Eat. Drink. Sleep. Ski. Repeat

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. I'm sorry to inform you that we have a minor technical fault with the aircraft..."

It's 8.30am on a cold February Sunday, and it's already been a very long day. If I had the energy, I'd groan. But after a sleepless night spent fretting about whether my unwell wife would be fit to travel, and a nightmare dash from the pharmacy in Gatwick's South Terminal to the gate - our flight number booming over the PA system - the news of the delay is nothing more than a dull blow. Life could be a lot worse. We're here. Marianne is on the mend. We will, eventually, reach our destination.

Our first experience of Monarch Airlines has not been a happy one. Free-for-all check-in process, cheerful but mostly inept staff, a two hour technical delay, seating designed for legless dwarfs... I'm fascinated by aviation, but after nearly four hours contorted into our Airbus A321 with 180 other unfortunates, I'm losing the will.

Then, through a break in the clouds, I see the snow.

We're descending into Friedrichschafen in Germany, just a few miles from the Austrian border - and all the way to the horizon, the fields and buildings are clad in winter wonderland white. I remember why we've put ourselves through this, and the tingle returns.

At lunchtime on a Sunday, we have the airport to ourselves; in minutes we're reunited with our baggage, welcomed by an efficient gang of VIP Ski reps, and whisked onto two coaches. On every seat lies a bottle of water and a miniature Mars bar: the trial is over. Now comes the pampering.

Odyssey 2015's group numbers six plus one. Our friend Cheryl's daughter is spending this ski season working for VIP Ski in St Anton; for Cheryl and her husband Simon, the choice of 2015 destination was a no-brainer. After much discussion and procrastination, Marianne and I have jumped on their bandwagon. We've brought longtime ski buddies Ben and Andy along for the ride.

Airport transfers to ski resorts are notoriously protracted - but St Anton is only 80 miles from Friedrichschafen. Even so I'm caught out when, barely 90 minutes after leaving the airport, our coach is trundling through the streets of a pretty mountain village with wood-shuttered windows and gabled roofs. There's a short delay while we're transferred into a fleet of taxis, but it's all remarkably painless: no trudging up snowy roads carrying your own bodyweight in gear.

And, suddenly, we're here, pulling up in front of the Hotel Montjola with its distinctive curved wood structure; the strain of an awful night and a morning to forget dissolving away. The hotel's main reception area doubles as the lounge; the bar area is laid with an inviting spread of cakes, tea and sandwiches. We descend like starving wolves, and life just gets better and better.

It's a pleasure to finally meet Cheryl's daughter Marianne, whom we've heard so much about over the years. She'll be skiing with us this week in her spare time. In our group of seven, there are two Andrews and two Mariannes. Go figure. After some discussion about naming conventions (my suggestion of Marianne Junior and Senior does not go down well) we settle on Marianne 1 (Cheryl's daughter) and 2 (my wife).

Our room downstairs is small but comfortable and light years ahead of anywhere we've stayed in France; I'd have liked a bath but the shower could double as a pressure washer and the hot water (once it arrives) is endless. It's all good. Meanwhile, our luggage has been delivered (!) to our room, and skis have made their way into the boot room behind reception. Magic.

The feasting continues with champagne and canapés, followed by an excellent three course dinner. VIP's literature makes much of the effort that goes into their food, and it lives up to the hype. Drinks from the bar are sensibly priced, and there's unlimited wine with dinner. Reds are better than whites but it's all drinkable. There's a decent Rosé, too.

We retire early and as always, I struggle to sleep despite my exhaustion. It's 364 days since I last set ski to snow. And St Anton comes with a reputation. Legendary off-piste, difficult and narrow runs, inconsistent piste classification, and two of the most notorious aprés-ski venues in the world. I'm not sure it's going to be my sort of place.

The snow, at least, is going to be epic. After a slow start this part of the Alps has had a metre of powder in the last few days; as I finally drift off, it's still falling outside the window.

At 8.52am on Monday morning we board the Rendlbahn gondola, just seven minutes after opening time. That's despite a breakfast that would be too easy to linger over, and the usual day one go-slow. Where the hell did I put my goggles/socks/gloves/money/brain... And despite the fact that there are six of us. Plus Marianne (1), who lives a short walk away from the hotel, is not working this morning, and will be showing us the mountain.

She's elected to take us up Rendl - the other side of the valley from St Anton's main area - because it tends to be quieter early in the week. As we gain altitude on 2015's first lift, the anticipation is palpable. For Ben, this will be his first run in two years. For me, my first day in my brand new ski boots. For all of us save Ben (who visited as a child), our first time in St Anton.

Off the lift, skis and snowboards on, and away we go. The visibility is mixed - cloudy, snowing lightly - but the snow is glorious and after a tentative couple of runs, it all comes trickling back. The Rendl area is compact but perfectly formed, with four small chairlifts serving a network of beautifully groomed pistes and a variety of enticing terrain from open powder fields to steep bumps. And there are trees. Lots of them. By mid morning, I voice what Marianne's already thinking.

"It looks like Whistler..."

From us, praise doesn't come any higher than that. Stand amongst the trees on the R8 unpisted route, or look down from any of the lifts, and you could be in Blackcomb's Seventh Heaven or Crystal Ridge areas. We're loving this.

At mid morning, we ski back down into St Anton - slightly reluctantly in my case - to sample the main side of the valley. As we reach the bridge over the road, we meet a team of huskies towing a sled in the opposite direction. I practically faceplant in my excitement and completely forget to take any pictures. This really is starting to feel like (skiing) home.

Marianne is still suffering slightly from the illness which blighted our journey, and Andy and I accompany her on a short detour to the pharmacy. While Andy sweet-talks the pharmacist into dispensing antibiotics - helpful to have a doctor in the group - I loiter outside and commune with a pair of local dogs. Business as usual.

With Marianne sorted, we board the Gampen chairlift. It's busy, but the queue is fast moving; in no time we're at mid mountain, reunited with the others, in what will become a familiar part of the world in the days to come. One more lift (Kapall) to the top, before Marianne (1) leads us down a fast, sweeping red run - one of several options - to the base of the lift, then on towards our lunch stop just above the village - KK's.

Not until we arrive do I twig that this is the Krazy Kangaruh, one of the aforementioned notorious aprés bars. Just before midday it's quiet; a friendly, wood-clad place with plenty of space for discarded helmets, gloves and jackets, and enticing smells emanating from the kitchen. We slide in ahead of a 12.30 booking, wolf bowls of steaming goulash, and exit. Marianne (1) leaves us for work, with instructions to ski down and take the main Galzig gondola to the top.

Visibility has been fading in and out all day, but up here the balance is tipped into full whiteout. It's windy, too; having considered skiing over the other side and exploring the runs towards St Christoph, we elect to stay put. After a few more runs at much reduced pace - strictly on piste in these conditions - Ben finds an alternative route that leads us down a black run in zero visibility. There's potential for disaster but it's not too steep and far less busy than the blue runs nearby.

With 4pm approaching and the high lifts closing, it's time to head home; we join the 'Happy Valley' zombie run with thousands of others, and pick our way down to the village. This is one of the 'narrow, over-crowded' pistes of yore. It's a scary place for a beginner, but nowhere near as terrifying - nor dangerous - as the Santons rat-run in Val d'Isére.

Back in the village, the VIP van is waiting to whisk us back to the hotel. The company operates two vans which shuttle back and forth at peak times, and on demand all day - one of many aspects of their service which enable us to focus on the important bits. Much appreciated.

With day one consigned to history, spirits are high. As I salve my new aches with a Kir Royale - topped up for free by Marianne (1) - the UK and its attendant worries are a million miles away. And many of the anxieties surrounding this trip - Marianne (2)'s illness, whether people who had never met before would get on - are falling away too. Dinner is wonderful again; both Ben and Cheryl have special dietary requirements, and the kitchen is doing a great job of catering for all.

The days that follow are, in essence, more of the same. Only better. Tuesday takes us over the mountain to St Christoph, a pretty hamlet and home to one of the best restaurants in the area - Hospiz Alm. Lunch for us is normally no more than a pitstop, but Hospiz Alm merits a leisurely meal. The fourteenth century building is a study in rustic charm, the spiral staircase to the (spotless) toilets has a slide for those in a hurry, and the wine list is legendary. We don't sample the wine (though it's fun picking out Bordeaux with four-figure prices) but the food is superb and the prices not ridiculous.

The clouds have lifted, finally showing us the Arlberg in all its magnificence: needle crags towering over tree-clad lower slopes, every branch heavy with snow. We board the chairlift to the top with plans to ski down into Stuben, an even tinier hamlet on the edge of the skiable area.

Then we hit the Wall.

I've written of the Wall before. It usually pops up on day two or three; the point when the combination of altitude and a new regime of strenuous exercise exhausts the body's reserves. It strikes everyone to some extent, but Cheryl and I are hardest hit: she elects to head home early with Marianne (1). Simon, Marianne (2) and I continue. Ben and Andy are elsewhere today; after a plan to join an off-piste guided group fell through, they're amusing themselves on a cliff face somewhere.

My lunch of bratwurst and sauerkraut was high in protein but low in carbohydrate - a mistake. By the time we reach Stuben, with its postcard-pretty church and single chairlift, I'm really suffering. I manage a couple of runs higher up before succumbing, with apologies to the others. We end a little early, just before 4pm. I resolve to pack in the carbs at breakfast the following morning.

Day three takes us all to Lech, Austria's swankiest resort, renowned for its designer shops and perfectly groomed cruising slopes. Chairlifts emblazoned with the logo of a local jeweller sum it up perfectly. Our impression is of an attractive village (though no prettier than St Anton) and pleasingly quiet slopes; we spend most of the day in the newly opened Warth area - a gondola ride away.

The slopes are certainly well-groomed and the weather is perfect; we spend the day racking up some serious mileage either on piste or seeking out the powder nearby. It's not all easy cruising though: I go sweaty-palmed as a straightforward black run turns into one of the steepest fall lines I've ever seen on a groomed piste.

The group splits into three sections in the afternoon, as we lose each other doing laps of a six-man chair with an infinite variety of routes - on-piste and off - from top to bottom. There are trees and rocks and gullies and crevices and powder fields and fast cruises - something for everyone. I'm strongly reminded of Harmony on Whistler.

It's a near-perfect skiing day and we're sad to see it end; with the shadows lengthening and a 4.15pm taxi booked, Marianne and I reluctantly turn for home. Our brief taste of Lech has been tantalising, and I'm keen to return.

On Wednesday afternoon we make a foray into town to watch the weekly ski show - teams of instructors from around the area showing their skill with the sort of close-quarters formation skiing (in the dark) that would have most of us in a tangle of limbs in seconds. The lighting is spectacular - the slopes used like a drive-in movie screen - and the ski displays are interspersed with aerial tricks over a jump at the base of the slope. Great stuff - and there are fireworks to finish.

Day four gets off to an inauspicious start with poor visibility and two uncomfortable cable car rides to the top, followed by a tearing wind on the run down into Stuben. We abandon our plans to revisit the slopes above Stuben, and head back over into St Anton proper. The main area above the resort is an appealing mix of fast red and blue runs with a couple of interesting red and black 'skiroutes' - patrolled off-piste routes. After a couple of laps of the Kapall chair, and one blast all the way to the bottom and back up on Gampen, we rendezvous in the Krazy Kangaruh for lunch.

I'd noticed the burgers on our first visit; there's a whole page of the menu devoted to them. In Europe, burgers are very hit and miss, but KK's goes straight into my personal hall of fame. Continuing the Whistler references, both burger and venue are reminiscent of Dusty's in Creekside. Bawdy aprés venue or not, the Krazy Kangaruh is fast becoming one of my favourite mountain restaurants.

Post-lunch carbohydrate slump finds us on the Rendlbahn, heading up the other side of the valley. Ben, Marianne (2) and I revisit R8, the Seventh Heaven-esque area we discovered on day one, and spend the afternoon exploring the other off-piste routes on this side of the mountain. It's cloudy and the light is flat, but there's just enough contrast from the trees and terrain to see what we're doing.

We cap the day off with one of my highlights of the week: R5, It's an off piste route that forks off the black run just below the Gampberg chair, and winds through glorious terrain away from the pistes before rejoining the main R1 run to the village lower down. It's tricky but manageable, the options are endless, and I love every second. As usual, I pick my way down cautiously while Marianne (2) exhibits more speed and panache. Ben tries to vault over a half-buried river and ends up embedded in the bank. Once we've made sure he's unscathed, we point and laugh. It takes him a quarter of an hour to chip the ice from his skis.

Day five is one of those days where things don't quite click. At least not for me. We decide to go to Zurs, which involves the two cable cars to the top (and a big queue for the first one), a run down into Stuben, and a bus ride. Altogether too much hanging around and public transport; it's 10.30am before we get any proper skiing in. At least the weather is clearer here, as forecast.

Zurs has an attractive area of slopes including an epic red run from the top of the Muggengrat chair between towering peaks and along an off-piste trail back to the village. My lunch is the week's most alarming-looking plate of food (think frankfurter in the shape of meatloaf) but is surprisingly tasty.

Overall, though, I'm not feeling it; so big is the queue for the bus that we plump for a taxi back to Stuben which costs us a pittance and saves us a lot of elbow-bashing. The others enjoyed their day but after two all-time greats in a row, I never got in the groove. On our return we discover that leaving St Anton was the right call - our home run blighted by high winds on the Stuben side and poor visibility all the way down to the resort.

No matter. I neck a G&T, enjoy another fantastic meal courtesy of the Montjola, watch a bit of rugby with the others, and reset for our final day.

Which dawns clear, steel-grey sky turning blue as the sun rises. We split into three groups after the first run, and Marianne and I set out to make our last ski day in 2015 count. We flit back and forth between the Kapall and Galzig peaks, seeking out the quietest pistes, the off-piste routes and any nuggets of off-piste powder we can find.

Lunch is another KK's rendezvous and another fabulous burger; the highlight of our last afternoon - and one of the runs of the week - is R33. Yet another off-piste black, it runs from the top of the Kapall chair across the Mattun face before descending to follow the edge of a valley which winds back to the Happy Valley run. It's scary high-alpine stuff for me, with an initial traverse which leaves me dry-throated and white-knuckled - but the weather is perfect and the setting sublime. We join the Zombie run with hearts racing, take the Mattun Chair to mid-mountain, and board Kapall - Odyssey 2015's last lift.

It's already 4pm, the setting sun beginning to turn the slopes gold; as we exit the chairlift, 99% of me wants to turn left, towards the entrance to R33. One more shot of adrenalin. But we've pushed hard today: fatigue and off-piste moguls do not mix well. We turn right and keep to the pistes, sweeping down the fast reds and the 22 black to our aprés-ski rendezvous at Taps, next door to the Krazy Kangaruh.

We shoehorn ourselves onto a bench with the others and swap stories of bravado to a soundtrack of 80s Eurotrash. It's not my scene at all, but the Gluhwein is warming and the company good.

One final short run down - stopping to check on a winded skier on the way - and we're unclipping for the last time. But Odyssey 2015 isn't quite over: we've one more decadent night of canapés, champagne and fabulous food from the cheery staff of the Montjola.

VIP Ski have done a brilliant job for us this week. Marianne (1) in particular has gone well beyond the call of duty. It's been great to have her with us on the mountain, and she's taken great care of us at mealtimes.

St Anton is a wonderful resort, with something for everyone except perhaps complete beginners and very tentative intermediates. I had read and heard tell of an intimidating, beer-swilling monster of a resort. Instead I found a friendly, attractive village with a relaxed vibe and some truly spectacular terrain. It runs our beloved Whistler mighty, mighty close - and isn't a ten hour flight away.

Dank und auf Wiedersehen Österreich!

Marianne (2) rocks a new metallic lime and mushy-pea green helmet for 2015. Lech, 3 February

All smiles as Ben and Marianne (1) gear up for a morning in epic Warth. Auenfeldjet gondola, 3 February 2015

5/7 of the group less yours truly (camera) and Marianne 1 (searching for lost ski somewhere down the mountain). From left: Cheryl, Andy, Simon, Marianne (2) and Ben. Saloberkopf, Warth, 3 February 2015 

One of Odyssey 2015's defining moments. Marianne stops on the home run to Lech, and we try and take in the scale and beauty of where we are. Lech, 3 February

Yup, that's a mountain stream. And yes, that's a Ben-shaped impression in the bank. R5, Rendl, 4 February 2015

Deep breath, switch brain off, follow Marianne into the abyss... our unforgettable final run of a short but very sweet Odyssey 2015. R33, St Anton, 6 February

The joy of six

Two thermal base layers. One long sleeved T shirt. Two fleeces. Two pairs of thermal long johns. Salopettes and ski jacket. Six layers up top and four down below. That's what I've worn on the mountain for the past two days.

It wasn't enough.

From a freakish high of 12 degrees C on our first day to a low of minus 20 on our last, Odyssey 2014 has seen an incredible temperature range. The early days, when we skied wearing just t-shirts under our jackets, seemed like a different lifetime yesterday.

Temperatures aside the weather has remained amazingly stable throughout our twelve day stay - dry and sunny bar a mildly snowy couple of days late last week. Not what we expect in Whistler, but you roll the dice with every ski trip. We've been blessed with record-breaking snow here on two of our four visits. Can't complain.

These final few days have been all about keeping our extremities unfrozen, venturing cautiously away from the groomed trails in search of anything other than rock-hard crust, and doing our best to stay upright on increasingly icy terrain. There was fun to be had, and we had it, but Mother Nature has made us work for it.

Are we glad we came? Hell, yes. It's been a huge success on many levels. Having taken a big confidence knock last year, I've made a quantum leap with my skiing in 2014. Our apartment is a haven of comfort and convenience, and came at a sensible price. Everyone we've encountered - from ski instructors to mountain staff to restaurant staff to fellow skiers - has been a pleasure to deal with. We've eaten extremely well both on the mountain and in the resort, at expensive rather than obscene prices.

On our previous two trips we skied on the day of our departure, but an earlier flight defeated us this time. I must be going soft in the twilight of my thirties, but I don't mind relaxing by a gently hissing fire, tea close by, with hours in hand before leaving for the airport. Outside, it's minus 13C here in the resort, and minus 26C at the peaks. That's cold enough to make frostbite a real concern; with no fresh snow, everyone else is welcome to our mountains today.

Sad to be leaving as always. But we're both in one piece - never a foregone conclusion on a ski trip - and there's much to look forward to. 

And although we've missed the powder this time, Whistler is still the Daddy. 

'Let's go and see Dave.' A fleeting photocall outside the Chic Pea restaurant before we take on Dave Murray, the Olympic Men's downhill run. Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014.

'Get out of my picture!' Marianne risks frostbite for a pristine shot of Blackcomb. Camel Back, Harmony, Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014.

Our final lunch, and a welcome break from the deep freeze. Look closely and you'll see the thousand-yard stares. Roundhouse, Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014

Powder and ice

Wednesday, 9am. School's out... after skiing separately for three days in lessons, Marianne and I were keen to put our newfound confidence - and my promotion to level 5 - to the test.

And where better than Harmony Ridge on a perfect sunny day. The snow conditions were mixed, but we were hopeful that the steep bumps of Kaleidoscope - a regular haunt on previous visits - would be more fluffy than icy. And we were in luck.

Even after all these years, the place still scares the hell out of me. But I can get down with middling pace and a modicum of technique. And as we skidded to a stop at the new, upgraded Harmony 6 chairlift with hearts racing, I couldn't wait to get back up there and go again.

Thursday dawned cloudy and cold; for the first time this year, we donned thermals and headsocks. And as we gained altitude on the Wizard chairlift, spirits soared at the sight of whitened trees. Snow! At last!

It snowed lightly throughout the day, perhaps 5-6cm settling on the highest terrain. Hardly a powder day, but enough to freshen the groomed trails and soften the crusty snow in the bowls and between the trees. We revelled in the best snow of the week on the shady side of Blackcomb - beside the Glacier Express chair - and on the fast sweepers of Crystal Ridge.

After three days of intensive, repetitive technique work - often at speed - in ski school, my legs were suffering by lunchtime. A long-overdue pulled pork wrap did much to revive me, but a couple of missed turns at high speed and considerable pain forced me down off the mountain a little early. Better on my own two skis than in a first aid toboggan, or 'blood wagon'.

We've been coming to Whistler since 2007, and have long coveted a meal at one of its best restaurants, Araxi. Last week, before we left, we finally bit the bullet and booked a table for Thursday night. We've never heard a bad word about the place, and anticipation was sky-high. It delivered in spades. Comfortably the best meal we've ever had in Whistler - or any ski resort - and in my top ten of all time.

What with my burning thighs and the volume of wine sunk the previous night, Friday morning was a slow one. But 11am found us in Symphony on Whistler, alternating hold-your-breath blasts down Rhapsody Bowl with exploratory runs between the trees and close encounters with the local Whiskeyjacks - half-tame birds which will land on a ski pole and eat out of your hand (whether you offer food or not).

As we began our final run before lunch, the clatter of a helicopter sounded an ominous note and sure enough, just below the top of the Symphony Express lift we found the trail blocked by paramedics; the red medical helicopter had landed a hundred metres further down, beside the entrance to Rhapsody Bowl. Several snowboarders had collided on the trail; no more details were forthcoming, but the sight of the helicopter is never good news.

It's been a particularly bad week for accidents. The variable snow conditions have made for some very challenging skiing; sheet ice covered by a wafer-thin, shifting layer of powdery snow is about as dangerous as it gets, with grip levels varying dramatically from turn to turn and a rock-hard landing if you fall. We are taking extra care not to do anything stupid. I wish everyone else would do the same.

That's eight down and three to go. Not much snow in the forecast, but it's turning even colder. Time to bring out the face masks...

This is more like it... cloudy, -6 degrees C, and snowing. Glacier Creek, Blackcomb, 30 January 2014

We might need to remortgage, but it'll be worth it. Marianne gets a fabulous meal off to a celebratory start with an ice wine cocktail. Araxi, Whistler Village, 30 January 2014.

Yes, we DO own the place... whiskeyjacks perch on our ski poles and eye up my granola bar. Symphony base, Whistler Mountain, 31 January 2014.

(fake) Snow at last! Springboard, Blackcomb, 31 January 2014

Lifts shut, temperatures dropping, snow guns blasting... it's time to get the kettle on. Marianne leads the home run to finish an epic day eight. Upper Mainline, Blackcomb, 31 January 2014 

Back to school...

After a fairly strenuous first day on Blackcomb, on Friday evening I feared we'd overdone it. A hundred new twinges, some back pain for Marianne, my usual sledgehammered toes... and a hefty dose of jetlag to boot.

But Saturday morning found us miraculously unscathed - even my toes had recovered overnight - and by 9am we were boarding the Peak2Peak cable car for Whistler Mountain. It's a memorable eleven minutes on any day. But on a cloudless morning with the sun peeking over the mountains, turning the snow white-gold and etching every tree, rock and lift line in pin-sharp detail, it defies description.

Even on a bad snow day, this is one of my favourite places on Earth. And if you know where to look - in shaded areas which never see the sun - there's good snow to be found even after so many dry, mild days. The Saddle - a warp-speed, arrow-straight plunge from Whistler Peak and surely one of the steepest blue runs in the world - was a revelation, with wonderful soft snow. And as the sun began to soften the crust, Symphony's thousand-acre playground transformed from intimidating to intoxicating.

With two days down and nine to go, we faced day three with a touch of trepidation. Ski School. Our first lessons since 2011 and in my case, long overdue. As usual, Marianne joined the top Level 6 class, while I picked up where I left off, in Level 4.

I ended the day with improved confidence and new technique - extremely useful, but ever so slightly boring. My instructor was very good indeed, but both of my classmates were tentative and slow; I found myself yearning for steeper, more challenging terrain and more mileage.

Be careful what you wish for... this morning, on our second of three days of lessons, I found myself promoted for the first time since 2007. Level 5, playing with the big kids... as I set off with my new instructor and classmates - a deceptively mild-mannered couple from Seattle - I tried to ban the butterflies and prepare for the huge moguls and breath-jamming steeps which surely lay ahead.

They may yet come, but today was all about timing, high-speed turns and adapting to varying conditions. I've never travelled faster on snow. I can, occasionally, pull off a carved turn. And this afternoon, just as overconfidence was starting to get the better of me, I hooked an edge at the thick end of 40mph. No harm done other than a momentary loosening of bowels - but it was a timely reminder. Don't get cocky.

Which brings us up to date aside from an entertaining couple of hours to finish the day. Several times over the years, we've been approached in mountain restaurants by Club Intrawest representatives and invited to a 'presentation' - essentially a sales pitch for their timeshare scheme. We've always politely refused, but on Saturday we caved, suckered in by the offer of a C$150 gift card just for turning up.

There is, of course, absolutely no chance of Marianne and I dropping £15k on a timeshare. Having battened down the mental hatches for a serious hard sell, we were pleasantly surprised. Friendly people, tea on tap, and a very mild attempt to sell. I suspect that they realised early on that we don't fit the timeshare demographic. We escaped with our shirts and our gift card - which will cover lunch on the mountain for the rest of the week. Result.

Final day of lessons tomorrow, and - whisper it - there's even talk of some fresh snow. Fingers crossed.

Where's Andrew? Rhapsody Bowl, Whistler Mountain, 25 January 2014

Bluebird perfection. Backcountry area from Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 25 January 2014.

We're all going on a... summer holiday

Eleven degrees. Two thousand metres up a Canadian mountain. In January.

According to the locals it's not unprecedented, but it's certainly unusual, and a stark contrast in this fierce North American winter of polar vortexes and ice storms. The temperature is a full twenty degrees warmer than it should be, and to add a touch of weird to the bizarre, we have another Whistler peculiarity - a temperature inversion. It's colder at the bottom than at the top.

Obviously none of this is conducive to good snow. Having watched the weather forecasts with growing dismay in the week leading up to our departure, it was with a mix of trepidation and homecoming that we boarded the Wizard chairlift at the base of Blackcomb on Friday morning.

By midday, spirits were lifted. We were beginning to get our skiing legs back - a relief for me, as I seem to forget everything I ever learned from year to year - and the snow is better than we feared. Worst affected is the sun-drenched Seventh Heaven area; the trails themselves are fine, but thinner-than-usual snow cover means more exposed rocks and trees in between.

So while we'd love a metre of fresh powder, there's really no cause for complaint. The sun is shining in a resort which has, more often than not, served us inclement, snowbound days. The views are jawdropping. We're here, and after a difficult second half of 2013, that in itself is a bonus. Thank the improved exchange rate and Air Transat for that.

Why Air Transat? Because the return airfare was so cheap (around £300 each less than the equivalent airfare on BA) that I half-expected it to be a scam. And I fully expected the trip itself to be a nightmare. 

Wrong on both counts. Aside from a three-hour delay which we knew about a day in advance - so no wasted time at the airport - they were impeccable. Our skis were carried free of charge, the aircraft was an old but tidy Airbus A330, the seats were almost comfortable (with decent legroom even for me) the food was perfectly acceptable, drinks were plentiful and the crew were a revelation: the friendliest, most hardworking I can remember in decades of economy long-haul flying. I'll reserve final judgement until the return flight but so far, so impressed.

Coming up to 6.30am on Saturday (ain't jetlag wonderful) I can hear the resort coming to life. Today we'll sample Whistler Mountain itself and carry on as we started - seeking out the shaded trails where the snow is at its best. And like everyone else we'll watch the forecasts, do our daily snow dance.

Day Two (of eleven) beckons...

Never fear, the snow's still here... all smiles as Marianne prepares to get Odyssey 2014 rolling. (Blackcomb Base, Friday 24 January 2014)

It's a bluebird day and the mountain awaits... (Blackcomb Base, Friday 24 January 2014)

Ending on a high note

I'll say this first: for me, this hasn't been an easy week. A fairly big crash early on day one shook me badly. It left me with minor aches, but the real damage was to my confidence, which I reckon was set back two years.

Suddenly, terrain which I'd previously have lapped up looked daunting; my technique regressed from confident and fluid to tentative and awkward. Even on easy pistes I felt disconnected; the more nervous I became, the more I caught edges, struggled to make turns and generally scared the crap out of myself.

After twice muddling through a tricky off-piste itinerary on days two and three, my mood reached a low point on our first 'away' trip on day four. Sainte Foy is small, beautiful and gloriously quiet, even in a busy holiday week - but its snow seems more vulnerable than the bigger resorts nearby, and you can ski the best of it in three days.

Sunny skies and warming temperatures made Tignes our choice of destination. Lugging skis down the hill from chalet to car and driving to another resort seemed a bit too much like hard work to me, but everything worked smoothly and we were on the slopes by 9.30am.

We know Tignes well, having skied there in 2009 and again just a few weeks ago, and I hoped that familiarity would restore my ailing confidence. But it was not to be: a sunny French school holiday week meant a perfect storm of all the things that wind me up about skiing in France: overcrowded slopes, needlessly long and disorganised lift queues, crowded restaurants, mediocre overpriced food, third-world sanitation. I worked on my technique and made some headway, but had thoroughly lost the love. By 3pm I was dragging myself from turn to turn, lagging well behind the others, willing the day to end.

I seriously considered sitting out day five, but pulled myself together for the trip to La Plagne. It wouldn't have been my choice - I didn't much like it when we crossed the valley from Les Arcs on our 2010 trip - but resolved to ski better. Andy, our resident snowboarder, had rejoined us following a ski lesson the previous day; on skis he's a relative beginner, so there'd be no gnarly off-pisteing. Probably a good thing.

I still don't like the place - samey and overcrowded - but my technique and confidence was starting to return, and the others really enjoyed their day. An overdue trip to the big supermarket at Bourg Saint Maurice lowered the tone somewhat, but we were buoyed by the thought of skiing on quiet slopes on Saturday while everyone else was stuck in traffic jams.

And so to day six, today. A third day trip, this time to Villaroger, which is directly across the valley, clearly visible from our chalet in Sainte Foy. It's a tiny outpost with just a single chairlift and - this morning - four cars in the car park. But that chairlift and the one that follows sweep you over the ridge and into Les Arcs - still my favourite of the big French resorts.

And at last, this morning, the flow was back. I didn't attempt anything particularly challenging - days of warm sunshine and no fresh snow has hurt conditions, particularly off-piste - but the awful disconnected feeling had evaporated. Even more importantly, I was enjoying it again. Even the culinary low point of the week (cold beef, oozing blood, smothered in sauce strongly reminiscent of dishwater) failed to dent my rediscovered good mood. And not a moment too soon.

And that's it. Odyssey 2013 is done. It's fair to say that it hasn't all been rosy, but it's had its moments. I make no secret of the fact that I consider France inferior to Canada in all things skiing, and nothing in 2013 has changed that opinion. We enjoyed our week in Val d'Isere, but the only reason for us to return is YSE, the excellent tour operator/chalet company.

Even I won't blame France for my struggles this week; of all the resorts we've stayed in, small, perfectly-formed Sainte Foy is easily the most beguiling. It's like a mini-Whistler in many ways, and I'd certainly return. We've been very lucky to have the use of a superbly-located and equipped chalet which has made life off the slopes a pleasure.

I wasn't wholly sold on the idea of driving to other resorts for day trips, but although lugging our gear up and down the hill was a bit of a chore, by and large it's been straightforward and has added real variety.

So. Time to head home and put away the skis for another year. I'm not entirely sad at the prospect. We've seen a lot of snow. I'm ready for longer days and (hopefully) a touch of summer sun.

Watch out for that tree...

I thought I was pretty good at skiing. Then I came to Sainte Foy.

This is a pretty, blink-and-you-miss it resort tucked in between the giants of Tignes and Les Arcs. It has just four chairlifts and around twelve beautifully groomed pistes. But it's the terrain in between - the sweeping powder fields, deep-cut gullies and thickly forested lower slopes - that have garnered it a cult following. Rumour has it that the ski instructors in the big resorts come here on their days off.

After a reasonably straightforward trip yesterday (Winchester-Heathrow-Geneva-Ste Foy), we're first in line for the chairlift - ten minutes before opening time. That could be a first, and is largely down to our trip organiser Ben. As far as Ben's concerned, if the lifts are open you should be skiing. Works for me.

It's a different vibe to the first half of Odyssey 2013 (in Val d'Isere three weeks ago), as expected. Without chalet food and freeflowing wine, rousing ourselves in the morning is a little easier; our cavernous accommodation (a detached chalet belonging to a friend of a friend) is comfortable and relaxed.

It gets off to a great start - fresh snow, sunshine - but day 1 turns into something of a baptism of fire.  Just sixteen days since I last skied, my confidence is high as we set off down our first run.

Too high, as it turns out. As we venture off-piste into a tricky mix of soft powder over hard-packed bumps, I find myself struggling to stay upright as my skis thump over hidden obstacles. Shortly afterwards, I'm flat on my face, having flown straight over the edge of a hidden, metre-high precipice.

Once I've found my lost ski, we head down between the trees - swapping pinch-yourself views of the Tarentaise valley for a postcard setting of snowy glades. Breathtakingly beautiful, but seriously challenging. By morning's end, I've fallen three times (having not toppled once in a week in Val d'Isere).

After lunch, the ante is upped further. Even Marianne is caught out, crashing hard enough to catapult her five metres clear of her skis. As we begin to explore the slopes at the opposite end of the resort, I'm pushed too far outside my comfort zone. In two feet of powder on a shit-the-bed steep, boulder-strewn slope, I freeze up. It's the first time I've been genuinely scared this year.

The trees below offer a little respite - but I'm battling to turn in the deep snow while trying to avoid a myriad of obstacles, and the fall-line is veering from manageable to insane. Eventually, we find our way back to a piste. Sighs of relief ensue.

We finish the day with a couple of fast cruises - easy, confidence-building stuff. Day one in a nutshell is too much, too soon. This place is nothing short of breathtaking - it reminds us strongly of Whistler - and like Whistler, it demands commitment and respect. Tomorrow, we'll dial it back a notch. A little less terror, a little more fun.

Day six. Ending on a whimper

It's not as bad as it could be.

Nobody is injured. Ligaments and bones are intact. But following murmurings mid-week of a couple of unwell guests in our chalet, Cheryl succumbed last night and had to leave the table in the middle of dinner. And by lunchtime today, I was forced to admit defeat and slink home to bed. As I type, I'm missing our final supper. With empty slopes on changeover day (for most people) and bluebird conditions, day six should have capped a fine first half of Odyssey 2013. I'm bitterly disappointed to have missed out, but very lucky: all being well, we'll be back in these mountains before the month is out.

Days four and five almost make up for the loss. The sun made a watery appearance on Thursday and bathed the slopes on Friday, reminding us just how spectacular the Espace Killy can be. With good visibility and light winds, Marianne and I pushed harder: faster on piste, braver off piste, seeking out new routes and fresh powder wherever we went. Run of the week is uncontested: Silenes, a breathtakingly steep, ungroomed black above Tignes Les Brevieres. Blessed with wonderful soft snow and acres of challenging, sinuous off piste on either side, it rivals the toughest terrain we've skied in Whistler.

I started the week determined to unlock the magic in these mountains. And I've partially succeeded. The snow record is among the best in the world, and we've seen nothing to dispute that. With better skills I've been able to appreciate slopes I found terrifying in 2009.

Doubtless a bout of nausea has clouded my appreciation, but overall I still find the Espace Killy frustrating. The Solaise, Laisinant and Le Fornet sections of Val d'Isere have some great terrain, but they're marred by a disjointed lift system and far too many flat or uphill linking pistes. The mountain restaurants are better than I remember, but even on a quiet week they're often overcrowded. And the on-mountain toilet facilities are completely inadequate and unremittingly disgusting.

Our tour operator YSE have continued as they started: friendly, hardworking staff, comfortable chalet, good food and free-flowing wine. It's made for a convivial atmosphere at mealtimes, and dinner in particular has been a real event.

Would I return? Jury's out. Perhaps I'll feel more positive about it when I'm back in my own bed with guts unchurned.

Onwards and upwards...

Day three. Use the force...

And still it snows.
.
Snow is the name of the game, of course, and we love it. But skiers (and snowboarders) are an ungrateful lot. Too cold, too warm, too wet, too windy, too snowy... we always find something to complain about.

It has snowed solidly since mid-morning on Tuesday, with around 25cm falling in that time. Conditions at the moment are some of the best we've ever experienced in Europe. The problem is that with snow comes cloud and often wind; up high, the weather over the last couple of days has varied from inclement to ferocious. Great snow is all well and good, but the fun is limited when you can't see it. Or each other. Or which way is up. There are a couple of names for this sort of skiing. "Using the force". Or "survival skiing". Or "I'm going home..."

Still, Marianne and I are used to this - our beloved Whistler often serves up a cocktail of fresh powder and blizzard. The others are finding it hard going though, and after a couple of warm-up runs we've gone our separate ways for the last two days.

With the weather like this, trees are your friends. They provide shelter from the worst and help with visibility. Val has more trees than I remember, and we've had a whale of a time off piste above La Daille, dodging low branches and trying not to hit anything solid. This area is crisscrossed with lovely sweeping red and blue runs; when we've scared ourselves in the forest, we pop back into the piste and rack up some mileage.

Today saw our first forays onto black runs this year. First up was the glorious Rhone Alpes on Solaise, then the short, steep Combe Vallon - which, incongruously, leads onto the nursery slope at village level. And finally, we conquered - well, survived - a Val d'Isere landmark: the Olympic downhill run, Face de Bellevarde. It's our biggest challenge yet: steep and bumpy, demanding of muscles and technique. But the sense of achievement makes it all worthwhile.

After three entertaining evenings in the chalet, our hardworking staff have a deserved night off, so we're out on the town tonight. God help our wallets...

Day one. In search of the sun

"No, I'm not all right! What the hell is he doing up there, practising for the Marathon?"

It's 6.45am in a Gatwick Airport Premier Inn, and Marianne is Not Amused. Bigfoot in the room above has been stomping back and forth for half an hour; hell hath no fury like my wife roused prematurely from an already fitful sleep. It's not the most auspicious of starts.

Five hours later, life is considerably more rosy. Thomson Airways has delivered us to a blissfully empty Grenoble Airport. Our package operator YSE has, as promised, loaded us swiftly onto a convoy of coaches. Next stop Val d'Isere.

As we climb the precipitous mountain road, the trees turn powder white, the peaks reaching impossibly high above; late afternoon sunshine completes the picture postcard. We've seen winter wonderland before, but this view quickens the pulse like few I can remember.

By late afternoon, we're trundling up the familiar High Street with its wood-clad buildings, glitzy boutiques and hotels jostling for attention. Our chalet is a former hotel right in the centre, set back from the main drag. It's simple and comfortable and the young staff greet us like old friends. There's tea and cake waiting. Chalets aren't usually our thing - we've self-catered for the last five seasons after a bad experience - but by the end of an excellent (and boozy) dinner I'm won over.

Monday morning, 9am. Time at last to set skis to snow, and the mountains are toying with us. There's fresh snow on the ground and more falling, but as we gain altitude on Odyssey 2013's first chairlift, the visibility fades to white. We've chosen the Solaise area to start: an open playground of sweeping, undulating runs, it's perfect for finding your ski legs. The snow is glorious - as light and fluffy as Whistler's finest - and after the first tentative turns it all begins to flood back despite the visibility.

Cheryl, Simon, Marianne and I are joined by Cheryl's brother Carwyn, who hasn't skied in seven years. The rust takes its time to flake away, but he's hanging on gamely and copes well when we venture onto steeper, bumpier terrain by mid morning. It's still fairly tame compared with some of our antics in Whistler last year, but the week is young.

The sun intermittently makes an appearance, but the cloud is fickle; we quickly stop trying to second-guess it. But a late afternoon decision to head for the Glacier de Pissaillas lands us the jackpot: it's bathed in sunshine. The wind is howling, blowing snow in sugar-fine waves across the ground; with wind chill the temperature is twenty below freezing. The last drag lift tops out at over 3,400 metres above sea level, and the semicircle of jagged peaks encircling us defies description.

We sweep down the fast blue runs, occasionally foraying off into the powder fields on either side, revelling in the snow and being able to see it. Wonderful stuff, and a great way to sign off a fine opening day. On our previous visit we didn't often venture up into this part of the Espace Killy, and now I remember why: geography makes it disjointed and difficult to get around. It's far too easy to end up a bus ride from home, too.

But there's some fun terrain up there, and when the sun shines, the setting is magical. Day two beckons...

Odyssey 2013. Storm before the calm

It's been quite a week for family Duff. At the Hampshire end, challenging times at work exacerbated by car trouble, utility trouble and the runup to a holiday. At the Buckinghamshire end, a brave new world: my brother Jonathan and sister-in-law Beth welcomed their firstborn. We travel up on Saturday to meet baby Gabriel, and - I don't say this lightly - I'm just as excited about that as I am about skiing.

And all being well, after the whirlwind that was January, Sunday 3 February will bring the calm. Us and the mountains and the tingle of adrenalin.

Val d'Isére.

Say the name in company, and reactions vary. Overpriced playground for Russian billionaires and the Made in Chelsea set? Chocolate-box village in winter wonderland setting? Or world-class snowsport Mecca?

The reality is a bit of all three. But my reaction is always the same. I go a little cold, unable to repel a shiver of apprehension.

I have unfinished business in this part of the French Alps. Having arrived full of anticipation at the start of our two week visit in 2009, I left battered and exhausted. The resort is pretty and surprisingly friendly, but in my head the mountains are forbidding and unforgiving - quick to punish, slow to reward.

But I'm certain that thousands of enthusiasts can't all be wrong. Val d'Isére is renowned as one of the great ski resorts - blessed with high altitude, breathtaking scenery and some of the finest lift-served off piste skiing in the world. Four years ago I didn't get the best out of myself or the resort; in 2013, I'm far better equipped to unlock the magic in these mountains.

We're very lucky to be getting two bites of the skiing apple in 2013. Bite one in Val sees us reunited with Simon and Cheryl, who joined us for a week in Whistler in 2011; bite two, in the last week of February, takes us to Sainte Foy with long-time ski buddies Ben and Andy.

As I type, I can hear the click-snap of Marianne's ski boot buckles as she readies them for travel. We're at that jumpy stage - the pressures of work falling away, excitement building - but as ever with a ski trip, praying that nothing goes wrong.

But before that, there's the matter of making first acquaintance with my nephew. I've already pencilled him in for ski school circa 2017...

The sheep are always watching

Bogeys at six o'clock... outgoing...

My brain feels as if it's being sucked out through my nose. I'm reeling back against the mountainside, the wind like a huge hand trying to pluck me from my perch and smash me into the rocks below. Through teared-up eyes, I can just about see a six-inch tendril of snot growing longer and longer... until it slaps back across my cheek and the hood of my raincoat. I giggle a little hysterically and check that Marianne, a few yards below me on the path, is still on her feet.

We're not in Whistler any more.

There are no skis on our feet, no snow beneath us; we're hundreds, rather than thousands, of miles from home. It's midsummer in the Lake District. Despite the rose-tinted name, this is some of Britain's harshest terrain. The altitudes are a little lower than we're used to, but the mountains and weather are the real deal. Lose respect at your peril.

In London, one is allegedly never more than six feet from a rat. After four days in the Lake District, it's clear to me that the same is true of sheep up here. In every shade of grey, in every location from verdant lakeside field to rock-strewn scree slope; spot one ten yards away and you can guarantee that there'll be three others within five. These are the 'stealth sheep' that are only visible when they care to be.

Yes, I know. Too much mountain air, perhaps. Or it could be the copious daily intake of red wine.

But today, at the northern end of Kentmere Valley, I'm beginning to think we've found a place where even sheep fear to tread. As we eat our lunch on a rough bench at Nan Bield Pass, low stone walls protecting us from the worst of the wind, we feel like the only people on Earth.

The view over Small Water to the southern end of Haweswater, seven hundred metres below, defies description; we're humbled, inspired, a little scared. As we tighten our straps and prepare for the tricky descent to Kentmere Reservoir, I spot a flicker of white among the rocks above us.

Of course they're up here. This is their patch. We're the trespassers. I only spot one, and only for a moment. But as we start downhill into the tearing wind, I know the others are watching.

We’re not worthy

Last time I checked, my skis were still attached to my feet. But I can’t see them. They’re six inches beneath the surface of the snow, a smooth unbroken blanket which I’m floating through at the thick end of thirty miles an hour. It’s an unnerving experience to begin with, but once you’ve cut fresh tracks in fresh powder, there is no going back. Skiers and boarders go to the most amazing lengths for their powder fix – we’ve seen them hiking up rocky slopes or along precarious ridges, a mile or more from any lift.

Marianne, Steve and I aren’t that committed. We’ve settled for a chairlift, a draglift and a short – but draining – hike. We’re not true powder hounds. But today, the luck is with us.

It’s 10.30 in the morning on Sunday, day ten of the Odyssey and this, for me, could well be its crowning moment. Blackcomb Glacier has been shut for virtually our entire visit but the weather has finally relented; we were in the right place at the right time when the chairlift opened and are amongst the first to the top. Below us lies a vast, open bowl, cradled between the mountains; pictures and words do it no justice but suffice it to say we feel privileged to be here.

It’s not a place for the fainthearted or inexperienced; my limited skills are only just up to the task. There are almost no tracks but it won’t be long before others cotton on; it’s time to swallow the fear, point our skis downhill and go.

So we did.

Having skied through some truly atrocious weather – imagine the wind chill when it’s minus eight, snowing and gusting to 60mph – we were delighted when the mountain gods finally gave in and graced us two relatively clear days to finish off. I mentioned Harmony Ridge in an earlier post, but for days 10 and 11, it was all about the Glacier and Seventh Heaven – the latter a glorious mix of wide-open alpine playground and gladed trails below the treeline.

We know it well from many previous visits but as with everywhere in Whistler, you could spend a lifetime skiing it and still be surprised. Although we did revisit the tree that Marianne collided with last year. I even took a picture.

Along with my newfound abilities in powder, I’ve made great progress with my tree skiing this year. I’m still slow, but I can pick my way through some pretty steep terrain with a minimum of tree-hugging. More importantly, I’m growing to love it. Having conquered In the Spirit on Saturday, I wrapped up some unfinished business over the final two days – Arthur’s Choice, which defeated me last year, and the Catskinner lift line, which I chickened out of on day four this year.

And that, sadly, is all she wrote. The timing and duration of Odyssey 2012 were dictated by other commitments – usually we ski earlier in the season – but March is usually Whistler’s snowiest month and on the basis of this trip I’d certainly choose it again.

As I write, Whistler is over a thousand miles behind us and receding fast. We’re skirting the northern end of Hudson Bay, blown along by a hurricane-force tailwind. These words are travelling at over seven hundred miles an hour.

As ever, we’re sad to be leaving – but it’s been a bruising week and a half. The fabulous snow has led to minor injuries for all of us; I’m nursing a sprained ankle which I picked up on day two, and we’re all groaning like octagenarians every time we struggle out of chairs. It’s probably the right time to be leaving the mountains behind.

We take with us hundreds of pictures, hours of video, and priceless memories to last a lifetime.

Is this really a good idea? Steve surveys the entrance to Blackcomb Glacier. 18 March 2012.

Just when we thought the weather gods were smiling... Catskinner Chair, Blackcomb, 18 March 2012.

It's called Seventh Heaven for a reason. Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.

Look, no skis... I try to stay on my feet in knee-deep powder. Xhiggy's Meadow, Seventh Heaven. Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.

They're not painted on, honest. Marianne and Steve pause for breath on Sluiceway. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.

We're supposed to be on a plane in eight hours, but what the hell. One more run... Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.

Getting in the spirit

'Be bear aware!' says the sign on the garage door. You'll find similar notices all over Whistler, all with the same message. Bears live in these mountains. They're clever, resourceful and hungry. If you give them access to food of any kind, they'll have it and then some. 'Access' could be a locked freezer inside a locked garage. Like I said, clever, resourceful and hungry.

The garage which houses our apartment complex rubbish bins is bear-proof. And, after around a minute of pushing, pulling, twisting and the odd kick, I'm making no headway. I'm coming to the conclusion that the bears are brighter than I am. There's probably one watching me right now. When I do finally figure out how to open the door, he'll be making notes.

I love the fact that the bears are here. If I encountered one I'd run a mile screaming, of course - but they're beautiful animals and great efforts are made to preserve their habitat, to enable humans and bears to co-exist as happily as possible. While not tame by any means, they're quite used to people and are regularly seen in the summer months. Some of the gladed ski trails (the trails which run through woods) have 'bear habitat' warning signs. As if knee-deep powder, trees, and steep fall-lines weren't enough to be going on with...

So we've been skiing a lot. You know this. The last couple of days has seen the high terrain finally open after nearly a week of harsh weather, and we've made the most of it. Harmony Ridge is still wonderful. And I still get a twinge of fear every time I get on the chairlift.

Talking of which... it occurred to me today that in order to get to these amazing places, we use a transport network which to the uninitiated would seem... precarious, shall we say. Any skier or boarder will think nothing of sitting four (or six, or eight) abreast on a metal bench suspended from a moving cable up to a hundred or more feet in the air, with only a single metal bar for protection. Boarding and disembarking can be a dicey business, too. You never forget your first chairlift ride, but it becomes routine amazingly quickly.

And then there are gondolas - cable cars. Whistler has four: three lines which lead up from the valley, and the new Peak2Peak gondola which links the two mountains. Even for the most jaded seasonnaire, this is a spectacular ride. Nearly three miles of cable supported by just two towers on each mountain, it's the highest cable car of its kind in the world. At the centre point, you're over 1400 feet above the valley floor.

With two days remaining, Odyssey 2012 is drawing to a close. It's been memorable mostly for the right reasons; here's hoping for a fitting last hurrah.

All smiles, but look at the whites of our eyes... Odyssey 2012 finds Harmony. Whistler Mountain, 16 March 2012

The Album Cover shot, on the appropriately named 'Freefall'. Blackcomb, 16 March 2012

Going down... Peak2Peak, Blackcomb to Whistler, 17 March 2012

Man meets bird... Whistler's famous - and well fed - Whiskeyjacks. Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 17 March 2012.

It was THIS narrow... and THAT steep. Marianne, Steve and I celebrate conquering 'In the Spirit', a tricky gladed trail. And I know the bears were watching. Blackcomb, 17 March 2012.

The pleasure/pain divide

Both of my big toes look as if they've been hit with a sledgehammer. So does my right index finger. My shins look as if they've been sandpapered and then hit with a sledgehammer. My left knee has no marks at all, which is annoying, since it hurts like hell. Every muscle from ankles to jaw aches to some degree.

Yet for some reason, I still get up at 7.15 every morning - on holiday - strap on my gear and haul myself up the mountain in the freezing cold.

Why? Because it's magical. Not always, of course - on more than one occasion in the past few days I've wondered why the hell I was putting myself through it. This morning I briefly contemplated going back to bed. But I've learned that losing the love is inevitable once in a while. The key is not to throw your toys, get a hot chocolate, and start afresh. It's meant to be fun, remember?

Whistler hasn't given us the easiest ride this week. On the one hand, the weather is amazing - fresh snow every day, more powder than we could possibly have hoped for. But the flipside has been some ferocious conditions on the mountains - gale force winds, heavy snowfall, poor visibility. This has often kept the high-altitude terrain shut.

This week is Spring Break in Canada - half term, as far as I can gather. Combined with the weather it's made for some big queues. Whistler is typically busiest at the weekends and quietest on a Monday. Imagine our dismay when we turned up at our nearest chairlift (the Wizard) on Monday morning to discover that half of Vancouver had got there first. There was muttering.

Nevertheless, although the fragile balance between pleasure and pain has occasionally tipped the wrong way, for the most part we've continued as we started. After four straight days on Blackcomb we've spent the last two on Whistler; highlights for me have been the terror-spiked rush of Seppos - a steep, bumpy, cliff-strewn black diamond run - and the slightly less sphincter-clenching Peak2Peak lift line trail, a powder-filled glade beneath the huge gondola cables.

We've spent almost no time on groomed pistes - partly because the snow has fallen so fast that the groomers can't keep up, and partly because here, there's always a more interesting route down the mountain.

This is what it's looked like, every day. Wizard chairlift, Blackcomb base, 12 March 2012

No friends on a powder day... waiting in line to tear it up. Solar Coaster, Blackcomb, 12 March 2012

Before the Terror... the deceptively gentle top section of Seppos. Whistler, 13 March 2012

Somewhere under there, she's smiling. Peak2Peak Gondola, 13 March 2012

About the only ray of sunshine we've seen all week. Rendezvous, Blackcomb, 13 March 2012

Tea never tasted so good... after six hours in powder, high winds, -12C. Rendezvous, Blackcomb, 14 March 2012.

Time to head home... thousand yard stare. Rendezvous, Blackcomb, 14 March 2012

Hitting the Wall

At around 3pm on day two (Saturday 10 March), we hit the Wall. This is the crisis point when the rigours of the mountain pushes bodies already battling to recover from jetlag over the edge.

This is what it looks like:

Stephen

Andrew

Marianne

Not pretty, is it? (Actually, I think Marianne looks kind of cute)

We were halfway through day two before we figured out why we're so exhausted. We're not losers, after all. Because there are only three of us we're able to cover ground much more quickly than the bigger groups of last year. I'm the weakest skier/boarder of the group, but even I can now ski some pretty gnarly stuff with confidence.

Because I'm in Canada, I was able to write that last line with a straight face.

Having skied ourselves into the ground, we went to bed at 9pm and emerged with fresh perspective for day three. And what a stormer it was. Another ten inches of fresh snow on top of the foot or so that fell in the first two days made for conditions to make a powder hound weep.

Weekend crowds can be a problem in Whistler, but by picking our routes carefully, and eating outside of peak time, we've learned to avoid the worst of them. We made Crystal Chair and Jersey Cream our own, carving lines at lightning speed in Jersey Bowl, practising our powder turns down the steep bumps of Blow Hole, and (in my case) going a little dry-throated as we picked our way between the trees and boulders under the Jersey Cream chairlift.

Trees feature heavily in this part of the world: if you come skiing in Whistler, you're going to end up amongst them, whether by accident or design. Over the past two days we've spent time off the edges of the wonderful Catskinner and Springboard runs, cutting between the trees, avoiding low branches and each other. It's good practice for the gladed runs over on Whistler Mountain.

So far we've only skied Blackcomb - a combination of geography (we're staying at its base), weather and timing having conspired against us. Monday looks likely to be more of the same - a winter storm with winds gusting over 60mph is forecast, which may limit our mileage.

But when we do get over to the big mountain, a myriad wonders await - starting with Harmony Ridge, source of so many great experiences last year. And, of course, Symphony, with its glorious bowls and glades. I can't wait.

To finish, some more pictures - with a little less dribble this time.

Bend ze knees... Marianne coaxes me down a black diamond run in two feet of powder. The Bite, Blackcomb, 10 March 2012.

Time to put the kettle on... Steve leads the home run as the weather begins to close in. Stoker, Blackcomb, 11 March 2012.

Who put that bump there? Andrew gets unintentional air. Stoker, Blackcomb, 11 March 2012.

Poetry in motion (it's sickening). Marianne executes another inch-perfect turn. Stoker, Blackcomb, 11 March 2012.