A Walk around Mont Blanc

Debra Waker

April 2021

I first heard about the path around the Mont Blanc when I was twenty. It immediately appealed to me. I had seen the film, ‘The Sound of Music’ a few years earlier and I could just imagine myself walking over the hills, a magnificent panoramic view of the Alps surrounding me, while I sang ‘The hills alive with the sound of music’.

I told everyone about it and that ‘one day’ that was what I was going to do. Over the next thirty years that became my mantra, ‘I’m going to do the Mont Blanc walk.’ Tony, my husband must have been heartily sick of me saying it. One cold January day he announced that, “we are going to do that walk this year.”

“Really?” I asked. It had, after all, become a cozy idea that I had carried around with me for so long. One that fitted neatly into a picturesque notion of an ideal life, like desert islands or luxury yachts.

Tony got a friend in England to send him the guidebook and began studying it. “We have to start training,” he said.

Training? I was fit. Sort of. I’m not a sprinter, but I am a plodder and it was a walk. There was a path round the Mont Blanc. So did I read the book? I’m a doer not a planner. I live in the moment.

It was a beautiful day in September. The sun shone, the sky was blue, snow-capped mountain peaks rose around us as we arrived in Les Houches, France. Our friends from Germany, Norbert and Sigrid who would do the walk with us, had already arrived. We celebrated that evening, but only with one glass of wine each and made plans for an early start.

The beginning of the trail was marked by the traditional flat yellow lozenge with the bold black capital letters, TMB – Tour du Mont Blanc, painted on a stone. It was exciting taking those first steps. I was living my dream, a dream I had had for over thirty years. But the path was steeper than I had imagined, more of a goat path than a strolling path. Moreover, it was hot. As we climbed, my breath became shorter and heavier. I kept my head down and my eyes on my feet as we scrambled over the rocks.

By lunch time I was exhausted. We arrived at one of the refuges, an old stone building. While the others sat in the shade of a tree eating their cheese and salad baguettes, I sat in the dark, dank basement, my head between my knees. OMG. This was only the first day. There were eleven more to go. I felt faint. My muscles ached and my shoulders and the base of my spine hurt from my backpack.

That evening, we made it to Les Contamines, our first planned stop. My feet were delighted as they touched the concrete pavement. I almost skipped along as we made our way to the small hotel. To our horror, it was full. Seeing the look in our faces, the owner got out his truck and, with us all piled into the back, drove us to the only other inn not far from the trail. Laying my weary bones on the soft bed that night was sheer bliss.

Most of the time we were able to stay in small hotels or pensions. Our aim was to walk from one valley to the next so that, after walking all day at higher altitudes, we dropped down into small communities or villages in the evening. This provided us with much appreciated luxury; a comfy bed, clean sheets and a private bathroom. However, on three occasions, there were no conveniently placed valleys and we had to stay in a refuge. Refuges are good but basic. Their purpose is only to provide a space to sleep and food. They will never turn anyone away, but if you arrive late, you could find yourself sleeping in the hallway, a tent or wherever they can squeeze you in. Twice we were given bunk beds and once mattresses on the floor. So we unrolled our sleeping bags and bedded down for the night with everyone else. Crammed in like this, camaraderie and general bonhomie was promoted and sitting down together at long tables, sharing an evening meal, the conversation and food was always good.

I was feeling stronger and fitter by the day. The mountain air, the spectacular scenery and the daily workout was invigorating. Although I was still a plodder. The paths were narrow so we were strung out in single file. The usual order was Norbert and Sigrid up front, Tony a little bit behind, then me, still further away, bringing up the rear, but my plodding had improved!

Then we came to the ladders.

“The exuberance of youth,” I said to Sigrid as we walked along a wider path by a stream on the valley floor. Beside us was a perpendicular rock face. We watched as young people with ropes and pitons climbed the precipice.

Sigrid sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this bit,” she confined.

I frowned.

“The ladders,” she said. “Didn’t you read about the ladders?”

Our ascent up the rock face was by two metal ladders bolted vertically into the side of the cliff. They were not placed one on top of the other but where one finished, the other was fastened adjacent to it. This meant that when you got to the top of one ladder, your hands had to work their way up and across to the next one while your feet remained on the first. At the top, jubilation was short lived as we came to a narrow ledge. The ledge was wide enough for one foot. Thoughtfully, a handrail had been fixed into the rock. As I made my way along the ledge, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, one hand always holding the rail, I did not dare look down. If I had, I knew I would have lost it.

Did we cheat? Only a tiny bit. We had arrived in the village of Les Arlaches where we had hoped to find a pension and stay the night. However, walking the paths between the houses, gave us an eerie sensation. It was deathly still and quiet. Everything was neat and tidy. The gardens were immaculate, the wood stacked up ready for the winter, but there was no one about. Not even a twitch of a net curtain or a stray cat or dog as we walked through the village. It was like walking through a ghost town. There was a road at the foot of the village where we lingered, deciding what to do. It was too late to walk to the next place, but as luck would have it, the local bus arrived which took us the short distance to Champex.

It was on the second to last day that we finally saw Mont Blanc. After scrambling over huge boulders that looked as if it were debris left over from the construction of the Alps, suddenly, there it was, Mont Blanc in all its glory. This massive snow-capped mountain towered before us. We stood and stared. The highest mountain in Europe at 15,774ft. The grey of the rocky ridges showing against the white of the snow. It was mesmerising as we crowded on to the viewing platform. Some brave souls were paragliding, the colourful fabric of their canopies, red, blue, orange and yellow as they soared carefree against the white of the mountainside. We watched as they floated down to the valley floor and Chamonix. It looked fun but I now knew my limits.

On the last day as we watched the distance to Les Houches lessen with each signpost, we began to feel excited. By the time we arrived in Les Houches we were elated. We had spent the past eleven days walking 170 kilometres. We had clambered over rocks, climbed metal ladders, crossed rivers on rope bridges, walk along precarious precipices and slid down steeps paths. We had crossed from France into Italy, then Switzerland and back into France without so much as seeing a border guard let alone showing our passports.

All the singing of the ‘Sound of Music’ that I thought we would do, had not happen. Neither had the philosophical or scientific discussions we thought we would have along the way. But we had been surrounded by impressive and stunning scenery, filled our lungs with pure mountain air and relished and appreciated each mouthful of wholesome food. We were fit, revitalised and exhilarated. We celebrated that night with two glasses of wine each. So am I glad I did not read the guidebook? I am a doer not a planner. If I had read it, I would never have started. Am I glad I did the Walk around Mont Blanc? Absolutely.