“If you leave your sodden snowboard boots outside when it’s a good -15°C overnight, they will freeze solid”

And are they. A 5am start yields the most beautiful alpenglow on the distant peaks, surely the most scenic start to a day’s riding you could imagine. Not to mention a decent heap of fresh snow from the now vanished storm, our igloos have become mere lumps in an otherwise untouched landscape, and in the pre-dawn light we can now see the terrain around us, ripe for the taking. Mini golf lines at the head of our valley, steeps either side, perfect snow coating it all.

Point to remember: if you leave your sodden snowboard boots outside when it’s a good -15°C overnight, they will freeze solid. Like, twenty-minutes-putting-each-painful-foot-in solid. Ed, a little wiser than the rest of us, had taken his liners out and kept them in his sleeping bag overnight, but others hadn’t had such good foresight. However, to keep the karmic balance, his super expensive North Face polar camping slippers turn out to have zero grip, sending him arse-over-tit whenever he touches ice, much to the benefit of the group’s moral.

The days have a steady pace to them: get up super early, hike a ridge or feature in time for the sun to hit it, film a line or two, back down for a boil-in-the-bag breakfast. Then it’s time to relax and do some camp work like drying out gear on washing lines made from splitboards and avalanche probes, washing cutlery in the snow, patching up the igloos (usually just adding more snow to the sunny sides, but in one case replacing a wall that calamity-prone Sam Nelson manages to ride through) or finding a spot far from civilisation to take a shit. That’s if you didn’t fancy the camp’s own privy which, needless to say, some didn’t.

Lewis finds possibly the most magnificent spot for a deuce, perched atop one of the gnarliest lines in sight. After a solo hike up the face on what turned out to be near sheet ice, whilst waiting for for it to soften, he narrates the experience to us via walkie talkie, “D’ya know what I mean, things you see when you’re taking a shit – that book needs to be written….”

You can only get so far away from a phone mast, and on the second day we get the sad news that reigning Freeride World Tour champion and Verbier local Estelle Ballet has passed away, caught in an avalanche just a few miles from where we’re camped. It’s blow for the group as many of them knew her well through the Tour – we’d even seen and chatted with her the previous day whilst waiting for the lift. Truly one of the most approachable professional riders you could hope to meet, and with a zest for both life and snowboarding, it’s fair to say she’ll be greatly missed on and off the mountain. It’s also a reminder that while we’re having the time of our lives out here, it’s not to be taken at all lightly.

“You’ll never find a group of people as stoked as a bunch of old men clinging onto their last days”

After the mid-morning break it’s back to riding. The four riders – Ed, Neil, Johno and Lewis – head back up to various North-facing lines and let rip for the afternoon. The amount of footage we’re logging is pretty impressive, especially as three of them are in their 40s. There’s a drive amongst the group to get stuff done, and not necessarily just for the cameras. Everyone is obviously having a blast, perhaps spurred on by the adventure of what we’re doing. Or, as Ed puts it, “You’ll never find a group of people as stoked as a bunch of old men clinging onto their last days.”

We’re not quite alone in our valley – as well as the Patrouille des Glaciers taking place in the far distance, the odd Swiss army training group comes through our camp. “Igloos? Zat’s some impressive shit” mutters one as he comes through. “When you get man points from the army you know you’re doing it right” says Ed. “Refuge wankers!” shouts Johno as they head off.

“When you get man points from the army you know you’re doing it right” says Ed. “Refuge wankers!” shouts Johno

He has been pretty excitable for most of the expedition, displaying the endless energy he’s famous for at every opportunity. After a full day riding and igloo sculpting we even catch him walking Lewis’ board up to the next day’s spot for him at 9pm, and on the way out he’ll shoulder way more than his fair share of the heavy gear. It’s the first time in a few years he’s been a rider on a trip rather than a filmer, and the lack of camera gear has spurred him into hitting some of the biggest drops out of the group, including a sluff-heavy double and a 30 foot plus stalefish, audaciously tweaked out considering he’s fresh from his 40th birthday party.

The end comes far too fast, but we don’t leave camp until the crew has ticked off the last few pockets, Lewis shutting the zone down with a perfect mid-line method, stomped with his trademark effortlessness. By the time we ride down en-masse, mega packs re-shouldered, the terrain around us is a panorama of scarred track after track, evidence of a one-of-a-kind experience. A band of riders all from the UK and hailing from almost the complete history of British freeriding – it’s a great feeling to be part of a group with an infatuation for snowboarding that spans decades.

Like all the very best trips, it ends with a jolting return to reality, a realisation that normal life isn’t as simple as what you’ve just experienced.

But it is nice to get home and find some toilet paper.