Lost in the French Alps

Have you ever had a wanderlust-fueled adrenalin rush that ended with a non-refundable flight booked to the French Alps? I have. I remember looking down at my credit card (and glass of French wine) and realizing what had just happened with horror and delight. 

The original plan was a trip to Ireland for my sister's wedding. But I figured, if you're going to fly all the way to Europe, might as well see a little more and stay a bit longer. I mean the trans-Atlantic bit was the hardest part, right?

With all the hiking I had been doing I figured I might find a trail or two near Galway along the western coast of Ireland. This is roughly how the next two minutes of my life played out: Google>pretty irish hikes west coast>pretty irish hikes>best irish hikes>best UK hikes>Scotland hikes>Europe's best hikes>Prettiest hikes Europe>Alps hiking>French Alps>Book Flight>Confirm payment>Thanks for booking your nonrefundable flight. So it was happening.

I arrived in Ireland with just enough time to catch my flight to Lyon, France. I made it to Lyon and couch surfed with a guy there overnight before catching the morning train to Chamonix. This was my 6th trip to Europe so I felt confident arriving with no plans and winging it, and sure enough I was able to find a sweet little chalet with a room available. It was a laid back place owned by one of those perpetual-backpacker types; A real enterprising guy named Cody split his time between paragliding, romancing the pretty girls traveling through, and renting out rooms (in the house he himself was renting) to make the cash to continue living the dream.

My plan was to stay 3 nights to check the area out before taking the train back to central France for some exploring. However, as I woke up with wine-stained lips in the cozy loft room and stared out the window towards the sun sparkling on the glaciers flowing down the side of Aguille d'Midi and took in the life-affirming views of the Mont Blanc Massif I knew 3 days wouldn't suffice. I convinced Cody to rent me his camper van for half the room rate and I booked another 10 days.

It took two days of wandering the valley and sharing meals at the chalet to make friends with some fellow travelers. One in particular seemed interested in my hiking goals. He had just finished the Tour de Mont Blanc and was relaxing in the living room with his disgusting blistered and taped feet perched at odd angles on the table which was covered in maps when I swooped in to gather some info on the area. His name was Alex and he was German and he seemed pretty pre-occupied with Tala, the 6-foot blond Swedish girl that, at that moment, was walking nonchalantly out of Cody's room. After a few glasses of wine and pointing at maps it was decided that I would be borrowing Alex's maps and hiking a combination of trails down the length of the valley the following day. I tried to sleep, oblivious to how long a day it was actually going to be.

You couldn't have asked for better weather as I laced up my stinky boots and headed across the dew-covered grass for the free bus up the valley. The light hadn't made it into the valley yet but you could see the clouds overhead were getting brighter as the bus slowly worked it's way up towards Le Tour, the end of the line. By the time I hopped off the bus the valley was glowing, as was I. In all my travels I try and find time to realize where I am and how lucky and happy I am to be there. This was one of those moments and a couple happy tears snuck out before I could stop them. It's hard to not feel like a total badass with your daypack on, wind in your hair, worn-in boots on your feet and sun on your face as you hike in the French Alps. Hard, but seemingly not impossible.

I had studied the maps and as I walked I recognized features that told me I was on the right track. Waterfall: check. Glacier: check. The sign posts were helpful and after a few hours I had climbed up and arched along the Balcon Sud trail and I was again descending into the valley into the town of Argentiere. I stopped in town and picked up some cheap salami and cheese and continued on my way. There was a trail marker pointing up the north wall of the valley and I took it, piece of cake. 

About 500 vertical steps into this trail I stopped and regrouped. As I had climbed, my unstoppable momentum had faded to a wavering mix of optimism and exhaustion, and I pulled out the map. All on course...ok, let's go. I didn't start cursing in my head for another half mile, and I din't mumble my first audible motherFUCKER for another half mile after that. But once it started, I was a sweaty ball of rage stumbling my way up the mountain. I found a small clearing on the trail and sat down with a little asthmatic sigh to evaluate the situation. The backpack I was carrying weighed about 10 pounds. In this pack was some salami, cheese and bread, a liter of water, an inhaler, iPod and headphones, a map and about 7 pounds of camera gear. I pulled out the map and again convinced myself that I was on the right trail. According to the topo map I should be climbing but this felt a little steeper than I had imagined. I pushed onwards.

 

It was 1pm as I came upon my first sign post. I looked at the map, then back to the sign. Then back and forth a few times until it hit me. I was nowhere near where I thought I was. Goddamnit. I looked around. Suddenly the depth of the valley terrified me and the heat of the sun reminded me of how wrong my current elevation was. How long had I been hiking the wrong way?! Apparently, the entire time. As I had left Argentiere I now noticed with startling clarity that the trail I had taken, the trail that by all means had looked like the exactly right thing to have done, that trail was actually the wrong trail. If you look really closely, partially hidden among the tiny French text of the map there was a second trail, a glorious moderate trail that began about 15 feet further along the road past the trail I had mistakenly taken. A trail where, I imagined, baby squirrels giggled and waved at you as you passed and fellow hikers gifted you with fine chocolates as you high-fived each other on the prettiest trail in France. Had I walked another 15 feet, or taken 15 seconds to compare the sign to my map I would have been on that utopian path, but instead here I stood on a trail more suited for mountain goats, 4 miles away and UP from the road, and there weren't a lot of options.

Option 1: Turn back. Fuck that (for now). As every hiker knows, 4 miles of steep downhill is tougher on the knees than another 7 miles at a moderate gain/loss of elevation, so..

Option 2: Keep going. As I studied the map I saw that if I kept climbing I could make it to the cable cars at La Flegere and ride down into Chamonix. 

I forged ahead. The trail got tougher in terms of requiring more careful navigation and steeper drops. I passed two hikers with full packs, trekking poles, sun hats and concerned faces. I smiled as I passed them, full aware of what they must be thinking of the unprepared girl with the monstrous camera and no safety gear. I passed the tree line and came into fields where the sun beat on my face until I was forced to take my only warm layer off, a flannel shirt, and drape it over my head as a makeshift sun visor. I looked like a castaway and I kind of felt like one too. As the sun began to start toward the horizon I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I looked at the map and then back at my phone. The sun would set in 1.5 hours, the lift closed in 30 minutes and I was still an hours hike away. Again, MOTHER FUCKER. 

I checked my pre-paid phone for signal but of course there was none and I started to think about wether a rescue of an idiot American off the mountain would make the news back in the states. With any luck, a photo of my raccoon-eyed sunburnt sweaty face would accompany the story. I wilted into a pile of defeated anguish and pulled out the maps and nibbled on a block of cheese like a feral child. My only option was to walk down. Night was setting in and the temps were dropping fast. If the light faded I would be in a very bad situation. Looking at the maps I picked a route down that would be brutal on the knees but it looked like my only shot.

With adrenaline and gravity on my side I started off down the mountains. I took a wrong turn, realized it, backtracked and started again on the right path. Switchback after switchback I crept down the mountain, increasing my speed at the rate of the dropping sun. Back in the trees again I quickened my pace as it grew darker in the thick pines. It took an hour and fifteen minutes to descend about 2,000 feet. If I stopped, my legs began to shake. As I neared the end of the steep descent I could see the lights of the town and I knew that everything was going to be fine, despite my best attempts at sabotaging myself. A few more tears of joy slipped out as my feet hit pavement. Then I was almost hit by a bus. But after the bus passed and the noise died down I finally could exhale. 

As I walked into town towards what I hoped would be a bus back to the chalet I heard faint chanting and saw flashing lights. Immediately I thought there must be some sort of emergency and I was relieved it wasn't me causing the scene. Rounding the corner I saw lights flashing and thousands of people filling the streets. Wow, I had forgotten about this. I limped into the crowd and sat on a stone wall and watched as the world rock climbing finalists competed in front of me. I sat for a few hours as the sun set, watching as people made my climbing attempts look wimpy, but it didn't bother me. I was safe and sound.

The next morning I gave Alex his maps back. He noticed my terribly comic sunburnt face but didn't mention it. I told him in my most confident tone that I had decided to hike to La Flegere. He glanced at me knowingly and said with a wry smile, "I decided something similar, the first time I hiked that trail."

. . . . . . . . . . 

As a side note, this is where I was given the trail name 'Mapsy' which was meant as an endearing mix of 'oopsy' and 'maps.' :)