Hanging on by a thread

Today I am in France, so I’ll be making up a lot of le French words. Poor example.

I found myself atop of Aiguille du Midi today, a fairly modest 3842m peak shy of the summit of Mont Blanc by about 1000m. It took two cable cars from Chamonix to get there and my ears popped three times.

The mountains rule the landscape around here. That was until today, while ascending in a rectangular box with around 20 persons in relative silence, I saw the once monstrous peaks drop away beneath me. I felt so very privileged to have ascended so high without so much as a sweat.

I arrived in Chamonix yesterday and the winter sun only manages to light the valley I’m staying in for a few hours in the afternoon, for the sheer height of the surrounding mountains blocks it.

This morning when I decided to take a day trip up Aiguille du Midi the day is crisp clear, blue skies and 11.30am I’m basking in sunshine after ascended nearly 4000m.

I’m as close to the summit of Mont Blanc that I’m ever going to get without a pair of crampons.

It’s recoded as -12 degrees Celsius up here but the wind chill is way colder. To take pictures is to take gloves off, so I keep it simple and experience this warm handed as my face freezes. I want to cry but my soul hasn’t thawed out yet.

As I descend, the thorny spine of earth’s sleeping stegosauruses once again resume their place and I’m just a little tic on the toe of a toad sipping overpriced ‘ot chocolate.