The Mont Blanc circuit, my 7th trek for Macmillan Cancer Support, 2005.

“The Mont Blanc Massif stands at the junction of France, Switzerland and Italy, and is encircled by a system of seven major valleys. A tight cluster of mighty peaks – Aiguille Verte, Charonnet, Gouter, Greant and Jorasses – help make up the massif which is dominated by Mont Blanc itself. At 4,807m this is not only Western Europe’s highest mountain but also one of the best known.” I read the trip note received from Exodus with great enthusiasm and growing excitement. These were the great mountains of climbers such as Walter Bonatti*, Lionel Terray and Gaston Rebuffat*, who had put up routes, now known in climbing history as the Great Classics. I had read all their books; stories of lightening strikes, nights caught in deadly bivvies’ and a passion to succeed at all cost. To be among these giants would be good, but to succeed at an iconic trekking route at the same time would be intensely rewarding. There were to be three days between my two treks. The first having given me two weeks at high altitude and a very stiff neck from carrying heavy backpacks. The second therefore should not be a problem in spite of the 100 miles of walking, with around 10,000m of climbs and descents.

 Airports are strange places; they can be huge expanses of steel and glass or a nothing more than a tin shed. London docklands airport is something in that grey area of trying to be an effective city airport, but having the complications of a minor one. On a Saturday they have to close around midday so that the local community can have some piece and quite. So it was obviously all a rush to get the mornings planes up and away before they where unable to leave. Quite a strange concept.

Finally airborne it wasn't long before we were being whisked away from Geneva airport in a mini bus to arrive at our first camp at site of Les Praz, about a mile outside Chamonix in France. Chamonix is probably the best place to start the Mont Blanc circuit, but it can be started at any point on the route, with a good map and following the GR signs carefully. We spent the afternoon getting to know one another and enjoying sitting around camp, listening to our briefing, sharing a meal in the big tent and anticipating the splendours of the next two weeks.

*Walter Bonatti made many of the early first ascents in the Mont Blanc Massif, including the North face of the Grandes Jorasses at just 18 years old and the great red granite pinnacle of Grand Capucin and few years later. Many of these climbs were in poor conditions and lead to epic tells of multi-day accents, where his survival was severely compromised. His book “The mountains of my life “, describes many of his climbs in the massif including his most notable solo climb of the south west pillar of the Aiguille de Dru , an incredible route which others have followed with owe and trepidation. 

*Gaston Rebuffat’s stories of the race to succeed at the first accents of many of the great classic routes during the early twentieth century are magic to read in his book Starlight and storm.

The next morning was disappointingly grey with the prospect of heavy rain for most of the day, not a good start for any trek, but what was to be most disappointing would be not seeing the beautiful sapphire Lac Blanc and the heavenly views from the high point that day at 2,351m. From Lac Blanc one can see the whole of the south side of the massif. Passing: Aig Verte, Grand Montets, and the stupendous senator of the Grand Jorasses, Mont Dolent, the extravagant rocky pinnacles of Les Droites and the spectator cathedral spire of Les Dru.

It would be difficult to celebrate only one of these mountains by giving it the dubious title of the most beautiful summit. The whole massif makes up a sumptuous delight of dazzling disorderly beauty which is nature’s serendipity at its best. Although in my opinion the hushed tranquillity of the stunningly steep faces of Les Dru has to be my favourite, its polished slides push up into the sky like a mighty rocket waiting on its launch pad. Below it an incredible expanse of ice, so big that it is known as the Mer du Glace, or sea of ice. This glacier stretches from the Glacier du Geant at the base of Mont Blanc to the green valley at Les Bois and is an imposing sight in itself. 

After making our way up to the hut at Lac Blanc we were by now extremely wet and in need of a shelter for lunch. The hut served very well for this purpose, but the weather didn't improve and the prospect of a wet afternoon did not seem very inviting. It was a long way down to the camp site at Les Frasserands. With the rain finally stopping in the late evening, our boots carefully packed with newspaper and warm in a cosy team tent we anticipated the prospects of the following days climb up over the col de Forclaz into Switzerland.

Climbing up over the barren slopes of the Bovine route, the clouds came down again and the grey form of hut became a welcome sight. It seemed strange to meet up with people who had been boarding the plane with us in London and exchange tells over a cup of soup procured from the guardian of the refuge. They had also been trekking the same route, but they had opted for more luxurious accommodation, in the way of hotels on route and a much briefer encounter with the tour de Mont Blanc.  

Having spent the pass three days in France we now found ourselves in Switzerland and a more gentler world of lush green, flower filled meadows. It was pleasant and warm for a change, walking along the narrow paths, edged by dancing flora, sweet scented and pastel in colour. We were very fortunate to have three guides on this trek.  There was only 15 of us but one of our guides was not yet fully qualified to lead so another trek leader had joined us for the first week in order to help her to gain her “flying hours” and become a fully-fledged guide. She was young and enjoying the freedom of not being tied to the camp kitchen duties. Unfortunately someone had to get the shopping and make our evening meal. This job had fallen to our main guide who was always happy for a short foray into the mountains when we returned to camp, if anyone had enough energy left to climb with him.

We always enjoyed splendid meals in camp. They would usually start with a wonderfully warming bowl of soup and plenty of local bread. I would often come back for seconds, as like tea at the end of the day, it helped with re -hydration.  The main course was carbohydrate packed, locally sourced and delicious.  We were always hungry, watching each other to see who wanted extras, often consuming two or three dinners and finishing with pudding. We didn't always eat in camp, the following day we dined in a small restaurant in the tiny town of Champex. Great plates of steaming polenta, topped with Swiss cheese and served with lashings of hearty casserole, went down a treat.

We camped in a small camp site at the end of the village, the weather was changing again and this morning the summer sunshine had been replaced with a cool damp breeze, but it wasn't set in and the sun was soon ready to join us again as mid morning approached. We walked passed the lake and on into the wild country which ran along a wide river. The meadows were full of summer flowers and lovely villages dotted the route, with their ancient wooden roofs and blackened timber.   It was an easy day and we were pleasantly surprised to see camp at La Fouly. It was set in a lovely location and as we were much earlier than usual there was even time for a quick dash up the valley to the beautiful waterfalls before dinner.

After a splendid morning of walking in deliciously sweet meadows, in the valley of ‘La Drance’, we climbed up to the pretty hut at Ferret. The high cirrus clouds looked quite harmless against the blue sky, but I knew it was a sign that the weather would rapidly change that day and predicted a storm around lunchtime. Our leader thought I must have some sort of insight (My gliding enthusiast, uncle had taught me about cloud forms, but the same principles applied to climbing in mountainous areas) and gathered the troops. I wasn't popular as the blueberry pies were rather good and sitting in the warm summer sunshine outside the hut was a very appealing alternative. With backpacks adjusted and a long walk ahead of us we made our way up towards the Grand Col Ferret, at 2,536m and the highest pass on the trek. 

The views are normally quire stunning here, with enormous views of Grandes Jorasses and the valleys to the south. Unfortunately my predicted storm arrived just as we arrived at the col. The air became charged, the sky dark and a huge crack of lighting with accompanying thunder filled the sky around us. Rain speed down the slippery slopes more quickly than even our own feet at running speed, with the faint trail becoming a wash with mud in minutes. We made it down in one piece, and got our breath back at the Refuge Elena Pre de bar, just below a spectacular glacier of the same name. I knew I had to return to spot and looked forward to a welcome day off the following day. Our guide tried in vain to persuade us to take the bus down the valley long valley to our camp site a Planpincieux , but it was nice to dry off in the afternoon sunshine and take in the stunning views. We had a plan to do the whole circuit and some of us were more serious than others about leaving even an odd kilo metre out.

I love the freedom of a “static” day. There was nothing static about my plans for the day to come. There had been a bug going around the group and the crew had been asks to give everything a really good clean during our day off. The prospect of a bug hadn't fazed  me as I had encountered the same on several other treks, but a number of the group were obviously disturbed  by the idea of becoming ill while having to walk up to 30km a day over the next (and most remote) part of the trek. The guides suggested either a momentous trip up the telepherique from Entreves to Point Hellbronner and on across the glacier to the Aiguille du Midi above Chamonix. 

It sounded wonderful with spectacular views of the big peaks up close, but I was concerned about going too high and becoming ill while on the trek, so I listened to the other option which seemed to be the most popular choice – mini golf!

I didn't take up either of the suggested options, but instead went back up to the glaciers of the previous days walk and in the mornings hushed world, I climbed the ebony rocks below the first glacier. The polished granite glistened in the steady light of an awaking morning. Dappled shadows obscured the delicate handholds, while little rivulets of water sung of an unspoken privacy in this theatre of geology. The sun warmed the blissful landscape, but here in this place of solitude I was not alone, silhouettes of eagles appeared on the rocks, as the soft whisper of wings brushed the air around me. In the quietness of the prefect scene I waited as the eagles circled, calling eerily an engaging a yet troubling cry. I retraced my moves and left the three beautiful birds to enjoy their home in all its spender.

The day was now hot with a sapphire blue sky, adding a gloriously intense warmth to the shimmering sun. I made my way across the narrow valley and on up the twisting trail to the Refuge Walter Bonatti. Here I sat quietly enjoying the stunning picnic location, before enjoying a foray along the grassy slopes of the Italian route of the tour de Mont Blanc. It was wild out here and without a map for this area I enjoyed the changing light as another storm pasted by and gave an intensity to my seclusion. Back at camp we digested the events of the day, and mine certainly seemed to have been the most remarkable. Everyone was happy and looking forward to the more serious part of our trek in the remote southern area.  It appeared that we had now become a smaller and happier group as one member of our party had taken leave and left for Scotland as she was concerned about getting the tummy bug. Our third guide had also left to do some climbing in the nearby mountains, so we would now only have one guide on the trek, although this is the norm.

The next day we were packed and ready to leave for an early start. It was my birthday but I had kept it quiet as I wanted to enjoy the day with my little secret hidden. It was rather fun to have something that no one knew about, and I didn't miss my family so much, if I wasn't expecting a “birthday”. The group headed back to the route that I had descended from the previous evening, ending up high on the opposite side of the steep valley at the Refuge Bertone, named after yet another great alpine climber. We enjoyed the views from this sunny vista and then clambered down the long twisting path to the little Italian town of Courmayour, for delicious Ice creams. The clouds were gathering rapidly for yet another storm so most of us headed for the bus station to miss the worst of the storm and a dangerous road section. Our guide very much want everyone to take the bus, but there were still three of the group who refused to leave the trail and summoned the energy to climb the last eight miles of the day in a thunderous sauna.

I was pleased with my decision to take the bus, for it was only a short while before the storm was upon us. The bus dropped us off at our camp site, at Peuterey and we quickly put up the tents, making sure that our snoring companions had a warm dry tent when they returned, but placing them at a safe distance ours. We showered and joined the meal preparation in the tea tent. It was a long time before the others arrived, their long hot walk had taken them three hours in the storm, but at least the guide was still talking to them having found a much more pleasant route up to the camp site. My birthday hadn’t quite escaped everyone’s attention as our sweet young guide had made a note of it when she looked at the client list and made two amazing fruit flans complete with candles for me. It had been an excellent way to enjoy my birthday and not one that I would ever forget.

Our stay in Italy had been short, as by lunchtime we had gained the Col de la Seigne, at 2,516m and were back on the French side of the massif once again. The long Val Veny and massive moraine of the glacier du Milage was well below us. It was here in this remote spot that Hannibal had crossed the Alps along with his troops and elephants so long ago. We didn't stay long on the col as it was cold and windy, a long afternoon of downhill walking lay ahead. Our guide became quiet and offered us yet another bus as the post bus passed us, his progression become slower and slower as he stopped for frequent toilet stops and it became apparent that he wasn't himself. Back at camp he dashed into his van and remained there for the long evening.

The camping area was described as rough camping, but with an invitation to Middle Eastern wedding by some cheery teenagers and the prospect of rabbit casserole at the local Refuge that evening we were happy in our damp tents. The “wedding” turned into a teenage rave and I recognised the signs of the start of a virus. With rain endlessly drenching our soggy tents and a fever bothering me more than my rumbling tummy, I listened to the drone of music coming from the only visible building in miles of mountainous scenery. I ran to the toilet across the large sodden field and only just made it before my tummy rumbles turn to tummy troubles. Our guide was feeling a little better but one of the younger members of the group was very poorly, having caught the bug while trying to manage her epilepsy. Over breakfast we made important decisions for the day. One guide was to take our sick youngster to the nearest hospital (in fact  a long way off in Chamonix), while the rest of the group spilt into those who felt able to walk the 30km over the mountains in driving wind and ran and those who would order a taxi to take them.

The route followed the Roman road once again, over two cols and down to the camp site at Les Contamines, but it was to be a day of many struggles and weather of the most extreme. I took up the back maker in my red jacket and with heads down we climbed all morning and dried out a little at the Refuge du Col Croix du Bonhomme. Then it was back to the task of getting across the mountains. I stood with our guide outside the hut while he confided in me and together we decided that it would be safer to continue than to retreat. We had a difficult fast flowing stream crossing just below the col, which would become impossible as the day wore on. The water tore at the rocks in a frenzy and deepened by the minute as we crossed it. 

Tired, wet and cold we reached a tiny door less shelter and the group filled it to capacity. I said that I would take shelter around the back of the hut. I'm not sure why, weather it was a dislike of being in small packed spaces or intuition, but I found myself sharing the tiny overhang with a young Dutch man in the stages of hypothermia. He said nothing, starring blankly and shivering profusely. I nudged up to him, offering my warmth and some chocolate. Slowly he came round, and managed to speak a little. It was his seconded attempt at trying to complete the tour de Mont Blanc, having failed the previous summer. But alone, on this terrible day he had succumbed to the cold and wet and felt unable to retreat or go on. I knew he had to move fast or even though he was young he would become a statistic of climbing misadventure. Reassuring him that if he left immediately he would be able to cross the stream, enter the glowing warmth of the refuge and drink the hot soup they served there. I could see he was gaining strength and I ignored the wind snatched request to leave by my guide until the lad had got up and promised to make his way. Our guide asked where I had been as I caught them up and turned to me saying “You know that you just saved his life don’t you”. I hadn't thought about it at the time, it was just being in the right place at the right time. Who knows?

After a long descent, we finally found ourselves at our camp site. One of the oldest members of the group conveyed to us his thoughts of the days travels as “the worst day of his life”. It wasn't long before the tents were up and the rain had stopped. Suddenly, a terrible sound resounded around the whole valley. It was as if side of the mountain had fallen onto the town. A more terrible moment could not be described. We knew something momentous had happened; so we waited with a certain trepidation to find out what it was… The valley bellow was suddenly silent, it was an eerie moment... then the sirens began. We hoped everyone would be safe.

The next day was another rest day. The sun had come out and although it was rather misty, the sun was warm and gentle. As I couldn't climb on the damaged side of the valley, the authorities having issued a warming that yet more of the mountain my still come down, in another landslide. I decided to climb Mount Jolly. It was wonderful to be out alone in this beautiful, peaceful place. The cloud moved about slowly, milky and tranquil. In the moments that it cleared, Chamois* appeared and a calmness claimed the valley. Near the summit a cold chill descended and I felt unhappy and bothered by the altitude. I knew that I had to descend quickly. My heart pounded, my lungs began to fill and I was cold and tired.  I worried that I would be ill that evening, I had, had these symptoms before and I descended quickly and arrived in camp breathless and feeling rather unwell.

Later that evening we went into town. We had learnt that the river had exploded out of the mountain in a huge rock fall that destroyed both the town bridges, took away the park, several roads and left massive chunks of granite the size of a small lorry in there place. The amazing part was still to come. No buildings had been taken and no one had been killed or injured. Life went on as usual, apart from the addition of a television crew and a number of huge lorries fitted with cranes. We enjoyed a Moroccan meal yards away from the commotion, although I didn't eat much. As the evening progressed, a peace came over me and I knew my decision to leave the summit for another day had been the right one.

Most of the others had spent the day relaxing in the local mini golf park and coffee shops. They seemed even more tired than me the next morning. Our goal today was to race each other up the Col de Tricot, I decided against running but stile came forth. Then it was over the Col de Voza and descend into the Chamonix valley once again.  At our camp site at Les Houches we hurriedly showed and went down to the village for dinner. The next day was to be our final day of walking. Crossing the bridge and enjoying the panoramic views of Mont Blanc as we contoured the Grand Balcony. Just as we approached the Brevent cable car it started to rain once more and we teased our guide about wanting to walk down yet another mountain. He was ready for a pint and a comfy corner in a local bar.  So that’s just what we did!

There is always something special about that last free day. Upon waking it was apparent that it was going to be a magnificent day. Quite a few of the group had decided to take the telepherique to the Aiguille du Midi. Everyone knew that I would be off to find a route on foot high above the valley. It just happened that there was a couple on our trek, who always seemed to be in battle with each other and for some strange reason they surprised me by asking if they could accompany me on my route finding that day. I like to be alone sometimes and so I wasn't sure how this would work out. I discouraged them with an early start and an immediate ascent of Mer de Glace, but alas they were set on the idea. It was a steady climb to the station above the glacier and it was my great fortune that a train was just about to leave as we arrived. They ran off like happy spring lambs to catch a train back to Chamonix and join the others on the cable car. I wished them a good day and set off up the mountain to enjoy the rest of the day along the upper North balcony.

The views were stupendous. Les Dru in all its splendour dominated the entrance to the icy valley, with Grandes Jorasses blissfully enjoying the centre stage. Above a cobalt blue sky gave a theatrical quality to the glorious scene. Les Dru glistened, with polished rock celebrating this beautiful day, it’s pointed pinnacle a prefect rock formation. As the day wore on I looked forward to my evening meal in Les Praz, I quickly bought a few presents in Chamonix before dodging the “North face run” participants and running back to camp. The runners were all super fit and included Ranulph Fiennes the British explorer. They would take on the same route as I had covered in two weeks in a mere 2 days, some even as little as 24 hours. We marvelled over a sumptuous dinner of steak, chicken and all things nice, how this could possibly be done! A final evening and at last a beautiful sunset, draping the mountains in rose, orange and gold, a magnificent Alpine glow. We stood outside an in wonderment looking at the subtlety of the delightful lighting of Les Droites.

It was here on Les Droites, in January 1999, that Jamie Andrew and his climbing companion Fisher endured 7 days of nightmarish conditions when they were trapped 10,000 feet up the mountain on a narrow ridge with battering winds and temperatures of -30C.  They had decided to climb the formidable north face in winter conditions while their girl friends enjoyed a few days skiing. The weather had closed in just as they summitted and it was impossible to make it down in the whiteout with night nearly upon them. The story is one of friendship and tragedy, as helicopters seemingly offer rescue and then leave them in their private struggle, until Jamie Fisher finally dies on the night before a rescue. Jamie Andrew’s story is about his love of the mountains and his passion to return to climbing them in spite of having to have both his hands and feet amputated because of severe frostbite that he had sustained high on the mountain.

It had been an epic journey on foot through some of the most delightful mountain scenery in the Alps. I really couldn't believe it the next day when they cancelled our flight home as we were about to board the plane. I waited patiently as alternative flights were filled and then with some luck and a little gentle persuasion I was given a business class flight to Heathrow. I had been a great adventure, but now it was nice to be home.       

*The Alpine chamois is similar in appearance to a goat and slightly larger than a Roe deer. The coat is reddish-brown in summer with a dark stripe along the back. In winter the coat is blackish-brown. It’s  face is white with dark stripes running from the muzzle to the eyes and a long neck. The legs of the chamois are usually darker than the body and it has whitish under parts and backside.