Julie had a glorious day of rock climbing under Dimitri’s tutelage, while I explored the nearby village of Les Bossons and the t-shirt shops of Chamonix. We fully expected that bad weather would keep us inside for my fourth and final full day in Chamonix. (No problem; Julie and I could convert to office-mode at the drop of a hat.) When instead she asked if I wanted to do a final hike, I jumped at the chance.
My one reservation was the dull ache just above my heart whenever I took a deep breath. Perhaps I had not walked away from “falling in the hole” scott-free. My internet research confirmed that pain or discomfort in breathing deeply, laughing or coughing, was indeed a symptom of a bruised or cracked rib. Based on experience of friends with one or the other of these conditions, there was nothing to do but wait it out. I didn’t bother to burden Julie with this information, for fear she’d nix the hike. (She can climb Mont Blanc with heart palpitations, but the double standard would be applied in my case.) Anyway, I hadn’t experienced any discomfort the previous day, doing 17,000 steps of t-shirt shopping and Stetson hat-sleuthing on the “day off.”
The hike would be similar to the “warm up” we’d done 4 days earlier, except on the other side of the valley. Our destination would be the cable car station at the top of mountain (Plan de L’Aiguille), where we’d find a small snack bar (la Buvette de Plan de L’Aiguille). After breakfast, we set out on foot for Chamonix and from there began our hike up the mountainside. The signage indicated 3 hours 30 minutes to the top. We briefly discussed the relative merits of listing a distance versus a time (whose 3 hours 30 minutes?). The sky was overcast, and we were glad we’d packed our rain jackets.
As we began the actual ascent, I realized that the discomfort with deep breathing had not gone away. For the first 45 minutes, my breathing was shallow, and my pace was slow. However, there was no way I was going to confess to Julie that I probably had a bruised rib (if not worse), which would result in our immediate return to the base. Fortunately, by the end of the first hour, my breathing was close to normal, and the hiking became a lot more enjoyable.
The sky was overcast, and a light rain began to fall. The temperature was in the low 70s, ideal for climbing, and the drizzle served as Nature’s sprinkler to cool us down as we ascended the mountain. Soon we were at eye level with the Pélerins glacier, some 200 yards in the distance. Julie lamented the poor health of the glacier as if were a long-lost friend. She remembered the shiny white cover of a far more massive glacier from her childhood and sadly commented that it would only become “sicker” with each passing year.
An hour before reaching the cable car station at the top, Julie was already fantasizing about the “blueberry pie with my name on it,” apparently a signature dish at alpine huts and lodges. Perhaps because of the inclement weather, we saw less than a dozen fellow hikers on the trail. A couple of guys passed us carrying bright yellow plastic strips. They were marking the route for the trail runners who would be competing on this route for the Mont Blanc “marathon” (foot races of different distances) over the weekend. Although the trail was well marked for the casual hiker, these runners could well take a wrong turn in their pursuit to improve their times.
As the Buvette de Plan de L’Aiguille came into sight, the place looked deserted. I sensed that it might be closed and began to hope that was the case. As I got closer, Julie confirmed what I’d suspected. No cable cars in operation, no buvette, no blueberry pie. Although I too would have enjoyed some blueberry pie, there was a silver lining to the situation. Since 2018, Julie had continued to chide me for making her walk an extra 45 minutes after an 8-hour climb in Mt Katahdin in Maine, “where we’re sure to see a moose.” (There was no moose to be seen that day). Could I now counter with Julie’s promise of blueberry pie in return for a three-hour hike up the side of the mountain?
Apparently, the cable-car-cum-buvette had not yet opened for the season. Two weeks later, as Julie explained, the area would be swarming with tourists. Instead, we had the entire area to ourselves. We snapped a few photos, including the signage post that gave the distance to numerous major mountains. (For Dave Covill’s benefit: 7742 km to Denali). With the weather threatening to turn nasty, we began the second and most spectacular part of the hike: the wide-open paths across the Plan de L’Aiguille. This near-flat, three miles trail offered a continuous panoramic view of the mountains on all sides, with Chamonix nested at the bottom of the valley below. Without the exertion required to climb upward, I ceased to feel the dull ache in my chest.
Within 15 minutes of the descent, we came upon Lac Bleu (Blue Lake), where patches of ice still floated on the surface. Rather than repeating the stunt, Julie produced the video of when she’d taken a dip in this frigid water the previous summer.
We had joked over these several days that I was looking for “adventure” on this trip, and the Plan de L’Aiguille did not disappoint. After an hour of carefree idyllic walking along the stunningly beautiful trail, we came upon the main challenge of the hike. The continuous light rain had made the rocks quite slippery, which wasn’t a problem until we got to a spot that required careful navigating and a large dose of sangfroid. The trick was to edge down the inclination of a slippery boulder while hugging the side of another larger boulder for support. At the bottom of the 10-foot inclination was a small area that would provide solid footing. But to the right side – should one miss it – was a significant drop-off. Julie tested the route first, then walked me through it. After “falling in the hole” two days before, my confidence was not at its highest. I inched my way down the slippery rock at a snail’s pace, as Julie extended her arm to ensure that I’d connect with the solid footing. Whew…success. If I’d wanted an adventure that took me slightly out of my comfort zone, this was it.
By 1 pm we’d reached the juncture where the descent to Chamonix would start. Julie began to worry about the conference call she had scheduled for 4 pm. I encouraged her to go ahead, and I’d walk down on my own. The trail was well marked (with the extra bonus of the yellow plastic markers to guide the trail runners), and Chamonix remained in view most of the way down. Initially reluctant (“Jane, you always get lost”), Julie decided to leave me on my own for the trip down. I was very comfortable with this idea; in fact, it would allow me to hike at exactly my own pace. I stopped to rest, remove my raincoat, have a snack, smell the roses.
Some 20 minutes later on my way down, I found Julie perched under the canopy of a massive uprooted tree, protecting herself from the drizzle that persisted. She was convinced that I’d miss the sign to the parking lot of the L’Aiguille du Midi and felt duty bound to make sure I took the correct turn. From there, she scurried ahead, and I thoroughly enjoyed my relaxed descent into Chamonix on the soft bed of pine needles that covered the trail as it zigzagged down the mountain side. I congratulated myself for arriving 10 minutes earlier than the posted time (for the “average person”).
To celebrate being unchaperoned, I took my time, stopping at the hiking equipment shop to buy another t-shirt and passing by the bakery en route home to buy spinach and feta quiche for dinner.
Whereas Mont Blanc was supposed to be the main attraction of the week in Chamonix, I realized that this final day was by far my favorite. Except for the 10 feet of slippery rock with no margin for error, the hike had been entirely in my comfort zone. It had been extraordinary to have this incomparably beautiful location to ourselves. And I’d survived the Julie Chamonix Olympics.
The story should have ended here, with all three of the Chamonix hikes fulfilling the two criteria for the “eight annual extraordinary outdoors excursions”: (1) challenging my physical limits, (2) in a place with stunning natural beauty. Yet the next day would continue the challenge to my physical limits. I had to make it back to Paris solo, changing between three different trains, while handling a roller board, bulging briefcase, and large aqua blue hard-cover suitcase. As Julie and I rolled the luggage toward the petite station near her house where I’d pick up the first train, it was evident that the bruised rib had not just “gone away” as I had hoped. As we waited on the train platform, Julie promising me that she would visit the local clinic that afternoon to further explore her heart palpitations, I saw no reason to burden her with my own ailments.
At St. Gervais, the next station requiring a transfer, there was no elevator, only an escalator. I held by breath as I perched the roller board/briefcase on the step in front of me, the big aqua bag on the step behind. At Bellegarde, it was necessary to make a quick transfer between two stations located 400 yards apart. I got my exercise as I dragged the three bags up the long, inclined ramp, realizing I had a tight connection. I would then board the train from Bellegarde to Gare de Lyons, where my reserved seat was on the second level. The train was packed with summer vacationers, and the luggage racks were near full. It was unclear where I’d even be able to put my luggage, assuming I could manage to carry the aqua blue monster up the stairs. But luck was with me, or more accurately, several very helpful French passengers. A young woman watched over my big bag as I found a spot for it, and a guy witnessing this scene then hauled it up the stairs. I found my seat next to a teenage kid, who before the train even took off, offered to carry my bag down the stairs once we reached Gare de Lyon. When I went to get myself a fizzy pamplemousse drink at the restaurant car, I bought him a coke for his trouble.
The final leg of the odyssey was dragging the three bags through Gare de Lyon, the dull ache ever more present. Miraculously, one of the female station employees showed me the “fast lane” to get a taxi. And as the driver scooped up my bags to put them into the trunk of his car, I sank back into my seat and luxuriated in the knowledge that I’d made it through the final day of the Chamonix Olympics: getting my bags back to Paris.
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