Mont Blanc

A deep satisfaction derives from a dream come true. On my computer monitor at home in California is a list of mountains I would like to climb. Together with Mt Kilimanjaro, on that list is Mont Blanc - both so far away, unlikely propositions. Yesterday, I touched Mont Blanc; I breathed its pure air; I made eye contact. An aerial tram, one of the highest vertical tramways in the world, carried us 12,600-feet up the south side of the mountain, from the small village of Chamonix to a lesser peak called Aiguille du Midi. We disembarked only 3,000-feet or so beneath the domed summit of Mont Blanc (15,781-feet). Numerous outdoor terraces were ours for two hours, to picnic, to absorb the 360° view of the many surrounding peaks, to commune with Mont Blanc's summit, to soar on its beauty. Snow climbers - Italian, Swiss, French, British - equipped with exotic and colorful mountaineering gear, were heading off from our spot. Climbers already trekking up the side of Mont Blanc looked like ants, as did their tents nestled together below in an encampment in the snow. The weather cooperated to warm us with the sun and to give us an unobstructed view, so clear you could see human tracks on the summit.

Ecstasy. But as life sometimes insists, Ecstasy is often paired with Agony. And so we come to Part II of my Mont Blanc experience.

As we boarded the tram for the ride back down to Chamonix, Scott said, "Anyone interested in getting off at the halfway point and walking down the rest of the way?"

"How long is the hike," I asked. "And how steep?"
"Oh, an hour, and it's not steep, there's a path."

So with enthusiasm, we all gave the nod to the idea, and our party of four set off down the trail - Scott, Christine, Mathieu, and me. About a half hour later, I noticed that the village below seemed no closer. In fact, it looked astonishingly far away. The alpine roofs looked like they were on a distant planet.

"This hike is longer than hour," I said.
"It's two and a half hours," Scott said.
"You're joking."
"No, I saw the sign at the beginning of the trail."

Even though three years ago, I climbed California's Mt Whitney with ease, I hadn't stayed in shape. Oh, what kind of damage might I be in for, I wondered. I slowed down to conserve my feet and legs. An hour into it, the town looked no closer, I stopped to tighten my hiking boots (fortunately, I brought them to France), and I was trailing significantly, with Mathieu in the lead and almost skipping down the hill. My legs, my quadriceps in particular, started turning to jelly and were virtually gone for the final half hour, which turned out to be the steepest part of the descent. Scott offered me his shoulder to lean on and, with his help, I hobbled down to the trail's end and back to horizontal ground.

It turns out we had descended 4,300-feet or so.

I looked back up at the summit, still shining glacier-white, and the agony and the ecstasy became one.

I took a hot bath when we got home and today, though sore, all is well.I will be able to walk the streets of Paris again.

It's midnight and I am writing this from 65 Rue de Petit Vaux, Epinay sur Orge. We drove back from Geneva today, taking a detour through the Burgundy wine region, picnicking in the town of Beaune, much of whose architecture dates back to the 15th century, or even earlier. Centuries-old stone walls that should have crumbled long ago still stand. As Scott said, winemaking goes back as far as the Romans.

Tired, we ate dinner at ten o'clock. So much life is going on, eating at nine or ten is regular in Scott's home, and I've fully adjusted. In fact, I'm the last one up tonight, my job to turn out the lights;