We have no rental car. The backpacker's budget is one of thrift, and we must economize. Fortunately a bus runs regularly from Queenstown to the ski fields. Even more fortuitous, the bus driver is a South Islander Kiwi who will not pass up on his own opportunity to patronize (and, per his pitch, "localize us to") the Cardrona Hotel apres-ski tradition...

There is not a lift attained experience in the Western hemisphere that matches it. Or any of the hemispheres, for that matter. The Aiguille Du Midi tram is one of the true religous icons of our sport, regardless of your feelings on ski lifts. Not to mention that when you disembark, you step smack into the opening scenes of the greatest ski films of all time. It stands alone. 

"I think we were the only four in there with a full set of teeth- but they gave us a hero's welcome when we rolled in. People came out of the bar like it was the Tour de France. Since the resaturant was already closed, they had to get the owner to unlock the kitchen for the pie." 

...Needless to say, the gear didn’t arrive. Chevalier knows no pain like the passage through Milan-Malpensa, and now it was wearing off on us. Not by 4:30. Not by 8:00. Maybe it’s in Kathmandu. Who knows- maybe this will inspire legions of Kathmandu baggage carriers to take up back-country skiing. So now, due to an executive order laid down by Chevalier, lead knight of international travel, we are sitting on a Swiss train rocketing through the Rhone valley towards a rendezvous with a French cabbie who is prepared to shuttle us the rest of the way into Chamonix.

Pioneers, O Pioneers. Just us versus the Alps, the great storied peaks of wonder that inhabit the childhood sketch-books of one million school kids' daydreams. Why is it that every alpine pursuit is always met with early doubt? Am I the only one with this bizarre ubiquity? From the smallest lump of rock to the highest ascents of my own life, the wall of confidence's void must always be overcome. 

Visions of The Goal spur us on, and the skies are helping our backcountry cause by keeping the Colorado slopes free of fresh. We discuss The Route as if it were gospel. Mythical. Day one: Argentiere over the Col du Chardonnet. Visions of this hanging glacier keep our feet moving. Clack-thwap-glide. Clack-thwap-glide. Repeat ad nauseam.

Maybe the abbreviated hill is just a flirting taunt at the season yet to unfold. Perhaps these early days help us to appreciate the epic storms and closed-passes that are (allegedly) sure to materialize in scant weeks. But I know this much- that even on opening day, skiing is fun.