Yesterday was the first true sunny powder day of the trip, the kind where the possibilities feel endless.

Well, as endless as they can be with 4/5 HIGH avalanche danger.

For the first time on this trip, I was alone.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did what felt natural as a dyed-in-the-wool Lake Tahoe skier: I showed up early to the best lift I could find and waited for it to open.

When the gates finally cracked, the usual frenzy erupted. I managed to scoot forward and catch a rapidly departing chair. So did Claude.

I had been eyeing him in line.

About my age. Huge powder skis. Backpack. Helmet. Natural confidence. He was teasing locals in French like he owned the place.

I introduced myself right away and asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

He did.

His name was Claude.

I asked where he was headed and, without hesitation, asked if I could join him.

He had only one question for me:
“Do you have an arva?”

Avalanche beacon, check.

From that moment, he started delivering knowledge.

All day he shared secrets and hard-earned wisdom formed from 46 years of skiing Tignes. I kept my mouth shut, my head down, and did my best to keep up.

Claude insists on as few turns as possible.

“Safer for avalanche.”

He never stops moving.

Bootpacks. Traverses. Snowpack checks. Gondolas. Chairlifts. Chutes. I was thrashing just to keep up.

“Rest on zee lift!” he’d yell when I started to lag.

It was a nonstop barrage of excellent powder skiing.

He knew exactly where to go and, more importantly, where not to go given the hazard. We skied three chutes off the top, a bunch of powder-filled lower slopes, pillows, trees, avalanche fences, and some ferociously steep groomers.

It’s incredible how much vertical you can rack up off the chairlifts out here. Our top-to-bottom laps were over 4,000 vertical feet.

Around 1 p.m., Claude decided it was getting too warm to continue safely. We dropped into La Claret and grabbed a beer at the locals’ saloon.

It was my first drink of the trip. I savored the blonde while Claude chain-smoked cigarettes, bullshitted with friends, flirted shamelessly, and generally owned the room.

I was in awe. And exhausted.

Eighteen powder days in a row leaves a mark.

He invited me to join him for an après-ski meal, but I had to bow out and head home for some R&R.

A truly spectacular, lucky day.

Merci, Claude. Merci, la France.

For ski groups traveling to and from the resort, reliable bus transport from 8rental with ample luggage space for skis and winter equipment.