The Tour du Mont Blanc
Or why circuiting Mont Blanc – Western Europe’s highest peak – is better than climbing it.
Why circuiting the highest peak in the Alps is better than climbing it.
IF THE TOUR DU Mont Blanc were a person, it would be Pavarotti. An A-lister. A force of nature. Magnetic, soul-stirring, and, er, rotund. This 170km loop amid the high peaks of France, Italy and Switzerland isn’t just a walk, it’s a mountain megastar. Arguably Europe’s greatest hike. No other has quite the cachet, where you can tick off three countries, on two feet, while circuiting Western Europe’s highest peak.
Certainly, I was star-struck; drawn to the trail like a fangirl. I was seduced by the machismo of Mont Blanc itself, by the promise of taleggio and raclette, of staying in alpine-cute huts and discussing blisters and backpacks with other Blanc-ettes. I set off with high hopes. Could the Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB) possibly live up to them?
First stop, France
The first challenge is planning. How many days to take? Runners in the Ultra-Trail du Mont Blanc race it in as little as 20 hours. Most walkers allow between seven (strenuous) and 14 (relaxed) days. My partner and I had opted for nine, on a selfguided organised trip, with beds pre-booked and luggage transfers arranged to lighten our load.
We started on a damp day, with a short bus ride from Chamonix to the French village of Les Houches, soon joining a line of other waterproofcloaked souls climbing into mist and mizzle. Invisible churches tolled solemnly into a gloom brightened only by Gore-Tex and tiny wild
strawberries. It seemed the sky had fallen down. Our spirits remained high though, buoyed by fresh legs, anticipation and a picnic from the local fromagerie. We saw few mountains but plenty of pine forests, cloud-fondled valleys and an array of trekkers. Yes, the trekkers. During the trip we met Brits, Canadians, Dutch, Australians, an American living in Spain, an Irishman living in Wales, and aid workers from Jerusalem. My throat often ached more than my limbs from the constant bonjours.
We descended the mulchy hairpins from the 2120m Col de Tricot with a group of 23 Koreans. After that, we paused for bilberry tart at a woodsmokey cabin before making a long trudge via Les Contamines to reach remote Chalet la Balme. Our tiny dorm here was matratzenlager (‘mattress room’) style, a tough squeeze for 12 trekkers and their soggy kit. The last guy to bed promptly fell asleep first and snored for all of us, all night long.
So, we slept badly. But we woke to find the fog cleared, the views revealed, the sun hitting the dew-daubed dandelions, the whole valley a-sparkle. Also, we knew tonight was at an auberge with a private room. Today was going to be a Good Day.
And it was. We climbed hillsides squeaking with marmots, past cliffs that looked lifted from Iceland. We topped cols with colossal views, skipped through pastures of cottongrass and took a variant route – the TMB has many – for high, tantalising glimpses of 4810m Mont Blanc itself, being bashful behind the clouds. As we finally eased down to the village of Les Chapieux, I could feel my boots, my legs and my soul easing into the trail.
Into Italy
Next day we bid farewell to France. Under blue skies, we snaked up to the 2516m Col de la Seigne – the historic pass into Italy – and rambled along the Val Veny, dragging our dropped jaws the whole way. This was the Mont Blanc massif at its most in-yourface. The peaks felt so close, it was almost claustrophobic, jagged rock and tumbling ice squeezing us along; mammoth snow-cloaked summits busting towards the heavens. A brief pause at Rifugio Elisabetta, where my poor Italian resulted in an accidental shot of grappa, added pep to my step. The ice-cold beer at Rifugio Monte Bianco – home that night – capped a dazzling day.
More of the Italian Alps unfurled on our walk to Lavachey in the Val Ferret. We picnicked now on focaccia, bought in the bustling ski-town of Courmayeur. From here there are multiple TMB variants, though all involve a steep haul. No matter,
our muscles were toughening. Still, we sweated on the forest-shaded ascent to Rifugio Bertone, where Mont Blanc was looking magnificent. It was busy here: trekkers dunked their heads in a trough and drank on the terrace; chickens pecked about the outhouses; laden donkeys clunked downhill.
Higher up it was wilder and emptier. A barren heath, just us and the choughs, with the shards of the mighty Grand Jorasses poking to our side. It was a relief to drop into a softer, more welcoming valley, dappled with fat daisies and butterflies, then on down through forest to our riverside hotel. Over pork and polenta we chatted to a Dutch lady who was now walking alone; her friend had hurt her knee and returned home. “Last year I was trekking in Nepal,” she said. “But as I looked at the Himalaya, I realised I hadn’t seen Europe’s highest peaks.”
Swiss sojourn
Mont Blanc loomed large the next day, as we made the long hike up to the 2537m Gran Col Ferret and entered Switzerland. The views were TMB bogstandard – i.e. almost indescribably good. From the col itself, Mont Blanc reared behind, and the highest Swiss peaks – Monte Rosa, Cervino – poked ahead.
Soon we were bounding down into the luminousgreen Val Fouly, past bell-clunking cows and a refuge selling the resultant milkshakes. We joined the river and, gradually, neat chalets with cheerful windowboxes appeared. So sweet, so Swiss. As was the large bill for our first drink in La Fouly... but the views remained priceless.
Next, with five-day sore feet we were grateful for a shorter stage, up to the quiet lakeside resort of Champex. A waterfall thundered down the valley as we traced the wide shallows of the Dranse de Ferret river, cut through a forest of Christmas-perfect pines and weaved through villages of geraniumbright balconies and impressive wood piles. This was the TMB doing bucolic rather than wild.
We were in Champex by lunchtime, eating St Bernard cheese and crusty bread by the greenblue lake. We spent a lazy afternoon wandering
the shore, dunking our ankles into frigid streams – nature’s medicinal ice bath – and chatting to some Australian hikers who, we discovered, had also shared a dorm with the infamous snorer. When we spotted the man himself in Champex’s boulangerie, then saw him walk towards our auberge, we thanked the mountain gods for our private room.
I was glad of the good night’s sleep too, as the following day we opted not to take the standard TMB over the pastoral Alp Bovine, but the tougher, more dramatic variant over Fenêtre de l’Arpette. It started simply, winding by a forest stream, but soon we were climbing a rocky gully into a big mixing bowl of geology, marmot shrieks resounding off the sides. It was a hands-on haul up uneven boulders, but finally we reached the ‘window’, a nick in the mountains offering views down the Trient Valley, with its namesake glacier spilling to our left. The descent was hairier than the climb, but we made it to the forest-filled gullies of the lateral moraine ridge, before hiking an old 19th-century tramway that once carried ice blocks from the glacier’s snout to the Col de Forclaz, and onwards to Paris. Full circle We too were venturing into France again. After a night in Trient, we spent our penultimate day crossing the Col de la Balme, leaving Switzerland to head back into the Chamonix Valley. It was a gloomy start, drizzly and grey. The first miles were a stop-start of wardrobe changes as we tried to match outfits to weather and exertion. At the top of the col, a lonely refuge guarded the border, and we huddled inside, hoping the rain would stop. Eventually we wound down to our hotel in Le Tour, where our balcony gazed straight along the valley. Sadly it was clogged with cloud. That night, we lay in bed praying for sunshine while terrifying thunder pinballed off every mountain.
And so it was, our final day was overcast. We’d used up all our luck. Or had we? Ascending into the Aiguilles Rouges Nature Reserve, we were sunk in fog. But suddenly it lifted, golden rays shot through; an ibex strolled right across our path. Then the fog descended once more. Not ideal. But it offered hope.
We held onto this hope through the downpour en route to La Flégère, and through the thick murk shrouding the path up to Le Brévant, the 2525m peak that gives some of the best views of Mont Blanc. As we scrambled up, it wasn’t looking promising. But as we neared the summit, I noticed snatches of green. The cloud was thinning! Not lifting, but diminishing. We reached the top and waited. Gaps opened. Chunks were revealed, then hidden, then revealed again. Mont Blanc was flirting with us. Just as we’d spent nine days flirting with the mountain. And yes, I was still a super-fan.