The Warmth of Winter

Les Drus at sunset

The wood burning stove in the kitchen roared comfortingly, the greedy thing stacked full of logs and giving off a grubby orange glow. I had left the door to the bunk room open, hoping some of the warmth from the burner would reach us in the Argentiere winter refuge. Christelle and I were cocooned beneath three blankets each, but our noses were still cold to the touch. In the darkness I imagined watching my breath curling and smoking upwards. The fire gave an illusion of shelter from the storm - but perhaps the sound we heard was just the wind whipping round the wooden walls.

When we'd skied up the Argentiere glacier at dusk, the mountains surrounded us like echoes. We could see 'something' out there in the fading light, could sense looming peaks and glimpse occasional summits silhouetted above the clouds. I tried to record everything in my mind’s eye, both for the beauty of being with Christelle amongst such impressive scenery... and for the climbing conditions. The lower faces looked plastered with snow from the recent winter storm, covered in a foot of papier-mâché, but the upper faces looked darker and in better shape.

'This is fun,' I said cheerily to Christelle as our skins glided along the snow towards the refuge, hiding my doubts at the late hour as the sun set and I pulled up my hood. Spindrift blasted across the icy surface of the glacier. I suddenly felt we were exposed and a long way from the safety of the winter room. I felt responsible for finding the hut, but my glance at Christelle reassured me of her strength and calmness.

Once the the wind had dropped and night swallowed us, Christelle didn't seem phased, chatting about month-long walks she'd like to do. 'The GR5 goes from Thonon to Nice; there's also one in the Pyrenees.'

Some time later, the hut’s faint night light still not visible and our ski-tips starting to drag, I thought about my first trip in the Argentiere basin. I’d stepped into this long, deep-cut valley, with mountains carved into the shape of an arena, over a decade ago. L’Aiguille Verte, Les Droites and Les Courtes stood like a 4000-metre high fortress wall. Ice painted itself into faint lines from bottom to top, and I felt intimidated.

***

I was 19 years old. I’d spent the winter season dossing in one of Chamonix’s cheapest hostels: The Ski Station. I tried sleeping in the woods but quickly shivered to my senses. A wonderful mix of passionate mountain people rubbed shoulders and bunks in ‘the station.’ The Scandinavians skied all day and partied all night; I learnt French grammar from an airline pilot who visited every other week; and a Polish chef helped me to expand my culinary skills beyond ‘pasta and pesto.’ Soon, my fellow ‘seasonaires’ became friends and climbing partners.

One March morning, a quiet but solid-looking man poked his head into my dorm of the Ski Station. 'Do you want to go climbing?' he asked. His smile and worn-looking ice axes reassured me. ‘I was thinking of The Ginat on Les Droites,’ he soon revealed. Although I’d climbed many alpine classics that season, and felt reasonably happy with what I’d achieved, I still wanted more. I agreed to Simon’s idea shortly.

A few days later, looking down to the Argentiere glacier from three-quarters of the way up the Droites, I thought we might as well be on the moon. The scale of the route was incomprehensible - a kilometre of climbing might as well put us in space. From the middle of the wall, sheets of ice stretched in all directions. We’d come so far since our pre-dawn start… but we still had so far to go. How many skyscrapers could you stack on top of each other to reach the summit? 

Simon and I were slower than anticipated, some of the cruxes taking a while, and I didn't know how to be cool. 'Should we call for a helicopter?' I asked, as the light began to fade and a north wind cut us from just below the brèche. 'We’re alright,' he replied - not harshly, not confidently, just knowingly. 

At sunset, we reached the brèche at the top of The Ginat. I glanced down, down, all the way to the Argentiere glacier beneath us. It was a dark blue, already in shadow, the refuge merely a speck amongst the vast mountain landscape.

Then I looked towards the bulk of Mont Blanc for the first time that day. It was a volcano of fire, washed with orange and pink light, clouds burning and bubbling around it. The wind picked up snow crystals and they glittered and burst into colour all around me. It was one of the most vivid and ethereal sensory overloads I’d ever had, a youngster atop his first ‘Grand Course’ route. I was too amazed and tired to take out my camera. ‘We’ll be at the Couvercle winter room in a few hours,’ Simon said. We swung our legs over the other side of the brèche and dropped into the shadow.

***

Christelle and I can see the safety of the Argentiere refuge now, the flash of our head torches beating us to the door. I relax, thinking of hot soup and a warm fire. All I want is comfort and warmth. A hot shower would be nice too! But I know, soon enough, I’ll be looking towards the mountains again.

My motivations haven’t changed much since I was 19: I want to climb; to quickly flow up rocky cliffs and a giant alpine face as easily as the choughs soar between the granite towers. But I’m also drawn by the simple act of the challenge, to scratch and scrape and suffer for days, raging metre by metre towards a distant summit.

***

A few weeks after skiing in the Argentiere with Christelle, I cycle down the main street of Les Praz and glance up at Les Drus. I swerve and nearly drop my baguette again: Les Drus shoots like a rocket up from the tarmac and chalet roofs, captivating my gaze. This mountain always hits me and makes me stare: it’s such a perfect arrowhead piercing into the sky. In the same way as Patagonia’s Cerro Torre, the mountain is almost too perfect - it calls out to be climbed. I continue to cycle home in a drunken zig-zag, my eyes fixed on Les Drus. 

Later that evening, from the luxury of our five-star apartment balcony, John McCune and I drink beer and snap photos of the Dru. Dusk puts on a light show for us, first soaking the peak yellow, then gold, orange and finally pink. I've climbed that mountain three times, tapping the summit Madonna once in summer, twice in winter. This winter, I consciously looked elsewhere for challenges, other adventures. I wanted to explore other parts of the Mont Blanc massif and the Alps.

'Have you looked at the wall above the niche?' John says from behind the camera. He’s got into a habit of putting food in the oven and then taking photos on the balcony until he smells dinner’s ready.

‘What about the Guides route?’ I reply. ‘I don’t know if it’s been freed to the summit...?' We both smile knowingly, our interest kindled. In the future, perhaps next winter, I’ll look up at the Dru and want to climb those walls again. I’ll be psyched for crisp granite against deep blue skies.

The first crackle and spark of the stove has already been lit. I know I'm playing an intense game, dancing in the flames, and I smell fire.

‘Dinner!’ shouts John.