lot.

It was over 70ºF down there.

I stripped down to board shorts and flip-flops, reorganized my gear, packed my ski bag, and flowed like water downhill toward Geneva, Switzerland.

The drive was mesmerizing.

Huge peaks. Deep snow. Raging rivers. Gorgeous hamlets. And even a dip in the bitterly cold waters of Lake Annecy.

I was glowing.

I’d made it through the trip without any avalanche scares, injuries, or bad situations.

• 22 powder days
• 8 ski resorts
• 7 different lodgings
• 2 old friends
• 8 new friends
• 1 great rental car
• 1 speeding ticket
• 2 lift tickets purchased (merci Les Arcs, Les 3 Vallées, La Grave, Serre Chevalier, Sainte-Foy, Val d’Isère)
• 73 French words butchered
• 1 hell of a great time

My motel in Geneva was a dump, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I was riding high off the trip and had one last baguette to devour.

Goat cheese, French blueberry jam, cucumber, pear, red bell pepper, avocado sandwiches.

I’ll be back here one month per year. And very soon, I’ll be doing a full season.

I’m enchanted.

Merci, la France.