In Search of my Limits

Colin and I huddled just before midnight in the small chapel above the lake in Champex, at the north-eastern end of the Mont Blanc massif. We had planned to climb and ski an 89-kilometer high-altitude traverse in one single push. Though we'd checked the avalanche forecast and the weather appeared stable, we were uncertain about some of the corniced ridges. I had hardly slept, and my blurry mind intensified my anxiety. Outside the chapel, a streetlamp provided a dull glow. I put the camera on a wall and set the video to record. Colin shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as I read out a poem, "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. It came as close to a prayer as I would allow myself.

Her words about finding compassion echoed through me, as if imploring me to question my motives for seeking the limits of my endurance. The Mont Blanc Royal Traverse follows glaciers and snow crests for 41 kilometers along the main axis of the mountain. In 2012, Kilian Jornet and Stéphane Brosse wanted to extend this classic route across the entire massif. Their attempt ended abruptly when a cornice collapsed beneath Stéphane on the Aiguille d'Argentière; he died in a long fall. In the spring of 2013, Misha Gopaul, Ally Swinton and I set out to try the first half of Jornet and Brosse's traverse. We began at 2 am. As we broke trail in crusty snow, the fresh drifts soon became deeper.

By mid-morning, the wind was starting to blow plumes of spindrift off Mont Blanc. Just after noon, Ally went first down the east ridge of the Bionnassay. We followed his tracks until they vanished at a small step in the snow. I stopped for a few moments before I realized what had happened: Ally had tumbled down the steep south face in a slab avalanche. There was no safe way to descend to him, so Misha and I called the rescue services. Time passed slowly while we waited for the helicopter. But within fifteen minutes, we saw Ally staggering down the glacier 600 meters below. The helicopter rose up the valley to pick him up before it returned to winch Misha and me off the mountain.

It wasn't until the start of 2018 that I felt ready to try the traverse again. In January, while I was still training, I was caught in a massive avalanche. The accident haunted me and reduced my appetite for risk. Still, the idea of completing Jornet and Brosse's unfinished project drove me. In early spring, I came up with an idea that would give us a much greater security margin: by reversing the route and traveling from the north, we could cross the most exposed slopes at night when the snow was cold and firm. At the stroke of midnight, Colin and I shuffled up the long Arpette Valley on skis, skittered over the icy snouts of recent avalanche debris and continued to the Col des Écandies.

As we crossed the Trient plateau, a steady breeze kept us moving. We slowed only to unwrap an energy bar or to adjust our boots. The moon had already sunk below the western horizon, and we moved under a vast canopy of stars. At the Col du Chardonnet, we forfeited our crampons and dragged our way up a fixed rope. Crossing the border into France, we put our skis back on and carved lazy turns down the coarse snow. Just after 5 am, we met our friend Seb Montaz in the middle of the Argentière Glacier. We set off upslope as the half-light of dawn filtered over the walls around us. At the Col des Cristaux, Colin, Seb and I discussed whether to ski or climb down the south side. Given the hard snow, I thought that it would be safer to downclimb.

We soon reached the glacier and skied out into the sunshine. The air temperature began to soar. Battalions of skiers were already pouring down the Vallée Blanche. Three hours later, our friend Vivian Bruchez joined us at the Col du Midi. An hour slipped by before we finished eating several days' worth of pizza and soda that Vivian had brought in for us. Seb headed back to the valley, and Vivian joined our party for the rest of the climb. The afternoon passed in a haze. The sun set in the gathering magentas of dusk over the Aravis. We put a rope on to pass a few crevasses and then dropped down the crest past the Piton des Italiens and into the darkness. I broke trail, stamping footsteps into the narrow snow crest of the Aiguille de Bionnassay.

As I slowed, Vivian took over and led us to the summit. On the descent, the terrain seemed much steeper than I remembered. From the base of the Bionnassay, the Dômes de Miage towered above us in ghastly shapes. We stopped at a hut to drink a few liters of hot water. At 3 am, we began the crawl up the crenellated Miage ridge. Over the next few hours, my senses became even more disorientated. When Colin or Vivian spoke, I had to focus my attention on juggling their words into meaning. I felt as if I were repeatedly waking up from a general anesthetic in a cold, darkened room. Denied sleep for yet another night, my consciousness seemed to be liberated into another dimension, as if I had entered a dream state.

Perhaps that was the very state I hungered for, so far from everyday experience. When we reached the Montjoie valley, the sun had risen again on another clear day. Hobbling up to the church in Les Contamines, I found it difficult to express any joy at our achievement. It took a full day of sleep to recover. As the fatigue wore off, I looked through the few photos I had taken – images that only hinted at the intensity of experience we shared. I tried to write, urgently piecing together the threads of memory before they faded. After two days, I even wondered if my desire to be up high in the scintillated light had been completely exhausted.

For a while, I nurtured that luscious perspective, the near bewilderment at the comfort of valley life, until it too faded again into habit. Perhaps somewhere between my dreams of blinding mountain light, I had found a little of that self-compassion and belonging that Mary Oliver wrote about. No doubt more would be found when searching.