Chamonix, France – There are many places around the world that stir the passions of a mountaineer, but none holds the magic of Chamonix.
It isn’t just because one of the world’s greatest mountains, Mont Blanc, looms an incredible 12,385 feet above town, topping out at 15,780 feet above sea level. This is where mountaineering was invented and acquired romance. You cannot come here without feeling the spirit of those who have tested themselves on the remarkable slopes far above.
The first ascent of Mont Blanc occurred in 1786. Its sprawling glaciers up high and the amazing pinnacles – “Aiguilles,” or needles – along its lengthy massif have attracted great mountaineers and adventurous recreational climbers for generations.
A year ago when I learned the last men’s World Cup races before the Olympics would be held here, I knew I had to make a pilgrimage before going to Turin. Ever since the 1992 Olympics just south of here in Albertville, I sorely regretted not setting aside time for Chamonix, and I wasn’t going to let another opportunity get away.
In 1985 I was fortunate to be part of an expedition to Mount Everest, climbing to 24,000 feet on the West Ridge. In the ensuing years, the ski beat has taken me to several European ski resorts, and I’ve seen many peaks that touched my mountaineer’s heart the way the Himalayas did. I’ve shuddered at the sight of the malevolent Eiger, a killer mountain near Wengen, Switzerland. I’ve marveled at the beauty of the Dolomites in Cortina d’Ampezzo, Italy. I’ve been filled with awe in the magnificent Tyrolean Alps surrounding St. Anton, Austria, the cradle of downhill skiing. I saw the great South American giant, Aconcagua, from an airline seat on the way to Portillo, Chile.
But nothing I’ve seen since Everest compares to Mont Blanc. Like Everest, Mont Blanc’s sheer size is almost unfathomable, not just its height but its breadth. The Mont Blanc massif is 30 miles long and up to 9 miles wide. Its upper flanks are draped with steep glaciers, great rivers of blue ice riddled by crevasses. The Aiguilles may be “needles,” but the translation does not do them justice. They are massive towers of rock, snow and ice, thousands of feet high and incredibly steep.
A mountaineering buddy, Roy Johnson of Lakewood, jumped at the chance to join me in Chamonix – “Are you kidding? I’m there!” – and serve as my guide. He had been here three times, once spending two weeks climbing stunning peaks that made me deeply envious when he pointed them out.
We spent Sunday skiing across the valley from Mont Blanc on slopes high above the Chamonix valley. The conditions weren’t great, with snow so icy it reminded me in places of World Cup race courses, but this wasn’t about the pursuit of powder. This was about panoramic views and getting high on the spirit of alpinism.
On Monday we took two amazing cable cars to the Aiguille du Midi, a pinnacle on Mont Blanc 9,000 feet above Chamonix. On the way up, Roy pointed out a route he had done on the nearly vertical Aiguille du Midi, and I was jealous.
On the observation deck we looked down on a high, flat glacier (the Glacier du Geant) extending 3 miles southeast to the border with Italy. To the northeast were the Aiguilles De Chamonix, a series of peaks one more spectacular than the next, and on the horizon was the Matterhorn. Above us just to the south were the upper slopes of Mont Blanc, 3,200 feet of them encased in snow and blue ice.
I got envious again watching dozens of skiers with guides climb down from the Aiguille du Midi to ski the Vallee Blanche, a long tour on glaciers back down to Chamonix. I didn’t have time on this trip to nail the Vallee Blanche, but now that I’ve seen it, I am determined to return.
I have always known if you’re a mountaineer, you must see Chamonix someday. Now I know what Roy already knew – you’ll have to go back again and again.
Staff writer John Meyer can be reached at 303-820-1616 or jmeyer@denverpost.com.
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