Get Outdoors - Destinations: McDonalds and Mont Blanc

Looking back on our climb up the tallest mountain in Europe, it all started out so innocently. As climbs usually do...Ouch, That Smarts
Sitting in the parking lot of McDonalds on a beautiful, sunny afternoon in the equally beautiful Chamonix valley, barely able to walk because every muscle in my body ached and wondering how I was going to open my mouth wide enough to eat my cheeseburger since my lips were swollen and bleeding from three days of intense sun and wind on the tallest mountain in Europe, a thought occurred to me. How can I write such long, run-on sentences?

Actually, what really occurred to me was why do I pursue a passion that entails days of intense (sometimes painful) physical exertion, brings me close to death countless times, and costs lots of money, only to spend a total of ten minutes on the top of any given mountain. That and why do the French not put ice in their coke? It's ridiculous. Ninety degrees out and I'm drinking warm coke. Because, really, if you sit down and think about it, mountain climbing (not coke) seems a little crazy even to me. Outright insane, in fact. But thanks to selective memory, all I ever remember is the beauty of the mountains. So I keep going back.

Looking back on our climb it all started out so innocently. As climbs usually do. The train that was delivering us (myself and my good friend and climbing partner, Joel) to the trailhead was slowly creeping up the valley, giving us a breathtaking view of our impending climb. Actually, I think we both had lumps in our throats, because our chosen route looked very scary. Our route, rated AD/AD+ (advanced difficult), was supposed to be "one of the classic routes of its kind in the Alps. A beautiful ice climb up the glacier and an airy traverse to the base of the mountain." Airy was right.

The Little Black Backpack and Margaritas
As we continued our train ride, Joel and I noticed that the other climbers were staring at our backpacks and pointing. Almost laughing. In fact, one gentleman came over and actually picked up Joel's pack to see how heavy it was. Looking at their backpacks we immediately saw the source of their amusement. Joel and I had our normal backpacks. And they're quite big. Joel's especially. His pack has 8000 cu. in. of volume. That's big. You can fit a small horse in it. In the U.S. we use large backpacks because you have to schlep everything with you since U.S. mountains don't have an extensive system of climbing huts. Not in the Alps. They have lots of huts so you don't have to bring much. So, consequently, all the European climbers had backpacks 1/10 the size of ours. They looked like those fashion backpacks women wear. You know the really small ones. Imagine men wearing Prada backpacks with ice axes attached to them. That's what it looked like and that's why we stood out like sore thumbs.

The first real leg of our climb involved climbing up a 1,000 meter ice/snow flow. Climbing an ice/snow flow is kind of like climbing up an ice cube. Using crampons and ice axes, we basically chopped our way to the top of the flow. Imagine chopping ice for Margaritas for 4-5 hours. That's kind of what it was like. Now, of course, it's a little scarier than the threat of a Tequila headache because you're climbing at angles of 45-55 degrees and if you fall, you fall very far. Another interesting challenge when climbing an ice cube is where do you sleep? It's kind of difficult to sleep suspended from a rope at 45 degrees. Lucky for us we found a crevasse ("Adam, why don't you go check out that crevasse. I'm not checking it, you check it. I'm not checking it, you check it. Ask Adam, he'll check anything. Alright, but don't let go of that rope") that barely fit our tent, and spent the night listening to rescue helicopters looking for lost climbers.

My Kingdom For A Cheeseburger
The next morning, as we were preparing to finish the ice climb, we ran into some climbers who told us the helicopters were rescuing some climbers who had been injured right above us. Not the kind of news you enjoy over a croissant and espresso. Other words you don't like to hear on top of the mountain? How about "Adam, I would have placed some ice screws (to stop a fall) into the ice on that pitch."

After the ice climb came perhaps the scariest part of our ascent. Well, second scariest. No, third scariest. I don't know, it was just scary. Remember the "airy" traverse? "Airy" was right. There wasn't much besides air to walk on. Basically, the traverse consisted of walking along the top of a ridge for a few thousand feet. Thank god it was a wide ridge...if you're a gymnast and your specialty is the balance beam. We could fit our feet side by side and not much room for anything else. The drop on either side was well, we won't go into it since my mom might read this. Needless to say, the soft, warm snow conditions didn't help us as our crampons (good for ice bad for soft snow) became clogged with snow and the soft edges of the ridge gave way under our feet.But we finished the traverse, and thinking the worst was over moved on to our next heart stopper - a traverse across an avalanche ridden slope. At this point of our journey, several things were going through my head. Wow, is this beautiful. Like nothing I'd ever seen. Wow, I'm hungry. Wow, I'm tired. Wow, I'd love a cheeseburger. Simple things really. Not much room to think about much else since you're concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other without causing an avalanche.

As we progressed across the slope, we began causing mini-avalanches down the slope so that by the time we reached the other side, the whole side of the mountain was littered with little avalanches. Luckily, these little avalanches were soon nicely cleaned by a rather large avalanche that flowed over the path we had been treading ten minutes before. Excellent because our hearts were not beating enough and we needed some more close calls.

We spent the night on the edge of another ridge, with our tent roped into the rocks and 1/2 of the whole tent hanging down over the slope. Despite our precarious position, the adrenaline rush of the day sent us both into a deep sleep.

The next day was summit day. But as we moved up the mountain, a thick fog rolled in obscuring the path and reducing our visibility to about 20 feet. As we crested The Gouter and began trying to figure out which way Mont Blanc was, the fog slowly and graciously cleared, the sun shone brightly, and Mont Blanc loomed majestically in the distance. Climbing slowly because of the altitude, we summitted four hours later and as I mentioned before, spent our ten minutes on the top contemplating life, being introspective and engaging in all manner of mountain climbing cliche you've ever read about, before beginning our descent.

Descents are always the worst part of the climb. It's torture on the legs and back and all you can think about is that cheeseburger and coke. Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger.

If You're Stupid Enough To Climb.
Our descent was slowed by a rather challenging trail down. Unlike the U.S., where the main trail is well maintained because the government owns the National Parks and doesn't want to be sued, in France the attitude is more like, "if you're stupid enough to climb you're stupid enough to pay the consequences." So instead of a nice trail down you get some cables to hold on to, a good luck wish, a kiss on both cheeks Parisian style, a pat on the butt, a baguette, some wine, and a down climb that has to rate as one of the worst I've experienced.

The creme de la creme is a scramble across a slope where rocks are continuously careening down the mountain at speeds that could easily put some extra ventilation holes into your helmet. You literally have to run across snow, ice, and scree to get to the other sides. It's like real-life Frogger. Evidently, this is the part of the climb where most of the people climbing Mont Blanc have died. But I had a cheeseburger spurring me on and Joel had some avocado and smelly cheese in the car, so nothing was going to stop us.You Mean He's Not Dead?
We arrived at the train station in one piece, but an hour after the last train. So we spent one last night on the mountain, and just for good measure had one more adventure. As it happened, there was a group of Polish climbers stranded with us. One of them was a little sick. Seems he was coughing up blood up at 4,000 meters and was now having trouble breathing at 2,000 meters. Luckily Joel, the soon-to-be med student, was there do diagnose a mild case of pulmonary edema. The rescue helicopter was called in to lift the sick climber off. We all stood by as the search and rescue team jumped off the helicopter in full battle gear, respirators in one hand and life-support machines in the other. They were expecting to find a half-dead climber and upon finding a mostly alive climber, they proceeded to mock the poor man for being 1/2 alive and able to walk under his own steam. They thought it was a joke and were terribly disappointed to not find any blood or bones sticking out at precarious positions. Needless to say, they were nice enough to lift him off and take him down to the hospital. Despite the potential that he might actually live.

With our latest adventure behind us, we once again fell asleep to the sounds of rescue helicopters in the distance, dreaming not of avalanches, but of cheeseburgers and avocados. Thus ends our tale. The sun sets and we drive off in the distance...only to be hit by a moped in traffic clogged Paris.