THERE IS A CERTAIN SYMMETRY to the snowy mountains around me—up, down, straight, up down straight. The bright morning sun lights up the ascents, and the descents lie in the shadows. I’m on the Muottas Muragl summit in the Engadin valley in Switzerland, 2,454 metres above sea level. There is not a soul around except for four of us—two snowshoe amateurs, one aficionado, and our guide, Didier Covallero. I adjust my shades to avoid snow blindness.
Armoured in snow jackets, boots, gloves, beanies, shades, and snowshoes, equipped with walking sticks, we trundle along the terrain like astronauts on the moon. Every step feels deliberate and weighty; the air is crisp and quiet, interrupted only by the sounds of our laboured breathing and grating of fresh snow, which seems to protest…