Chamonix Or Bust

Chamonix and river L'Arve
Well, once again….better late than never. It’s been a while since my last posting and quite a bit has happened. The most exciting of which was my two week trip to Europe in September. I stayed with my good friend, John Dorf, who lives in Chamonix, France. John graciously opened his home to me and we had what can only be described as one (of many) trips of a lifetime.

As some of you know, my first day in Chamonix was a bit of a shaky experience. The first day there Chamonix was hit with a 4.7 earthquake. Luckily John and I had proceeded straight to the local pub, Goophy’s, upon my arrival in Geneva. After staying up all night to quell my impending jet lack, we missed our Alpine start at the crag (a.k.a. the local climbing area). However, there was plenty of excitement to be had. As John and I lazily finished our 1pm breakfast, the 2 feet thick concrete walls in John’s house began to sway. Then in unison the house began to shake. Needless to say we were glad that we were such slackers and had not been half way up our second pitch when the earthquake hit. It rattled the house so bad that it warped the door jams and the doors no longer shut properly in their happy little door jam homes.

View from John's house
So, after an exciting first 24 hours in France things were off to a smashing start. The next two weeks were spent hiking, running, climbing and exploring the French and Italian Alps. All I can say about this is, oh my god, talk about breathtaking. Imagine taking ten Squaw Valleys and stacking them one on top of each other but with the added benefit of lush green fields, fir trees and never ending glaciated peaks on all sides. Every day was an orgasm to the visual senses.

My first few days were spent exploring the charming little alpine town of Chamonix and working my calves into little balls of shredded meat from running on trails that are essentially un-run-able. This is because there are NO trials there that are less than a 55 degree angle. At some points on the trails there are precariously placed, anciently old ladders, ropes and other archaic devices meant to help excel said minced calf muscles upward to yet more degradingly steep, ascending aorta bursting “trails.”

The most amazing lunch spot
Because John had to work quite a bit I tackled much of these trails single-handedly. This was probably for the best considering the humbling ass spanking I was giving myself. Needles to say, my lung spewing gasps of pathetically labored breath and the sweat drenched fleece hat that remained hermetically salt-sealed to my head for the rest of the trip was anything but elegant.

Hike from Argentiere to Flegre
With my lower body officially “done”, I decided to take a few days off and explore the darling little town of Aosta, Italy. I bought a bus ticket through the Mont Blanc Tunnel which runs underneath the Alps from France to Italy and like an episode of Star Trek was transported at what felt like warp speed to the Italian town of Courmayer. From there, another bus ride to the town of Aosta. Being a somewhat experienced solo traveler I thought I would go with the “whatever happens, happens” attitude. In other words, I had no idea where I was going to stay or what I was doing. After a brief panic attack as the sun was going down in a foreign town where not many people spoke English and needles to say my Italian is, well a bit “malo”, I managed to find a cute hotel and decided to treat myself. For what turned out to be about $60, I stayed on the top floor of the cutest little accommodations with a giant bathtub and an amazing view from my 7th floor balcony.

View from my hotel window

I spent the next two days exploring the town, eating homemade gnocchi and gelatos, and pressing my nose up to the glass boutique windows longingly eyeing the leather boots and sexy rags that I never mustered up the courage to buy. The one thing I slightly regret about my trip.

Back in Chamonix I had one more day free before John could take some time off work to finally climb. So, my next brillant idea was to borrow John's bike and ride from Chamonix, France to the border of Switzerland. Seemed like a reasonable, 2 hours bike ride (according to John). With John's way too big, anciently old bike between my legs, a borrowed XL rain jacket and a couple of Cliff bars in my Camelback I took off down the road. After a beautiful two miles of slowly ascending country road I hit the up hill. "Buckle down", I thought, "this is no worse than Donner Summit." It was similar to Old Hwy 40 on Donner Summit in that there are no shoulders and it is a windy, steep Alpine climb, but add on the fact that there were cars whizzing by at 100km/hr, I had no map, no emergency/repair equipment, no helmut and no idea where I was going, I started to get a little less than motivated. But I decided to take on the challenge and have fun with the adventure. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes into the climb John's bike decided to mutany and threw the worst case of chronic chain suck/phantom shifting imaginable. "Oh darn, guess I have to turn around." So that I did, dumped the bike and spent the rest of the afternoon at a cute little cafe drinking Cappuccino's and eating crepes. And you know what, I didn't feel a bit dissapointed.

Finally, John got some time off and we got to do some climbing. Yea!

With the previous earthquake and subsequent after shocks we decided to stick to the local climbing crags. We got lucky and the crags were not that crowded so we managed to get quite a bit of climbing in. Although there are many similarities to U.S. climbing crags the areas there are most definitely “French”. The most obvious difference was the ass puckering down climbs and shotty compilation of rickety old ladders and pipe like metal railings needed to descend back to the base of the climbs. At times I felt like I was participating in a Jumangi like surreal game of shoots and ladders all the while telling myself that earthquakes never come in pairs (ya right).

But the climbing was spectacular and the views from the top were phenomenal.

So, with climbing, hiking, running, biking and city perusing accomplished there was only one more goal to tackle, a ride up the Aiguille Du Midi (a.k.a. the oldest and steepest tram humanly possible). My last trip to Chamonix was a ski trip a few years ago and unfortunately (inner dialogue, “Oh, thank god.”) the Aiguille was always socked in by weather so we were unable to take the ride up. But this time it was blue, sunny skies and I had no excuse. So I bought myself a lift ticket and ventured up the 9000 vertical feet of air in a cable car attached only to one cable (and ONE tower) and took a ride up into the clouds to the top of the summit. And I’m so glad I did. Turns out it wasn’t scary at all, well maybe a little bit when the car began to sway and one lady fainted and hit the deck like a foot soldier only to be out cold for the entire ride back down. As only the French could do, everyone simply ignored her knowing that there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do until the car was back docked on planet earth. So I assessed the situation, saw she was breathing and just simply passed out from either fear or hypoxia and went along with the crowd. It was the mellowest “emergency” situation I have ever seen. Anyway, the view from the top was well worth any anxiety or unrealistic fear I may have invented in my mind. The top of the Aiguille is at 3842 meters (that’s about 13,000 feet) and is surrounded by daunting crevices and ice blue glaciers. It is truly a site to embrace.

Mountaineers at the summit and view from cable car of glaciers

After two weeks of adventure, relaxation, amazing chocolate, wine and cheese I felt completely content and John and I spent my last night exploring the ancient corridors and cafes in Geneva. John had to work the next morning so he dropped me off at the Geneva airport. I spent a couple hours exploring the airport and then decided to take a little walk outside (my flight wasn’t until the next morning and I was planning on just hanging out in Geneva for the night). Problem was the doors were all locked. Turns out I had been locked in the airport and ended up spending my last night in Europe sleeping on the tile floor of the Geneva airport. At first I was a bit concerned because it was very dark and I could hear one or two other people (male people) scurrying around the airport like mice in a cage. But I hunckered down in a little corner only to awake to an interesting young man peering over me at the wee hours of early morning. In broken English and a heavy, indiscernible accent he asked if I was okay. I wiped away the line of drool leading from my mouth to the hard, cold floor and graciously offered a groggy yes as I gathered up my things. It was morning and employees were slowly staggering in to start their day. My favorite employee was the old man that came in at 4am to start baking bread for the day. So, for three hours I sat in front of his pastry café watching him lovingly and delicately baking every kind of croissant and pastry imaginable. The smell was almost too heavenly to bare. At last, he opened his window and with two chocolate croissants and a Cappuccino in hand I boarded my long flight home.

So, that was my last big adventure. Since then I have been working like crazy to make up for the two weeks off. But it was well worth it. And I promise, from now on my blog postings will be briefer and more consistent. So please feel free to bookmark http://www.karelypants.blogspot.com/ and visit as often as you like. I loved the last set of comments (especially my Flagstaff friends, I can always rely on you guys for a good sarcastic laugh). But seriously, thanks for all the comments and for keeping in touch. I hope we can continue to be more engaged in each others lives more often.