Tarentaise Hideout

It's been a year since the rhythm of our lives changed. The gentle hum of our routines has been disrupted. Our governors have governed, society has adjusted, viruses have evolved, and time has passed inevitably. We adapt, as always. More or less well, as we can. The windows of our luminous screens have been limited to displaying a dull stream of anxiety-provoking data and numbers. A deadly spectacle parachuted into our cortex, enough to make one dizzy, paralyzed. Somewhere in Savoie, on a stone facade, a single window, like a wooden monocle. Through the panes, the picture is quite different, it's wintry and has everything to delight us!

Our bags are heavy, soon their straps will tear a few grunts from us and stiffen our necks. With a tripod, a caquelon, and a climbing potato net, the modest caravan takes on the air of a mining expedition. Not sure we'll find the white gold, but certainly some good moments. The last weather episodes spared neither Savoie nor Haute-Savoie. We barely have enough snow to slide our skins along the first hundred meters of elevation gain. The snow thread cuts through the forest like a dotted line. Breath becomes short, chatter rarer, everyone becomes aware of their pulse and settles into a rhythm. After using these last glimpses of daylight, the day gives way to a pitch-black night, which the moon struggles to light with the water from the nebulosities. In single file, the convoy glides towards its Eldorado. We slip away from the last lights and sounds of the valley to create new landmarks. The cover of the night isolates us from the rest of the world. Far from being a mother of anxiety, it has something comforting, restful. At night, all gray skies turn black, and who knows, maybe tomorrow morning they'll turn blue.

Text by Patrick Vuagnat
Clip by Laurent Jamet
Photo by Charles Seignolle