ON DAY EIGHT, it becomes obvious that long underwear can be turned inside out only so many times before laundering becomes necessary. So we stop in Les Arcs, which connects to La Plagne via the Vanoise Express—a behemoth $20 million, double-decker tram that moves 2,000 people per hour. Laundry for me means one SmartWool T-shirt, two long-sleeves, two pairs of long johns, a couple boxers, one pair of lightweight polyester pants, and two pairs of ski socks. If you're going to spend a fortnight in the same socks, Europe's the place: You can always blame the stench on the local cheeses.

The next day, we hitch a ride ten miles across the Isère River valley to La Rosière. Dark clouds hover overhead. The föhn, a notorious down­­slope Alpine wind, shoves chairs at lift towers. When I try to read a trail map, the föhn slaps it at my face. The föhn not only lifts temperatures and melts precious snow; Euros also blame it for illnesses ranging from migraines to psychosis.

The föhn blows.

But not in Italy. Once we cross the border, the wind backs off, as if it lacks jurisdiction. Trail signs and groomed tracks also stop abruptly. We're suddenly in a gloomy outback, not quite sure where to go, headed for a lonely shelter.

Lee and I lag behind, basset hounds to Beej and Lance's border collies. A friend in Montana says one way to cope in the mountains is to express the exact opposite of what you feel. So I tell Lee, "If we're lucky, there'll be more scary avalanche debris piles to cross. Plus a dozen more little creeks bisecting the trail."

"Yeah," he says, "it's super-efficient to stop every tenth of a mile, take off our skis, and walk over them."

"And let's hope this trail stays a sidehill and never levels!" I add. "I like pushing constantly off one edge of my downhill ski. Gives me a nice Brian Boitano feeling."

The sarcasm works for only so long. The route, through the Vallone di Chavannes, runs straight up to a high ridge. It never swerves, so the perspective never changes; it's like jogging in Dallas.

Not till 8:30 do we reach the stone Rifugio Elisabetta. Built in the 1930s for summer climbers, it keeps a winter room open year-round. A "winter room" means camping, with a roof over your head. The only light comes from our headlamps—beams crisscross and bounce off the walls, like strobes in the Una­bomber's private disco. A disco without music. More significantly, a disco without women. What a lame fucking disco this is.