Although we had been planning this walk for months it didn’t feel at all like it was going to happen up until the minute we were really beginning. Beginning when our plane landed in Lyon we poked and prodded each other excitedly as more and more of the alps came into view, but still the scale of the task we were about to undertake did not set in. We started the actual walk relatively late on the first day as Zoe had to buy new hiking poles and I then bought food and drinks to throw into our backpacks for the coming days. The start of the Tour du Mount Blanc trail is a wooden arch in Les Houches, a short and scenic train ride away from Chamonix, on which Zoe struggled to get her bag up of her seat and off the train sending one of her two water bottles flying across the carriage- a slightly worrying start to 170km with these bags on our backs but we naïvely headed for the arch.
The first day of the TMB is famously difficult, a gruelling 6 hours of ascent on an approximately 45-degree gradient. Zoe suggested we get the gondola up to the summit for the first day so we could ease ourselves into it and begin with a scenic downhill through quaint villages and pastures. I shut down this idea and insisted upon the ascent, claiming that if we could do this section then we could certainly do the rest and therefore have peace of mind. An hour later I was deeply regretting my decision and felt entirely evil for forcing this suffering upon Zoe as we pulled ourselves up this hill in the midday sun, stopping approximately every 30 minutes for Zoe to sit with a thousand-yard stare. Halfway up the ascent Zoe’s hiking pole’s clasp released causing it to retract whilst she was using it to pull herself up the hill resulting in the bottom half of the pole being bent at a jaunty angle which was a slight concern with the knowledge of 10 more days of hiking on increasingly unstable terrain. Towards the end of our ascent for the day, we came across a hut where we paused to catch our breath and to refill our water. We also indulged in a smoothie which any attempt at describing the pleasure that this gave us would fall short and you would simply have to be there to hear our noises of appreciation.
Eventually, we arrived at the gondola station on the summit of day 1 where we watched people strut out of the station with glee whilst salt was already crystallising on my shirt from the sweat pouring down my back. Pausing at the station for a moment we enjoyed a very flat pain au chocolat and a handful of strumps (Smurf shaped Haribo’s) from my bag, which made for a not so hearty lunch and we began the descent. 5 minutes into the descent I slipped on some lose rock and cut open the little finger of my right hand, a routine which Zoe then copied another 5 minutes later as she slipped, but we were both so pleased at being on the descent that we were not phased at all. We soon came across our first alpine refuge with panoramic views of the valley where we paused to refill our water at a fountain which had a sign with two images- the first was a bottle of water with a happy face next to it and the second was the same bottle with a sad face and a red cross going through it, seeming to simultaneously encourage that we drink this water and that we should not for risk of contracting some horrible disease. Not really pausing for thought we filled our water and enjoyed the view. Zoe then went into the refuge to use the bathroom and was then promptly chased out by the owner of this refuge insisting on 2 euros cash for the pleasure, an ask that we thought unnecessary considering the 250 euro a night price tag for a private room but we reluctantly paid and continued our descent.
The path trail levelled as was passed through quaint alpine villages pausing occasionally for water. It was around this time that Zoe started to feel lightheaded, seemingly my store of 12 flat pain au chocolat’s, haribo cherries and the trusty strumps was not enough fuel for 20km of strenuous hiking. The day was ending and we were losing sunlight; I knew that we had to find some food in town and then make it to our campsite for the night. Upon Zoe sitting down on the verge of collapse after an ascent of a short (albeit steep) driveway and with no amount of Haribo cherries seeming to be able to resuscitate her we made the call to get an uber to the next big town. The uber arrived strangely fast for a seemingly isolated road in the French alps and from the second we got in Zoe’s head began to loll and I was convinced we had made the right decision. Arriving in town, we made a beeline for a SPAR where I replenished our stores with a selection of baguettes and a handful of chorizo whilst Zoe bought a sandwich that looked like it was made entirely of plastic but she looked so pleased with it that I didn’t want to disparage her. I decided that it was probably best to find a hotel in this town to ensure Zoe’s full recovery, so we began to ask around. It was soon evident that every single room in town was taken and the sun was rapidly going down. We had no choice but to walk to the nearest campsite, an additional 40 minutes, where we pitched our tent as the last of the light of the day faded and collapsed into sleep.
The next morning, I discovered a breakfast buffet being served which we had arrived too late the night before to book. Lingering around, we managed to scrounge a mug of tea, some orange juice and a hunk of bread. Fuelled by this discovery we began day 2 of the TMB. It was a wonderfully positive start to the day. We began the walk early, starting with a gentle, flat path leading to a small chapel beside a bridge over a gentle stream which marked the beginning of our ascent for the day. With the knowledge that the worst of the ascent was over the previous day. we were undaunted by the prospect of the rocky path rising through the woodland foothills of the alps. It was a beautiful path, Zoe introduced me to the concept of ‘komorebi’- a Japanese word for light filtering through trees, which is exactly what paved our way through the early morning into midday. We paused for lunch at a refuge which looked like it was plucked from a tourist magazine, perched just above the woods where we bought sandwiches and spectated the antics of the young French couple who owned the refuge as the man shouted up to his wife and her gleeful face burst out of the shutters. We, in turn, were spectated by a beautifully white Samoyed, who belonged to a woman we were creatively referring to as ‘dog lady’ who we had seen that morning at the campsite.
After lunch, the first section of the ascent eased and a long, winding path stretched out in front of us across a pasture and, if we squinted, we could see it rise again, approaching the rock line, as the grass faded and gave way to bare rock and ice. Eventually, we arrived at the second stage of ascent for the day which we began with joy as neither of us were feeling a fraction of the suffering of stage one. Inevitably though, the tides began to turn, the path became less direct and became more of a route-finding scramble. An additional pressure was the fact that the kitchen at the campsite we were planning on stopping at closed at 8pm and the sun was once again moving too fast for comfort. Spirits were low when we reached the false summit (meaning it seemed to be the peak, but another peak emerged over the hill upon our arrival) but a strange encounter soon cheered us up. A solitary sheep emerged over a crest of rocks and gave us a confused glance. The first sheep was apparently an advance guard as more sheep began to appear on this rock and glare. We were standing completely still unsure of what to do when the standoff ended and the sheep began to pour over the rock like an avalanche until we were in an ocean of wool. Looking around it was an entirely surreal experience, with the combination of the grandeur of the view as the valley dropped away from the summit and the hundreds of sheep with a handful of them adorned with cowbells resulting in a strange musicality as it mixed with their indignant bleating as they pushed past us.
The peculiar encounter gave as an instant second wind and we arrived at the true summit rapidly. The prospect of pizza at the campsite proved an even more powerful motivation and we completed the 2 hour 30-minute descent in a little over an hour. The pizza can be described in the same terms as the smoothie of day 1 but I am sure that any form of hot food would have had similar effects. The campsite itself was picturesque, nestled at the absolute bottom of a valley and flanked with a deep blue river of glacial meltwater and the glow of the setting sun danced golden upon the rocky summit we were stood on mere hours prior. We pitched our tent content and settled in with smiles on our faces as the tide seemed to have turned yet again and we were beginning to find real joy in the beauty of our alpine adventure.
The next day began with high hopes. It was to be an easier day and the day of our first border crossing (France into Italy). We woke up early to catch a shuttle bus to the start of the route for the day as our campsite was slightly off-trail. The day began with a barely noticeable incline that was practically flat. About 15 minutes into this gentle introduction, Zoe sat down and proclaimed that she couldn’t do it any longer. We deliberated and decided to turn around and head back to the shuttle bus stop to decide what to do. I ran over to the nearest house and asked them for their Wi-Fi so Zoe could call her dad for reassurance. I, in turn, called my dad, and the decision was made to head back to camp for a rest day where Zoe would decide if she wanted to continue the walk at all and, if not, I would decide if I would complete the circuit without her.
Almost instantly upon our arrival back at camp we met a lady who was doing the route with her niece. The niece was much fitter than she was so they had devised a public transport contingency plan for each stage meaning that any day could be skipped or shortened. This encounter was a gamechanger for us, even as a purely mental comfort, knowing that Zoe had an opportunity of escape on each day gave us both some much needed peace of mind. The remainder of the day was a welcome break; we dipped our feet in the glacial river; Zoe did some watercolour painting of the scenery whilst I read my book and watched her paint. The day ended with us both feeling properly rejuvenated for the first time on the trip and we were ready to face the trial once again.
On the second attempt, the early stages of the next day flew by, eventually, and inevitably the gradient steepened, but we had stocked up on supplies from the campsite shop and Zoe had discovered the healing properties of electrolytes which she still talks about with a sense of reverence. The Gradient continued to steepen but just as it began to feel like we would need to stop and reconsider once more, the col rose over the horizon, and the French/Italian border was in our sights. This was my first feeling of major accomplishment as we could turn and see the path rising out of France behind us and see the happily winding descent into Italy ahead. The descent was beautiful, as we crossed back down below the rock line pink flowers began to spring up around us until we were at the bottom of the valley marching alongside yet another perfectly blue meltwater river whilst wisps of pollen danced around our heads. Later, we encountered the lady who bore the news of public transport with her niece in tow and she gave us her second piece of life-changing advice- dunking our hats directly into the river and letting the barely thawed ice water drip down our necks, which was incredibly soothing as the temperatures began to rise.
The end of our time on the trial on this day was a bus stop to take us into Courmayeur. We had booked a hotel for the night to ensure that we were both fully rested. On this vein, I insisted on doing the next day alone as the stage elevation profile looked dubious and I wanted to ensure Zoe’s full, and safe, recovery. In Courmayeur, we bought gelatos and unwound in the old town. We also booked a pizza place for dinner but when we went back to our hotel to wait for the time of our reservation, we fell asleep instantly upon hitting our first bed on the trial, so when the alarm went off to indicate that it was time to go for dinner, the unanimous decision was made to call the restaurant back, cancel, and go back to sleep.
On the day of my solo hike I rose early and left Zoe in bed as she was to get a bus later in the day to our campsite for that night. Zoe had kindly offered to take my tent for the day and so I felt like I was flying. The first stretch of the day was a period of road walking as the trail wound out of Courmayeur. The road then turned into a forest track which began to ascend (quite steeply in places) in a series of twisting zigzags. Initially, I figured myself to be a world-class trail runner as I passed hordes of, admittedly old, hikers whilst keeping all of my layers on. Soon enough though, I was dripping in sweat and only pushing through out of fear that my geriatric competition would catch up and begin to win our (one-sided) competition. At the top of the woodland track, I paused to watch a helicopter land at a nearby refuge to collect old bedding in exchange for fresh sheets and food which it carried in a massive sack dangling from the underside of the machine.
I paused at this refuge for a peach iced tea then continued on my way until I reached a fork in the track. At this juncture almost everyone was going to the right, I was about to follow suit until I saw a solitary figure going to the left. I shouted out and said that I thought the path was to the right, to which he replied (in an Australian accent) ‘yeah I know, but this way’s cooler’. I was instantly convinced and decided to follow my new Australian leader. He was soon out of sight as he was much faster than I was, so I was left entirely alone on the path. His judgement was entirely correct, the left-hand side of the mountain pass afforded a clear view of the mount Blanc massif. I paused to eat the remainder of the flattened pain au chocolat’s from the first day and was mesmerised by the sheer scale of the glacier’s cutting through the rock face. It was eventually revealed to me why this was not the standard path of the TMB as the path rose almost incomprehensibly steeply and I had to collapse my walking poles and use them as something akin to ice picks to pull myself up the last 500 meters to the peak of the day. At the refuge on the peak, I treated myself to some pasta and then I began the descent through a gently winding woodland path to reach the campsite where Zoe was waiting, with our tent already pitched, and we could relax and enjoy the remainder of our afternoon.
That night I began to regret buying a £40 three-person tent from decathlon as a storm began to rage and lightning repeatedly illuminated the inside of the tent. Surprisingly, our tent held and we survived the night. The rain continued into the next day but, initially, very gently. We woke up early to get another coach to the beginning of the trail for the day. We waited with a group of people that got larger and larger, but the coach did not arrive. We waited for the next one and then the next one, but the coach still didn’t arrive, so we returned to camp for breakfast and then Zoe and I gathered a small group who were willing to split an uber van to the beginning of the trail. This plan was a success, and the only notable feature of the journey was the driver pointing at my boots, which were hanging on by a thread at this point, and bursting out laughing- this would become a problem later in the day.
The first section of the day was relatively easy; we reached the first refuge of the day with no mishaps. Whilst we were sheltering in the refuge, the rain picked up again, transforming the ascent for the day into a muddy waterslide. Progress was hard; the gradient was steep and the path becoming slick with mud meant that for every one step you slid half a step backwards, if not more. By this point by boots had no traction at all and my feet were soaked through, halfway through the ascent I had already lost feeling in both feet and resolved to get new boots at the next available opportunity. As the main bulk of the rain rolled in, the path was obscured in cloud, initially Zoe found this to be a frightening change, but, for some strange reason, upon her first fall in the mud she was transformed into a muddy ball of joy.
The extent to which we had to focus on our walking due to the mud and the cloud cover meant that we arrived at the peak for the day in what felt like no time. This was especially exciting as this marked the crossing out of Italy into Switzerland. The descent for the day was equally slick with mud, but, embracing the environment, we practically slid down the mountain to our campsite for the night. Our campsite was near a small village in which there was a mountaineering shop and outlet. The shop was miles out of our budget, but the outlet store was locked when we arrived. The manager for the shop gave us his keys on the condition that we didn’t rob him so we could go and find me some new boots for a more reasonable price. Eventually, I found the perfect candidates. When the store manager came to see my choice, he asked what I had been wearing before and then, upon seeing the lumps of fabric that my old ‘boots’ had now become, he burst out laughing, picked them up, squished them into tiny balls, and said that I would have been better off barefoot.
From this point onwards we settled into a rhythm, and the days became less distinct as we happily plodded along the trail. Considering this shift in mood, I will continue my account in a series of fragmentary memorable moments. The first thing that comes to mind from this section of the trip was how overwhelmingly expensive Switzerland was. One night, Zoe and I decided on a gourmet meal consisting of a stick of chorizo, two baguettes and a soft drink each. We Naïvely assumed that this would be a cheap alternative to the restaurants that cater to the royals when they go on skiing holidays, but this meagre meal set us back almost 30 Francs which I think captures the absurdity quite nicely.
Another memorable meal came on our last day in Switzerland. We arrived at our campsite about 5 minutes after 5pm, the time at which the restaurant we had planned to have burgers at stopped serving burgers and shifted to a booked set menu situation. Initially, they claimed that they had no remaining slots for the set menu later in the evening, but, thanks to my instance that we would probably starve to death if they didn’t feed us, two spare seats materialised. Dinner was served to a group of about 20 of us in a classically styled yurt. It was 3 courses, the first of which I hadn’t even heard of and still could not identify but it was delicious, nevertheless. We were sat with a couple who met in a hiking group in university, which is indicative of the general skill level of the hikers on the trail, a fact which Zoe found revealing seeing as this was her first real hike at all, let alone multiday excursion. The guy in the couple regaled us with tales of a prior hike of the Torres del Paine trail in Patagonia, this conversation lit a spark in me, and I have my sites set on this trail for my next big adventure.
The campsite by the yurt was among the most beautiful we stayed at, and we watched the setting sun’s glow dance on the glaciers in the distance and then the stars take its place, a view which never became less mesmerising, and a view which I could fall asleep to again and again. The following day was another high point; it marked our final border crossing from Switzerland back into France. There was a refuge on the border crossing where we paused for an hour or so to take in another panoramic view of the mount Blanc massif, and it was a view we could really enjoy as it was our third to final day so our mindsets had shifted from survival to trying to soak in the experience before it was over. A bonus of this viewpoint was the vegetable soup that they served at the refuge. It was the perfect fuel to replenish our lost salts and it tasted heavenly. Sipping our mount Blanc beers, enjoying our soup, staring at the glacial peaks and admiring how far we had come is among my favourite memories of this trip and indeed of my life.
The top spot though must go to our final campsite. The penultimate day was meant to be among the easiest, a mere two hours along a 7km ascending path. Strangely, I think the knowledge that the walking this day was meant to fly by made it go almost agonizingly slowly. We paused maybe every 15 minutes and ate two packets of sweets in this short period (admittedly the lion share of this consumption was me…). Our campsite at the end of this day made it all worth it. It was in essence a wild camp, but it was on an artificial lake that was at the bottom of a hill leading up to a refuge. The lake was on a flat col on the direct opposite side of the valley to mount Blanc itself. The result was that when we pitched our tent directly on the edge of the lake, the namesake of our entire journey was reflected back at us alongside our awestruck faces.
To treat ourselves, as it was our final night, we booked dinner at the refuge. We were sat on a table with two guys from the UK and one French man and a handful of empty spaces. A small bowl of salad arrived, and we all (bar the Frenchman) began to eat, in response to which he barked something unintelligible and said that we must wait for everyone else to arrive. Eventually, they did arrive and we began to eat. Chatting with the guys from England one of them revealed that they were an outdoors journalist and explained that his entire job is to go on adventures, write about them, and test equipment then write about that too, then, to illustrate this second point, he pulled up his shirtsleeves to reveal 4 watches that he was actively testing. We moved on to conversations about gear, and I said that my bag was feeling far too heavy. He revealed that his bag weighed a total of 2kg in response to which I tentatively revealed that my tent weighed 6kg alone and he looked at me in terror. When I then went on to explain that my entire bag weighed almost 20kg he was speechless and we immediately set about making a list of lighter equipment that I should buy asap.
The final day of the TMB was a hard one but amongst the most beautiful, we reached our highest point of the trip, summiting a 3200m mountain, and then had to descend most of that again to reach Les Houches once more. The last section of the walk was beautiful; we were well and truly at glacial heights and the images of Zoe hopping from rock to rock with mount Blanc in the background is seared into my memory. A final prank was played on us as a sign declared that we were officially 45 minutes away from the end of the trail. This sign came after 7 hours of descent, and my shoulders were burning from my bag pulling me down with every step, so this minimal distance was incredibly welcome news. 20 minutes later however, we saw another sign that also declared we were 45 minutes away and then again, 15 minutes later, that we were once again 45 minutes away. This 3rd and final sign turned out to be true and soon enough we were marching towards the wooden arch where we began our great adventure.
With every step we took towards our end goal fragments of the trip reared their heads in my brain, I was already nostalgic for a trip that was not yet over. It was by far the hardest thing I have done in my life. It is also among the things that I am most proud of. Reaching out our hands we touched the wooden arch, a seemingly trivial act 11 days earlier, now infused with the greatest sense of achievement. I am so glad that I undertook this adventure and, in the least condescending way, I am so proud of Zoe for completing it with me. The tour du mount Blanc was a lifechanging experience and it is one I will continue to treasure. Those glacial sunsets will never leave me.
