It was late August when my wife Diane and I followed the fast moving traffic from Germany through Switzerland in our silver rental car as the alpine scenery unrolled like three-dimensional artwork. Once across the French border, the landscape squeezed into a tight valley flanked by dramatic mountains and glaciers. A steady stream of cars flowed into Chamonix, a sleepy tourist trap jammed tightly into the River Arve valley between the Aiguilles de la Gliere to the north, and the Mont Blanc massif to the south.

We immediately ditched the car and wandered aimlessly down the twisted cobblestone streets of Chamonix. The narrow downtown streets are dense with restaurants and shops selling everything from exquisite French wines to tacky imitations of cuckoo clocks. The quaint architecture and the occasional nineteenth-century chalet provide enough old-world ambiance to enhance the simple pleasure of window shopping.

That evening we met our guide at the Association Internationale Des Guides on the rue des Moulins about a block from our hotel. His name was Pierre Schmidt, an obvious indication that he was from Alsace, the region between France and Germany with strong historical ties to both cultures. He was thirty-two, with a contagious smile, and spoke English, French, German, and Italian.

He was a graduate of the very difficult French Mountaineering School. Just to be considered for the school he had to provide a resume of his fifty "best" climbs. These included the Eiger Nordwand, North Face of the Matterhorn, Les Grandes Jorasses, first ascents, and frozen waterfalls. After a five-year course of study he could call himself a registered guide. We instantly felt comfortable with his mountaineering skills.

The next morning, clad in light-mountain gear, we boarded a téléphérique to the 2500-meter level where we started our climb along the Gouter route. We were already above timberline, which is low in the Alps compared to other parts of the world. The trail winds through a rocky valley where we encountered a herd of wild mountain goats grazing on the sparse vegetation.

We passed the abandoned Forresters hut and traipsed onto a glacier. It seemed like a rather benign glacier, until an avalanche of boulders whizzed by us. One the size and shape of a Volkswagen Beetle. Moments later we witnessed our first helicopter rescue. A woman had slipped into a small crevasse, injured her leg, and had to be airlifted off the mountain.

After traversing the glacier and ascending a rocky ridge a trio of desperate climbers clamored for attention. Pierre rushed ahead like a gazelle being chased by a hungry cheetah. He stopped on an elevated plateau and held out two trekking poles forming a large Y. A THOCK, THOCK, THOCK pierced the still air, heading straight toward the signaling Pierre. The rotors kicked up dense clouds of sand and debris in our faces as a drab blue chopper hovered motionlessly above like a giant hummingbird. A rescue gendarme was already suspended from a stainless steel winch cable and seconds later planted himself next to Pierre and an unconscious climber.

The injured Frenchman had been hit by falling rocks. A lock of hair peaking out from under his climbing helmet was matted with blood. They clipped the traumatized climber to stainless steel cable and yanked him up into the waiting chopper. Moments later the empty cable swung toward the ground, picked up the gendarme and off they went. The whole affair took about three minutes.

Then it was our turn to cross the same treacherous gully that took out that poor guy. Starting high on the mountain at a receding glacier, it was a deep cleft about twenty-five meters wide, called the "Grand Couloir". I think a loose translation would be the "bowling alley"-where the climbers represent the pins and the mountain rolls the bowling balls.

A stream of rocks was shooting down the steep gully. At the first break we dashed across the loose ground before the falling rocks could take aim at us. Only then did we become aware of the real obstacle. We were face to face with a rock wall about five hundred meters high. That's taller than the Empire State building! Imagine standing on Fifth Avenue between 33rd and 34th streets in New York City and craning your neck to look up at the steel and concrete tower. Next you start considering scaling it-on the outside.

After taking a deep breath we started up one step at a time. Several sections were particularly loose and the rock just crumbled under our weight. With each uncertain step up this stone megalith, we felt that the granite was less like granite than like a loose pile of gravel, waiting to collapse at any time. The need for helmets and the instability of the rock were reinforced when the teams above started sending down chunks of granite. Most of the projectiles rocketing down missed us, or bounced harmlessly off our helmets. Pierre wasn't too concerned and just hummed or whistled a soothing tune as if to tell us not to worry.

After a grueling hour and a half, we were within spitting distance of the Refuge du Gouter, sitting precariously on the edge of the cliff. We fought the last few meters up the cliff and were relieved to stumble inside and plop down comfortably. A small room held the gear, including our boots, because soft slippers were provided for inside the hut-only in France.

Tired from the day's climb, we crawled into our bunks early. The night was over for us at 2:00 A.M. and by 3:00 we rushed into the brutally cold night. As we ascended the snow and ice in full mountain gear and complete darkness, bright flashes of lightning that connected the heavens to the mountain greeted us. The subsequent crash of thunder rattled the frozen air and reverberated like the sonic boom of an F-14 fighter aircraft.

Roped together as a three-person team, we continued at a steady pace hoping to reach the summit before the entire mountain was engulfed in the gathering storm. Our headlamp beams carved at the white ground, stuttered across the trenches worn into the ice, and reflected brightly off the crystalline chunks of ice below our cramponed boots.

It was pitch black as we climbed up several steep ridges and meandered up the Boss's ridge. The trail was no wider than the seat of a chair and the ice fell away abruptly on both sides. The dim glow of our headlamps illuminated a small patch of snow and ice; a plateau that seemed to float in midair and move just one step ahead of our severely restricted view. Tunnel vision. It was probably good not to know exactly what lay beside us.

A blazing charge of lightning pulsed in the night sky illuminating the thunderclouds. Just as the batteries in our headlamps gave up, daylight flickered. We fought up several more crests hoping each time that was it. Finally, we were on the last crest leading to the summit as our strength was ebbing. Diane and I mustered enough energy to push to the top only to discover another peak ahead of us before the real summit. This false summit was almost too much, but we dug down deep into our reserves one more time and battled our way to the true summit at 4807 meters. It was brutally cold, but we felt a great thrill and a surge of warmth to be standing on the highest peak in Western Europe.

"We've been higher, but this one was tough," I stammered.

"Yeah, but I feel great, maybe because it was so challenging," Diane said.

"You two aren't too bad for amateurs. Most of my clients take three or four tries to reach the summit," Pierre complimented us.

The weather was horribly unstable with thick clouds to the south and east. We caught a brief glimpse of the Matterhorn before the storm buried Switzerland. Pierre yelled over the ice-cold wind, "Let's head back before the weather deteriorates further." He got no argument from us. We raced down the mountain, trying to stay ahead of the storm. The nerve-wracking descent was challenging, but uneventful and by evening, we were sitting in a nice restaurant in Chamonix reflecting on the mountain.

The peak was visible now, over three thousand vertical meters above our outdoor table, a distance greater than from base camp to the summit of Everest. It was gleaming like a surreal painting in the evening sun. Diane and I marveled at the sight, because in our minds the image of the mountain had changed dramatically.

Our waitress, Sandrine, noticing our interest, proudly said, "That's the top of Mont Blanc. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes it is. We climbed it this morning," Diane told her.

Apparently few climbers frequented our chic café, because Sandrine acted as if she had met precious few people who admitted to having scaled the White Mountain. The astonished Sandrine sauntered back into the restaurant, speaking with her colleagues. We noticed them straining their necks to catch a glimpse of us. And then we returned to enjoying our meal and glass of wine.

© 2002 Hal Streckert

Hal Streckert lives in San Diego with his wife Diane. When they're not stuck in the office they enjoy traveling all over the world. They don't consider themselves adrenaline junkies, but
some of their friends might disagree.

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