Many don’t smoke, and none should. But for those that do, it is a reasonable claim that the side of a mountain is where the cigarette is best.
A morning cigarette hanging off a flat balcony is the ideal start to shaking off yesterday’s pains. It is the stimulant needed to convince yourself to put on several slightly damp layers and begin another expedition.
Beyond the morning and into the day, smoking whilst skiing is a pain. You are, of course, on the move after all. One can stop, however this slows down the group and is pretty lame to witness on the side of a slope.
Nicotine addiction is, of course, also lame by nature. Omitting this aspect, a tension arises. The tension here is the desire for a collective ritual in a location so remote you can no longer see civilisation. This is a geography that cannot easily be imagined.
Be it après, a ridge, or off-piste, smoking is a ritual best done in company. It is intrinsically void of words and encourages reflection. It is, in essence, a permission slip to briefly feel proportionate to the landscape, making an otherwise generic act feel mythical.
