it was her first ever Christmas without snow, and that mild, dry
   conditions were forecast well into the New Year. Only one in three
   <FONT COLOR=red>pistes</FONT> was open, with a meagre 50cm of snow at 2,000m. We checked in,
   wondering what we would find to occupy ourselves for a week.
--
   Next morning on the nursery slopes, the cannons were working overtime
   blasting out a stream of tiny, icy particles that bit into every inch
   of exposed flesh. The <FONT COLOR=red>piste</FONT> bashers had been at work all night,
   shovelling every last flake into a single strip in a valiant attempt
--

   Resort closure was rumoured, but we went up on the chairlift to survey
   the warnings of faible enneigement and limited choice of <FONT COLOR=red>pistes</FONT>. A
   group of petrified skiers stood at the top of a red run, plucking up
--

   The biggest challenge lay ahead: getting back to the resort. With so
   many closures, our <FONT COLOR=red>piste</FONT> map was redundant. Skiing quickly with an eye
   on the clock, we kept missing our route. The long, narrow road back to
   La Rosiere was in poor condition. And then the run came to an abrupt
   end: <FONT COLOR=red>piste</FONT> fermee. Tired, battered and bruised, we were stranded,
   forced off-piste, uninsured. For a terrifying hour, we side-slipped,
--

   We awoke to more glorious blue skies and not a snow cloud in sight.
   When hikers appeared on the <FONT COLOR=red>pistes</FONT>, I decided enough was enough,
   packed away the skis and signed up for a day out snow-shoeing. To be