Report from February 20, 2026

The zone at Les Arcs, France, that I rolled up to yesterday morning was cut off from the rest of the resort thanks to a massive storm and 5/5 EXTREME avalanche danger.

Perfect.

The drive the mountain was rowdy up dozens of switchbacks up skinny French roads.

There was even a “Route Barrée” sign that I’m very glad I drove past.

I arrived at 9:00 a.m. to find the lift slightly delayed due to weather and avalanche mitigation.

It had snowed 65 cm (26″) overnight.

The forest was buried and ripe for harvest.

There was simply no one around to start the day.

I inhaled vicious amounts of fresh powder.

Illegal amounts of powder.

More fresh snow than can possibly be healthy for one human in a single day.

This lift climbs 3,062 vertical feet and delivers nothing but insane tree skiing directly to the vein.

After one top-to-bottom run, I was freaking out.

After two, I was on cloud nine.

After three, I couldn’t believe what was happening.

After four, I thought maybe it was just a dream.

After five, I crashed, packed snow down my pants, and confirmed it was in fact not a dream.

After nine, I was plumb tuckered out, having skied what felt like more untouched powder lines than I’ve ever experienced in a single day.

The snow was dreamy and light up high, heavier and rippable down low.

On run number three, I met a local named Pierre who showed me around for the rest of the day.

A super strong skier, full of good vibes, big smiles, cigarette smoke, and excellent English.

We laughed a lot.

He was born and raised in Bourg-Saint-Maurice, and I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.

Some of the big lines he described skiing straight off the chairlifts absolutely blew my mind.

Les Arcs is as legit as they come.

Merci, la France.