Snow for the Euros.

[Rossymcg]

Peds you can't leave it at that. we need a full de briefing

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[peds]

Hello all, sorry for lack of response, I've got the mother in law visiting at the moment and things are a bit hectic. More pictures and words from the Mallory in the future...

Here's a photo from today's dog walk, though

[Rossymcg]

Hello all, sorry for lack of response, I've got the mother in law visiting at the moment and things are a bit hectic. More pictures and words from the Mallory in the future...

Here's a photo from today's dog walk, though

does it count as a walk if you're on skis?

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[peds]

does it count as a walk if you're on skis?

Is a dog walk for the dog or the human?

[freak]

i think your dog looks like a large marmot in that picture... ok, large marmot with a tail...

[peds]

Well, that's the end of my season... June 27th with 1000m of refrozen sun cups on the front face of the Grands Montets, ACL surgery 24 hours afterwards on June 28th. See you all next year!





Two strong young lads are wheeling me to surgery. I try to entertain their discussion about the world cup as best as I can - it's England-Belgium tonight - but they quickly see through me. "You aren't into football much?" the one at the foot of the bed asks me.
"No, sorry, not really. I'm a skier. Well, not at the moment." I pat my knee. "Do you ski?"
"I've tried it, but I'm not very good. I keep falling over."

I'm leaning forward in the bed whilst a nervous-looking student stabs the catheter into my right arm, and a slow morphine drip starts as the anaesthetist rubs iodine onto my exposed spine. "First we give you a local anaesthetic," she explains, as a small but noticeable needle breaks the skin, "And then another injection for the epidural." Despite the first jab, the second announces its presence angrily, and my body is rocked by a sharp jolt of electricity, from the lower spine to the toes of my right foot. "Now," she mutters conversationally a few seconds later, "You may feel a little electrical pulse."

They roll me onto my left and leave me for fifteen minutes. I watch them knocking out their next client in the bay beside me with Johnny Cash playing loudly on the stereo, and as the morphine works its way into my senses, the music grows thicker and richer. I wiggle my toes every now and then and try raising my legs... I know that I could lift them higher if I wanted to, I tell myself. Sometimes I win an inch, but before long they grow too heavy, and I stop trying altogether. I am immobile, stranded, powerless. I have an expectation, having had surgery before, that I'll drift off to sleep soon, but sleep doesn't come. Despite the morphine rounding off all the edges, I start to worry that maybe I should have asked for a general anaesthetic instead of an epidural. Ah well, I sigh, too late to ask for one now.

There is a sudden swell in the activity around me, more and more people appear, and a team of six escorts me to the operating theatre. The surgeon smiles and shakes my hand as we roll through the door. They heave me onto the table, and as two people strap my legs into a support, two more pin up a vertical sheet above my waist, then cover me with paper blankets and nestle a warm air hose into them. I inflate slightly. "Is that okay?" I am asked. Yeah. It's great. Everything's great.

I feel an unseen pair of hands washing and rewashing my legs with iodine solution, and I am aware of the unmistakeable sound of someone tidying up the kitchen cutlery drawer, out of sight, a few meters beyond my feet. Knowing their future, I try not to visualise the contents of the drawer, but through the tinkle and clang, the cacophony of metal-on-metal, I conjour up a clear image of each accompanying shape, every angle and contour and biting edge of each medieval implement. I wish they'd put Johnny Cash back on.

A new sensation appears: in someone else's leg, somewhere in the next room, something is scraping one of the bones deep inside my knee, and I realise that at some point the pleasant massage of the iodine wash has given way to the slicing of flesh, to puncturing and inserting and peeling and forcing. But it all feels the same, and it all feels fine. There's a mechanical, rhythmic, rasping sound, slow-paced but insistent, and a vague hallucination of a tiny hedge trimmer swirls around my mind. They are chipping away two tiny fragments of bone, one from the kneecap and one from the tibia, joined by a long thread of ligament: my new ACL. The morphine takes the noise of whatever is going on behind the sheet, the hushed tones of professional conversation, the cadenced beep floating out of the monitor by my side, the quiet hum of the warm air breathing out into my left armpit, and gently rolls it around into a soothing song of progress, of recovery, of calm. Everything seems to be under control here, I half-think, and I drift off to sleep.

I awake, suddenly but unhurried, as if from a dream with an abrupt end. Another new sensation is upon me: the drill chewing a hole through my femur whirrs patiently, and a steady pulse of vibrations travels up through the bone into my hip, and onwards into the base of my spine. I'm aware of how horrible the idea of it all is, yet I can't help but smile. As I drift in and out of consciousness the drilling continues, before being replaced at some point by the muted but insistent tap-tap-tapping of a tool I can only imagine being called a surgical mallet. "Do you want to see?" I am asked suddenly, and I am jolted from my slumber. The sheet is peeled back halfway, and in front of me on the black and white television screen, through a miniature camera embedded in my knee, are two fat worms crawling across each other. "This one," the surgeon tells me as he rubs the closest worm with the end of a tiny snub-nosed hook, "Is your new ACL, and this one," he adds, pushing the hook into the side of the furthest worm, "Is your PCL. Everything looks great, we are all done here. We just need to close you up." The sheet is hung up again, and soon afterwards a regular series of ka-thunks announces the work of the staple gun.

I am wheeled back into an anteroom to wait for my legs to wake up. I watch the thick blood crawling slowly down the tube popping out of the bottom of my bandages - it speeds up when I try to flex my quads. Between this and trying to wiggle my toes, I pass an hour, then another. Glancing around the cavernous ward, I see a number of other patients who have clearly had a worse time than me, and I am once again grateful that my injury hasn't been so bad. Finally, I am wheeled back to my room for the rest of the day.

As the nurses make their final check on me before bedtime, one of them brings in the bottle. It was alluded to earlier on, when I didn't fully understand the gravity of the situation, but the nurse now makes its meaning explicitly clear: after the epidural, there's a strong chance my dick might not work for a good few hours yet, and if I don't fill the bottle myself by morning, they are going to quite literally slice the piss out of me. Once they've left the room and wished me a good night, in a mild panic I reposition the bed so that I can sit up straight and prop my right foot on the floor, whilst keeping my left leg flat on the bed, and I get to work: targeted muscle contractions, visualisations of flowing mountain streams, chugging the various flasks and glasses and jugs I have positioned within reach around me...

The road I am now on is long, and fraught with challenges both mental and physical, but forty minutes later, with a bottle of steaming piss on the floor beside me, I have passed the first test. It has begun.

[geo039]

Well, that's the end of my season... June 27th with 1000m of refrozen sun cups on the front face of the Grands Montets, ACL surgery 24 hours afterwards on June 28th. See you all next year!





Two strong young lads are wheeling me to surgery. I try to entertain their discussion about the world cup as best as I can - it's England-Belgium tonight - but they quickly see through me. "You aren't into football much?" the one at the foot of the bed asks me.
"No, sorry, not really. I'm a skier. Well, not at the moment." I pat my knee. "Do you ski?"
"I've tried it, but I'm not very good. I keep falling over."

I'm leaning forward in the bed whilst a nervous-looking student stabs the catheter into my right arm, and a slow morphine drip starts as the anaesthetist rubs iodine onto my exposed spine. "First we give you a local anaesthetic," she explains, as a small but noticeable needle breaks the skin, "And then another injection for the epidural." Despite the first jab, the second announces its presence angrily, and my body is rocked by a sharp jolt of electricity, from the lower spine to the toes of my right foot. "Now," she mutters conversationally a few seconds later, "You may feel a little electrical pulse."

They roll me onto my left and leave me for fifteen minutes. I watch them knocking out their next client in the bay beside me with Johnny Cash playing loudly on the stereo, and as the morphine works its way into my senses, the music grows thicker and richer. I wiggle my toes every now and then and try raising my legs... I know that I could lift them higher if I wanted to, I tell myself. Sometimes I win an inch, but before long they grow too heavy, and I stop trying altogether. I am immobile, stranded, powerless. I have an expectation, having had surgery before, that I'll drift off to sleep soon, but sleep doesn't come. Despite the morphine rounding off all the edges, I start to worry that maybe I should have asked for a general anaesthetic instead of an epidural. Ah well, I sigh, too late to ask for one now.

There is a sudden swell in the activity around me, more and more people appear, and a team of six escorts me to the operating theatre. The surgeon smiles and shakes my hand as we roll through the door. They heave me onto the table, and as two people strap my legs into a support, two more pin up a vertical sheet above my waist, then cover me with paper blankets and nestle a warm air hose into them. I inflate slightly. "Is that okay?" I am asked. Yeah. It's great. Everything's great.

I feel an unseen pair of hands washing and rewashing my legs with iodine solution, and I am aware of the unmistakeable sound of someone tidying up the kitchen cutlery drawer, out of sight, a few meters beyond my feet. Knowing their future, I try not to visualise the contents of the drawer, but through the tinkle and clang, the cacophony of metal-on-metal, I conjour up a clear image of each accompanying shape, every angle and contour and biting edge of each medieval implement. I wish they'd put Johnny Cash back on.

A new sensation appears: in someone else's leg, somewhere in the next room, something is scraping one of the bones deep inside my knee, and I realise that at some point the pleasant massage of the iodine wash has given way to the slicing of flesh, to puncturing and inserting and peeling and forcing. But it all feels the same, and it all feels fine. There's a mechanical, rhythmic, rasping sound, slow-paced but insistent, and a vague hallucination of a tiny hedge trimmer swirls around my mind. They are chipping away two tiny fragments of bone, one from the kneecap and one from the tibia, joined by a long thread of ligament: my new ACL. The morphine takes the noise of whatever is going on behind the sheet, the hushed tones of professional conversation, the cadenced beep floating out of the monitor by my side, the quiet hum of the warm air breathing out into my left armpit, and gently rolls it around into a soothing song of progress, of recovery, of calm. Everything seems to be under control here, I half-think, and I drift off to sleep.

I awake, suddenly but unhurried, as if from a dream with an abrupt end. Another new sensation is upon me: the drill chewing a hole through my femur whirrs patiently, and a steady pulse of vibrations travels up through the bone into my hip, and onwards into the base of my spine. I'm aware of how horrible the idea of it all is, yet I can't help but smile. As I drift in and out of consciousness the drilling continues, before being replaced at some point by the muted but insistent tap-tap-tapping of a tool I can only imagine being called a surgical mallet. "Do you want to see?" I am asked suddenly, and I am jolted from my slumber. The sheet is peeled back halfway, and in front of me on the black and white television screen, through a miniature camera embedded in my knee, are two fat worms crawling across each other. "This one," the surgeon tells me as he rubs the closest worm with the end of a tiny snub-nosed hook, "Is your new ACL, and this one," he adds, pushing the hook into the side of the furthest worm, "Is your PCL. Everything looks great, we are all done here. We just need to close you up." The sheet is hung up again, and soon afterwards a regular series of ka-thunks announces the work of the staple gun.

I am wheeled back into an anteroom to wait for my legs to wake up. I watch the thick blood crawling slowly down the tube popping out of the bottom of my bandages - it speeds up when I try to flex my quads. Between this and trying to wiggle my toes, I pass an hour, then another. Glancing around the cavernous ward, I see a number of other patients who have clearly had a worse time than me, and I am once again grateful that my injury hasn't been so bad. Finally, I am wheeled back to my room for the rest of the day.

As the nurses make their final check on me before bedtime, one of them brings in the bottle. It was alluded to earlier on, when I didn't fully understand the gravity of the situation, but the nurse now makes its meaning explicitly clear: after the epidural, there's a strong chance my dick might not work for a good few hours yet, and if I don't fill the bottle myself by morning, they are going to quite literally slice the piss out of me. Once they've left the room and wished me a good night, in a mild panic I reposition the bed so that I can sit up straight and prop my right foot on the floor, whilst keeping my left leg flat on the bed, and I get to work: targeted muscle contractions, visualisations of flowing mountain streams, chugging the various flasks and glasses and jugs I have positioned within reach around me...

The road I am now on is long, and fraught with challenges both mental and physical, but forty minutes later, with a bottle of steaming piss on the floor beside me, I have passed the first test. It has begun.

Good luck boss!!!!!

[Rossymcg]

no euros got any biking/hiking/climbing stuff occurring?

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[bw_wp_hedonism]

First snow in Klosters up (way) high...

[Recreationpro]

As I look at options for most reliable Euro skiing in January, Andermatt vicinity has been recommended. Any other suggestions? Are the higher areas in France (Val, LesArcs, ??) reliable enough for January skiing ??

[bw_wp_hedonism]

As I look at options for most reliable Euro skiing in January, Andermatt vicinity has been recommended. Any other suggestions? Are the higher areas in France (Val, LesArcs, ??) reliable enough for January skiing ??

By January, I’d say everywhere is generally pretty well covered (barring unpredictable regional differences). France and Austria will be cheaper than Switz. Andermatt really good, so are Engelberg, Flims Laax, Davos Klosters. Kind of depends what you are into...

[Ripzalot]

no euros got any biking/hiking/climbing stuff occurring?

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i post a few pics here and there in the photo thread in sprocket rockets.

[mrmitch]

Big fire at Grand Montets this afternoon, I'd say that's the cable car our for the season

https://france3-regions.francetvinfo...x-1539050.html

[Buster Highmen]

Big fire at Grand Montets this afternoon, I'd say that's the cable car our for the season

https://france3-regions.francetvinfo...x-1539050.html

bummer

[Doughnuts01]

Is the Midi still down as well?


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[Themasterpiece]

As I look at options for most reliable Euro skiing in January, Andermatt vicinity has been recommended. Any other suggestions? Are the higher areas in France (Val, LesArcs, ??) reliable enough for January skiing ??

As mentioned January should be pretty well covered. If you want really reliable I'd go for Val D'Isere/Tignes or Val Thorens.

[Ripzalot]

Is the Midi still down as well?


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https://www.chamonet.com/news/chamon...-centre-719952

[Foggy_Goggles]

Those two news items really suck for Cham and, I'm guessing, the local businesses. I would suggest putting any and all skiing plans for Cham on hold until there is some there is some clarity regarding the lift. That said, with the Grand Montets upper tram and the Midi shut. There will be some unbelievable mountains that will be unusually quiet. For those willing to be creative and walk at bit, opportunities may be presented.

[Buster Highmen]

https://www.tetongravity.com/forums/...-March-21-2019

[Alkares]

Engerberg today, looks like winter is slowly on its way!

[geo039]

Can I spam this thread for our presale? Extra few euros off to for thread regulars
www.downskis.com

[beer30]

So folks, looks like winter is on its way to us in the coming couple months. This is based on the calander and not the weather! Sunny and gorgeous right now, pretty much that way since April 2nd.
Whats it gonna be this year?
A banger like last year? A slow fizzle like winter 2016?
My hopes are for a snowy and cold 2018/2019, id bet on it based on summer.
Cant find any lo g term euro forecasts, they put those out?

[bw_wp_hedonism]

Looks like back third of October is getting colder in Northern Switz. At least they’ll be able to start making some snow until the real stuff comes in


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[Buster Highmen]

First winter storm for yurp:
https://wepowder.com/en/forum/topic/259689

[zede]

First winter storm for yurp:
https://wepowder.com/en/forum/topic/259689

"Can we expect the first big dump around October 23rd, just like last winter? Last winter, the Alps experienced a fantastic Indian Summer until the first snow came down on October 22nd"

People at wepowder have memory issues. Unfortunately, last year was nothing like this one, there were couple of high altitude snowfalls in august, more in september and it was colder. So there was a thin base layer over the glacier and non glacier high altitude areas.
This year was dry and warm as fuck, there is barely any snow under 3000m, and even a 50cm storm will not be enough to make the glacier look nice.

the 27th will be terrible for all those living in the valleys, with the massive influx of teams and germans aggressively driving down in their bmw/audi (they have to arrive before the teams you know, because they want a good parking spot for their first day), the air quality will be similar to that of Beijing... and also 15km traffic jam to reach the glaciers.

I'm a bit negative I know