A COOL breeze rises off the Plaine Morte glacier as I traverse a ridge-line upwards towards Mont Bonvin, at an elevation of almost 9,900ft. The strong sun hugs the mountain and the sprawling resort of Crans-Montana far below, as I revel in the thought of my reward—an entrée of untouched snow followed by saucisson and a cool glass of Petite Arvine.
We reach the crux, don our skis and take stock of Mont Bonvin’s steep north face and the Col des Outannes. My guide, Benoit Python, turns toward me; his weathered cheeks bunch high as he breaks into a wide smile. ‘Let’s have some fun,’ he whispers. And with that, we drop down into a flurry of deep powder.
In the early 1890s, Louis Antille and Michel
