Change In Plans

Greetings from Chamonix, France! Our Haute Route ski group has been here for three days now, gearing up, acclimatizing, and getting ready for our five-day ski trek.

On Saturday morning we got up early, and took the ski bus over to Argentiere, one of the ski areas just outside of Chamonix. We had a French guide named Damian (’demm-ee-EHN’) for the morning. We rode a seemingly endless series of gondolas, telecabines, and chairlifts up into the treeless, windblown terrain at the top of the mountain.

As long as we stayed on the groomed trails, the morning was easy and fun. I really haven’t skied much in recent years, but it was kind of coming back to me. Going off piste, into the crusty, unpacked snow was more challenging, but OK.

After a couple of hours, a huge weather front moved in, and it started to snow heavily. The change in air temperature and humidity also plunged the middle two thirds of the mountain into a dense fog whiteout. At its worst, visibility dropped to less than 10 feet. We skied in a line, following Damian. It was completely surreal and disorienting, and sort of hard to have fun.

We broke for lunch at a small cabin-type restaurant, hidden in the woods midslope. The restaurant was called “La Cremerie,” and it basically only served melted-cheese dishes. It was hearty and festive, as the snow and fog outside turned into rain.

After lunch, a few of us went back up for another long ski run in the mist. It still wasn’t easy to have fun, but I really needed the practice. Most of the time, the visual effect was like a Hollywood interpretation of making a trip to heaven: lots of shadowy figures moving through the mist.

Down in the village, it just poured with rain for the rest of the afternoon.

Last night we met our Haute Route guide, Rinaldo. He is a small, wiry Swiss in his late 40s, who looks like he has spent his entire life in the mountains. He explained the route in detail, told us what to expect, and what his concerns are. Some parts were exciting: “Here is where I will belay you as you rappel 60 meters down a cliff, and into Switzerland.”. Other parts were just intimidating: “We will need to push hard here, probably climbing for 5-6 hours.”

This morning at breakfast, Rinaldo asked us, “So how much ski touring experience do each of you have? You must have done quite a number of smaller trips in the US or Canada, working up to this.” He turned a funny color, and got a concerned expression when he realized that collectively we have practically zero ski touring experience. He asked, incredulously, “And your first trip will be the Haute Route?”

We spent the rest of breakfast, and much of our practice day with Rinaldo trying to alleviate his concerns.

The practice day was actually very practical. We learned how to put the climbing skins and aluminum crampons on our skis, and how to climb with kick turns. We tried on our boot crampons, and learned how to strap our skis to our packs. We practiced avalanche rescue, searching in snow banks for a buried transceiver. Also, we skied for several hours in more mist and falling snow.

By the end of the day, Rinaldo seemed slightly less concerned, but perhaps he was only humoring us. At least the weather is clearing (sun!), and we are all feeling much better prepared.

Tomorrow will be a long day. This should be a big adventure.

Greetings from Chamonix! I arrived here early this afternoon, following an impossibly long trip from Wellington, New Zealand.

My seatmates on each of the two long-haul flights were interesting from a people-watching perspective.

From Sydney to Bangkok I was flanked by two elderly Australian women, traveling together. They both occupied themselves on the first hour of the flight by solving the Sudoku puzzles in the in-flight magazine. After completing these, one of the women pulled out a tall stack of Sudoku puzzles they had clipped neatly from a newspaper. For the entire eight-hour flight, the Sudoku ladies worked away quite happily on puzzle after puzzle. Occasionally, one would take a short nap, then wake up and start working again. They disembarked in Bangkok, starting a vacation perhaps dedicated to less numerative pleasures.

I spent an hour milling around the Bangkok airport before reboarding. My two new seatmates in Row 62 were a Scottish woman slightly older than me, and a young New Zealander man living in London. Although they did not know each other, both seatmates had traveled extensively, and appeared to be kindred spirits in complaining sharply about every conceivable thing on the planet. It was extraordinary to listen to two people spend hours lamenting, deriding, criticizing, and whining about the flight, the food, the airport, London traffic, Bangkok traffic, Thailand generally, people who drink too much, people who don’t drink enough, the economy, the weather (in multiple geographies), the cost of many things, and the general sorry state of the world. The New Zealander completed each complaint with an emphatic, “I mean, what the f@#k???”

They probably talked for three hours of the twelve-hour flight. Amazing stamina. I preferred the Sudoku ladies.

On the other side of me for both legs was an Australian family traveling with three kids, the older two of whom were roughly Zola’s and Tallulah’s age. I was amazed at how well behaved and cheerful all three of the kids were throughout nearly 20 hours in the air. It made me miss my own family.

After a brief layover in London, a transfer to the very spiff new Terminal 5 at Heathrow, and a short (two-hour) backtrack across Europe, I was finally in Geneva.

Two members of our skiing party had also just arrived, and we shared a bus for the hour-long drive up to Chamonix. As we drove up into the Alps, I have to say that I craned my neck up at the high peaks, and felt intimidated.

A group of five of us, plus a guide, are doing the Haute Route. We will be skiing hut to hut from Chamonix to Zermatt over the course of five days. It is about 150 kilometers, some of which is downhill, and a lot of which requires climbing. It is considered one of the pinnacle skiing activities of a lifetime.

Not being a pinnacle skier I am feeling a little daunted. To be fair, at one time I was a reasonably competent downhill skier. Living in South Africa, having young kids, and having a wife who doesn’t like cold-weather vacations I haven’t in the last several years. It will definitely be a challenge.

When we went to pick up our gear yesterday, I started to get a sense of what we are in for.

Skis, boots, and bindings - all of which are designed to perform like downhill skis until you release the heel of the binding, and you can stride and climb. Very cool.

Climbing skins (for uphill traction on the skis), telescoping ski poles, which can be extended for cross-country or shortened for downhill; ski crampons, to maintain traction when climbing on ice.

Boot crampons, if it is too icy to climb on skis; shovel and probing pole to find someone else after an avalanche; radio-beacon necklace, so they can find me after ana avalanche; an ice axe; a helmet; ropes and harnesses and carabiners, oh my.

Despite (or maybe because of) all this gear, it is actually quite safe. The real challenge, I think will be the physical exertion at altitude. There has been a lot of talk of Iron Man triathlons and burning 5,000 calories per day.

We are getting up in an hour to spend the day skiing, and trying out all of the gear. It will be fun today, and almost all downhill. The plan is to do the same tomorrow, and start the trip proper on Monday morning. The first hut is closed, so we will do the first two days of the standard route in one long push. Should be an adventure.

It sounds as though India and the kids, and our friend Ginny, are having fun in Wellington. It is still very strange to not be with them.