At Mount Elbrus, the tallest peak in Europe, I teeter, and then swoop, plunge, and swerve into one snow-cushioned mogul after another, gaining speed and gathering momentum, sinking into fresh powder and halting before hidden rocks.

Here, beside the Mir station 3,500m up, a lonely marker reading “trassa” rattles in the wind, withholding any indication of where the piste runs. The itinerant Russians offer no better, but say with a game smile that everywhere is ochen’ krutoi – very steep. I consider myself warned, or challenged, probably both, but swallow my trepidation with the oxygen-thin air.