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A FEVERISH CROWD is riding the tram to the top of Chamonix’s Grands Montets ski area. It snowed two feet last night and three feet the day before. The top of the mountain hasn’t opened in two days, and this morning, the clouds lifted for a brief window of clarity. The operator opens the tram doors and skiers race down the summit staircase, jockeying to get first tracks. Taking his time in the mad rush, Jimmy Rogers keeps his cool.
Clad in muted dark blue and gray, with a frayed olive-green knit hat, Rogers stands out from the powder-hungry hordes—many of them young, brightly dressed, and anxious to charge. As the crowd streams over the backside of the summit saddle, Rogers gestures the other direction, toward the frontside, and three friends follow him, trusting he will lead them to the best snow.
His companions hungrily drop in to the steep, glaciated face and pick up speed in the thick yet forgiving waist-deep powder. Rogers, on the other hand, draws out the experience and makes art on the untouched canvas with rhythmic, disciplined turns all the way down 1,700 vertical feet to the piste. At 64 years old, he
