It all started with the dice (how else?). Roll a 1-3, and I’m off to a cozy cabin with roaring fires, hot chocolate, and zero adrenaline. Roll a 4-6, and it’s full-throttle chaos in Chamonix—black runs, après-ski mayhem, and maybe a broken bone or two. The dice laughed in my face. Six.
Day 1: Hitting the Slopes (Literally)
Chamonix greeted me with sharp peaks, icy winds, and the faint scent of overpriced mulled wine. The first roll of the dice? Red run or black run straight out of the gate. Black it is. My legs were screaming before I even reached the chairlift.
The descent? A blur of terror and exhilaration. Ice patches, moguls, and one near-miss with a snowboarder who clearly thought he was in the X Games. By the end, I was half-frozen and fully addicted. Après-ski was earned—beer, fondue, and locals who laughed when I told them about my dice. They hadn’t seen anything yet.
Day 2: Off-Piste or Play It Safe?
Breakfast was croissants and caffeine—and, of course, another roll. Off-piste, the dice demanded. Avalanche warnings be damned. I hired a guide (because even I’m not that reckless), strapped on my skis, and plunged into the untouched powder.
It was glorious. Wide-open snowfields, narrow chutes, and views so sharp they cut through the hangover I’d been nursing since 3 a.m. Naturally, the dice decided I’d celebrate surviving by joining some locals for raclette and shots of génépi. My liver waved a white flag. The dice said, “Not yet.”
Day 3-4: Ice Climbing and Après Mayhem
When the dice told me to strap crampons to my boots and take on Chamonix’s frozen waterfalls, I nearly rerolled. But rules are rules. The ice wall loomed like something out of a Bond film, and I started climbing with all the grace of a baby giraffe. By the time I reached the top, my fingers were frozen, my arms were noodles, and my ego had taken a hit—but I was hooked.
Après-ski that night? Carnage. The dice called for absinthe, and who was I to argue? By midnight, I was dancing on tables, trading ski stories, and promising a group of Swedes I’d join them for heli-skiing the next day.
Day 5-6: Helicopters, Heights, and Horror
“Heli-skiing?” I asked the dice. “Surely not.”
The dice didn’t flinch. I strapped in, climbed aboard, and stared out the window as we lifted over Mont Blanc. My stomach dropped before the skis did. Fresh powder, endless descents, and no chance to back out.
The thrill was unreal. Legs burning, heart pounding—I felt like a superhero until I face-planted halfway down. The Swedes laughed. I laughed. The mountain didn’t care. Back at the lodge, the dice decided I needed to recover with hot tubs, sauna sessions, and yet more génépi.
Day 7: Avalanche Survival or Spa Day?
The dice clearly have a death wish. Instead of a spa, they sent me to an avalanche safety course. Digging out of simulated snow traps and running beacon drills gave me a healthy respect for nature—and for my own recklessness.
That night, I rewarded myself with fondue, beer, and a snowball fight that escalated into a full-blown brawl with strangers. No injuries, just bruised pride and snow down my pants.
Day 8-10: Closing Runs and Final Rolls
The last few days were a blur of steep runs, late nights, and early mornings. The dice pushed me onto glaciers, into ice caves, and even onto a snowboard for the first time (spoiler: I spent more time falling than riding).
The final roll decided my last night: classy dinner or one more round of après-ski chaos. Chaos won. Naturally. I ended up at a bar packed with locals and tourists, raising glasses to the mountains, the madness, and the dice that led me there.
Reflections from the Slopes
Chamonix was a gamble—and the dice didn’t disappoint. From cliff drops to crampon climbs, it pushed me harder, faster, and higher than I ever thought possible. I left with bruises, stories, and an unshakable addiction to the Alps.
The dice? They’re already rattling in my pocket, itching for the next adventure. Wherever it is, I’ll be ready.
