On our final day, I headed off ski-touring with Cooke. With skins on our skis, we climbed a woodland path. It was serenity itself: pine-marten tracks, eagles, sun through trees. At the top, a trickier challenge presented itself: a slope of windblown snow, which we'd have to traverse to get onto the piste once more. Halfway across, there was an ominous "whoomph" - the sound of windslab breaking away. Cooke's weight had triggered a long fissure in the snow. "I'm coming back," he called, his voice cracking. With extreme caution we made it, and finally - away from the fracture zone - I reached into my backpack for a celebratory drink of water. The bottle had frozen. Now why didn't they warn us about that on the course?