I went skiing in the Swiss Alps.

Doesn't that take your breath away?

How about this,

I went snow-shoeing on the fringe of the French Alps.

The first statement has a better ring to it but the second one is the truth. 

Yesterday I took raquettes (not to be confused with raclette, which was dinner afterwards) up to Le Calvaire de Miribal with a group of Genevois. That morning we gathered, as all good Christian youth organizations seem to do…in a grocery store parking lot. We piled our layers, snow shoes, backpacks, and ski poles into as few cars as possible then drove an hour up and into France.

After five minutes of raquetting up the mountain, we began shedding layers. By the time we'd reached our destination and were settling into the snow for lunch, my long-johns were soaked. Fortunately, we sat only long enough to eat our sandwiches before turning back down. 

My scarf and snot encrusted
gloves are frozen solid at this point.
Soon after, the 10 person sled-chain
takes a tumble and my cap rips off a
chunk of hair that had bound to it.

When the incline was flat or the snow too powdery to sled down (Alexis had carried up small plastic sleds), the descent was enlivened by tripping one another and shoving fallen faces into the snow—or snow into the fallen faces. Because I was a stranger, no one crossed me until the final plateau. We ended our battle sitting in heavy breaths with red, ice-encrusted faces, silently agreeing that each had received as much as had been given.

It's been a while since I've gone into an evening so exhaustedly satisfied.