Ascending the winding streets of Les Carroz, France, each step feels more discouraging than the last. We’re walking to our accommodation, a petite chalet, and the heat is getting to me. It’s around 50 degrees Fahrenheit and I’m starting to regret traveling across the world to conditions like the ones I was trying to escape at home in the Pacific Northwest. 

When my friend Maylis told me that her family’s apartment in the French Alps would be vacant for a few days this winter, I knew I had to get there. Now, on the other side of the globe, I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake. “Usually people ski right back to their front doorstep,” Maylis had told me. Today, the early February sun shines brightly on the flowers blooming up and down the lush green hillsides. I only have two days to ski and I wonder if that’s even possible. My one beacon of hope is a spinning gondola on the horizon that disappears over a treelined crest. Maybe there’s more snow up there. 

Unloading our bags is the priority after stripping ourselves of jackets and typical winter clothing. Wringing sweat from my t-shirt, the conversation turns towards dinner. Maylis suggests we walk back into town for some classic southern French cuisine: fondue. With our objective set, my attention shifts to the silent streets. Closed rental shops and barren restaurants reassure a bleak outlook. I had imagined a much more picturesque alpine village where cute shops had snow up to the windows, snowflakes falling from the sky and caking the streets like frosting. 

At dinner, the conversation is not quite as inspiring as it was in Paris a few nights back. We aren’t talking about skiing—we’re barely talking at all. Maylis and I quietly stare at our plates as tables around us fill the room with chatter. She suggests I check out the mountain bike shop across the street that has new bikes on display outside. Mountain biking? In February? I’m starting to wonder if there’s any skiing to be done at all.  

In the morning, we drag our feet as we wander over to the rental shop. It’s a quiet ride up the gondola. But as we crest the hilltop, the landscape gives way to heavenly fields of white. Cold air rips through the gondola, and we gratefully reach for the warm layers we had thought would stay tucked in our backpacks. Hallelujah. 

Stepping off, the hill is alive. There’s not much snow on the ground but lines fill the nearby rope tows and chairlifts, the familiar click of skiers clicking into skis fills the air, and ski school is in full effect. Entire classrooms move synchronously following instructors like ducklings behind their mother. This is the alpine hustle and bustle I’d imagined. 

Marveling at the wide open lanes of groomed snow, I make big sweeping turns, tipping my skis over much further than I ever would have back home. The snow here feels faster, but maybe it’s the slalom skis I rented, far zippier than the all-mountain powder hounds I’m used to riding through the PNW’s recent slop. 

Higher up on the mountain, long, winding runs spill out towards what feels like hours of descent, with rolling, rollercoaster-like hills. I snake through moguls while skiers bomb down the slopes on all sides of me. Completely absorbed in the excitement of the busy ski hill, I’d forgotten how doubtful I’d been just this morning. I was having so much fun I didn’t even notice the low snow base or dirt near the edges of the hill.

I spent more time on this trip carving cord, skimming puddles and trying to learn how to nose butter than I ever would have back home; when you travel across the globe to ski, you’re going to ski whatever’s on the ground. One of the first lessons I was taught while learning to ski is that there is no wasted terrain; you can learn from any type of condition. I think the same goes for ski days; any day on the hill is a day worth enjoying, even if you have to get a little creative.

Descending the streets of Les Carroz (on foot), I keep looking over my shoulder at that endlessly spinning gondola, wondering if all that snow really was still up there. My feet move me down the road and out of town but all I can think about is how quickly I could run back to that rental shop. Who cares that there’s barely any snow on the hill? I just want to ski.