Crunch. A football sized patch of compacted snow slid away beneath my crampon. It cartwheeled with comic slowness to the edge of the arête and then tumbled into oblivion. My skis shifted unsteadily where they were strapped upright to my pack and threatened to pitch me sideways. I gripped the rope through thick gloves and settled back into equilibrium. Had my knuckles been visible, they would have shown white and bloodless. 9,000 feet below, the houses of Chamonix were little more than pellets. Falling wasn’t an option.
Earlier that morning, we had shuffled onto the first of two cable cars that would take us to the needlepoint summit of l’Aiguille du Midi. This wasn’t the first time I’d ridden it. On a bright summer’s day four years before, I had squeezed on with a dozen, camera-toting Japanese tourists to gaze down the dizzying mountain from the safety of the observation deck. This time, I was going to ski off it.
We were heavy laden with the paraphernalia of the off-piste skier. Rigid, stomping boots, orange-tinted snow goggles, fold-up shovels, avalanche transceivers and hard hats. Not to mention our skis. They were somewhat wider than ordinary piste skis, to tackle the untamed, powder snow that lies away from the carefully groomed slopes of the resorts. Mine were a lurid shade of green. James, a New Yorker in our party of five, remarked that the colour had probably been selected for its visibility to rescue helicopters. Not the most comforting reflection, as we rattled ever higher.
The edge of reason
The top of the route is reached via an ice tunnel, bored into the permafrost that holds the jagged summit together. Julien, our French guide, showed us how to tie skis to either side of a rucksack and fit crampons over our ski boots. We emerged blinking into the dazzling sunshine at 12,000 ft and surveyed the delirious panorama of rugged peaks, bursting like the vertebrae of some leviathan from the surrounding sea of ice. A narrow arête leads down to the start of the skiing. It must be negotiated on foot and is considered the most dangerous part of the entire route. Slip to either side of the knife-edge ridge and you’ll finish down on the glacier in more pieces than Humpty Dumpty.
There’s nothing like walking a tightrope above a lethal drop to set the adrenaline pumping and you should be wide awake by the time you reach the flat(ish) landing stage at the end of the arête. Crampons off, skis on. A treacherous band of ice had formed on the first slope and I traversed gingerly above it, reluctant to make the turn. In the end, the prospect of a sheer cliff looming ahead of me forced the matter. My skis grated on the ice, sending jarring shudders up through my legs, but I managed to remain upright. From there, it was plain sailing through blissful powder lines, to where Julien stood whistling the easy tune of a man in his element.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the panorama of the Mont Blanc massif receded behind Olympian walls of rock and ice. A glacier reared up to our right, glittering blue in the intense, unadulterated sunshine of high attitude. “You must follow my skis tracks exactly on this section,” called Julien and set off in a string of tight, precise turns. I followed obediently for a few hundred feet, then spied an intriguing crest of compacted snow up ahead. I left the groove of the tracks, then frantically ground my knees into a savage, emergency stop. Beyond the crest, the ground fell away into the engulfing shadow of a deep crevasse. Luckily, I crunched to a halt an arm’s length from the lip and avoided becoming the next Ötzi the Iceman. So, that’s why they say listen to your guide.
Among the glaciers
We crossed a snow bridge and drifted into the wide, meandering valley carved out by the Mer de Glace. Here we paused to eat some rather squashed paninis purchased in Chamonix that morning. The biting summit winds were cut off by the vast enclosure of the valley, lending the air a cathedral stillness. It felt as though we had been granted access to some sacred atrium where mortals are forbidden to tread. I imagine it a small dose of what Neil Armstrong experienced when his foot first brushed the lunar surface. After all, astronauts and skiers have very similar footwear.
As you snake along the grooved tongue of the Mer de Glace, the route becomes wide, flat and even a little slushy in the glaring afternoon sun. It’s a nightmare for boarders, who are encouraged to pack a pole in case they need to punt along this ignominious stretch. There’s also an uphill section, which leaves no alternative but to snap off your skis and porter them to the neighbouring ridge line. A refuge nestled at the top offers welcome refreshment and a jubilant air of triumph. As it turns out though, I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Don’t look down
The final descent to Chamonix sees you drop below the tree line into a succession of half pipes framed by pine groves. On the hairpins, the snow is scraped away by dozens of ski tracks to leave wicked patches of black ice. We came to a narrow traverse across a snow-choked gully. To the right, the ground fell away precipitously. My turn came and I started along the groove, expecting to sail smoothly across to the safety of the bowl on the other side.
A lump of compacted snow snagged my right ski. I was jerked to one side and my leg pivoted around the ankle, tendons screaming in protest. My other leg whistled over the edge and into the void beyond. The right binding came lose with a thunk and the burning sensation in my knee mercifully subsided. There was no time to celebrate, however, as I began to fall into space. On instinct, I flung out a hand and caught hold of the troublesome lump of snow that had started the whole debacle. I came to a precarious halt, one gloved grip separating me from the drop, one ski still attached to my boot.
Thus far, the scene had possessed a faintly cinematic quality, somewhere in the middle ground between James Bond and Johnny English. Alas, it was definitely Johnny who now faced the unenviable task of climbing a near vertical snowbank, with one foot rendered useless by a lurid green appendage. Displaying all the suavity of a beached whale, I flopped over the lip in a final, groaning effort. I patted my limbs to make sure everything was intact and rose to my feet. Just up ahead, the route merged with a pisted run into town. I had survived La Vallée Blanche.
All talk of crevasses and crampons aside, the route is an eminently achievable day out for even those fairly new to the world beyond the piste. Maybe don’t make it the first time you’ve ever ventured off the resort runs, but I trundled along ok after only two mornings of off-piste instruction. Definitely hire a guide, as you can go fatally wrong without one. Avalanches do happen, but there’s a pretty effective risk warning system in place. And, really, this is winter in Chamonix. You didn’t come here for a babysitter. You came to feel alive.
Want to read more about my adventures in Chamonix? Check out this post about the time I climbed Mont Blanc.