Tour du Mont Blanc: How I Needed to End a Year Adventuring

Life is constantly now…most of the time. I found myself on a train heading towards Chamonix. I adjusted my time left in Europe for a celebration of life of a dear friend who had suddenly passed in June. With the timeframe I had before I flew back home to Colorado, I thought I could snag the short and scenic and hikes of Tour du Mont Blanc, the Walkers Haute Route, and the Tour de Monte Rosa. I knew I would not be able to follow through with my original intention of hiking the rugged and challenging Grande Traversatta di Alpi (GTA). All things considered, I settled in with this plan with delight as I now had an ending point. I could then gauge the gas left in my tank with the miles and number of days left. Despite the tragic reason of leaving earlier than I had wanted to, I really was looking forward to something straightforward and excitingly unforeseen and unplanned. The French countryside and occasional urban sprawl slid on by. I hadn't really any nerves. I hadn't any expectations. I was filled with an eagerness of newness, of changing plans teeming with the anticipation of seeing some really big mountains. I hadn't quite begun the journey of reflection on the past year either. So much has been go-go-go, and right around the corner seemed some time of stillness. I drifted in minor contemplation, nothing too deep, nothing too shallow. The quite obvious notion of life propelling through space within a journey, something filled with meaning--is it all worth it?-- flittered about in my head. Obvious only because I seemed to be living in the moment where an adventure felt to be nearing an end. I looked back thinking of the need to look forward towards the bigger picture within a narrow-minded and goal-oriented vision. Adventure at times is simply life management. How far? Can I keep going? Is it safe? Wise? Fun? A slog? How am I? Do I need a tradition? Where is my mental occupation? Am I tired? Am I ok? How much more do I have left in the tank. This notion felt whimsical, serious but not, and trotted over to what really I had concerns about. I wondered how my body would fare in the time I had left. Was the HRP incident a fluke or a repercussion of a hard year on the body, from a couple heat illnesses I had had earlier in the journey in the Grand Canyon?

Let's focus on something for a moment before proceeding. How am I? The physical, how am I? Bah…whatever…I can say that I’m getting older. Friends around me are passing away. Friends are succumbing to illness, ill health or just the nature of getting old. And, I find myself still trucking, still pushing. Like a young man, I still test my limits although a young man I am not. I mean, why the fuck not go as hard and fast as you can before you putter out? I get one shot at this whole thing and I ain’t wasting none of it. Life is constantly now. Goddam, I must sound like a drug addict. I process the moment of the process, the reality of what is in front of me. The dashboard lights up. The other side of the brain evokes the emotions for the people I care about. I know this year long adventure is nearing its end now. I’m not sure where but I know it’s near or soon, or near and soon. Clear the mind and go…until the dashboard lights come on. That’s the point I’m at, at least physically. Although I do understand I need to drive this sucker, I wonder how much gas is in the tank. And not of the verve kind, the 'up and at 'em' approach, full steam ahead, rally the troops. But, it's the the body kind, the actual gas in the actual gas tank. Can I keep it up? What’s the destination if the engine can’t get there? Just a hope, a dream. I am feeling the need to re-fuel, methinks my frazzled and exhausted mind. Nonetheless, something is whispering to me in the other ear, deeper in the brain to keep the fuck at it. I am still out here. I always will be. So, after a day of rest in Chamonix, I got ready and ventured off into the sweltering day, awed by the precipitously giant peaks surrounding the valley. I decided to be present, simply just living in the moment, on a thread and on a vein like a sprig reaching out from the soil as the sun shines and the rays radiate onto the soil. The heat pressed into my skin and wrung out beads and ribbons of sweat. I decided to be present and kept pushing on.

The incredible views of Mont Blanc looming over the Chamonix valley kept the muggy heat at bay. I was stunned by the views and I stopped frequently to snap a couple pics or gaze at the majesty of a massive glacier-capped mountain. To be honest, I was surprised at how steeply the mountains sprang up out of the valley. Oh, how mightily the mountain peaks loomed over the valley. Simply impressive. I kept a brisk pace throughout the day despite the heat and the frequent picture breaks. I climbed up Fenetre d’Arpette in the early evening grabbing a sunset at the col. I descended the steep hardscrabble path and picked my way over boulders under the light of my headlamp. After an hour or so seemingly wandering about in the darkness, I found a questionable camp tucked in between some boulders. Many moths surrounded me as I pitched my tarp, the moths flinging into my headlamp blurring my already compromised vision under darkness. All the night the moths hung under the eaves of my tarp waiting for just a pinch of light. I rose early, pre-sunrise, to get my camp broken down as it was in sight of the trail, ‘the no choice’ type of camp.

At Grand Col Ferret the views opened up after a long valley walk leading up to the ascent. The route had passed through villages leading up to the high country along a wide path. Hordes of hikers bobbing along in both directions filled my morning with constant head nods and greetings. I can say it wasn't my favorite part, such a different experience than I had had on the HRP. However, I was beginning to understand the ways of touristy European trekking. The climb up past a few crowded huts filled with lunchtime eaters and drinkers, wayfarers on a break. A long queue led down from the col. Certainly, I chose the opposite direction in my route choice. I found it easier and quicker to stop and let people pass than to slowly walk behind slower hikers waiting for my time to pass. Atop the col I found a quiet spot to soak up the spectacular views of Mont Blanc and adjacent massive peaks. Huge glaciers nestled up into deeply gouged basins, the hanging valleys steeply falling off into the verdant valley below. A breeze blew in a colder air sweeping in from the icy glaciers, the gusts muffling the chatter of trekkers. For a moment, I felt alone. Gazing out over everything, the sweeping gorgeous views blowing my mind.

The trail became quiet with most of the hikers settled in for the night at huts. I strolled along swiftly under the softly glowing dusk. The high peaks dimly shined an alpenglow basking the glaciers in a blanket of light purple. The glaciers now looked like soft pillows tucked into the creases of a craggy bed. I set up camp an hour earlier than I wanted, a couple miles from a bustling hut. I still hit 25 miles. I felt really tired, however. My feet have been burning and my lower back has been sore. After the episode on the HRP, I just hoped the pain was not the kidney. I figured with the suppressing heat I was experiencing general tiredness. Most likely I also was not fully recovered from the totality of the HRP. At camp, I soaked my feet in a cold small stream. As my toes tingled I marveled at the spectacular views of Grande Jorasses and Mont Blanc. Above a row of larch I could gauge the wind whipping the clouds near the summits. Continuously slamming into the spires, pinnacles, and summits the clouds built into thunderheads. The alpenglow fused from the lilac glaciers and into the underbelly of the towering clouds. Claps of lightning sparkled the sky and flashed a magnificent purple and orange within the tendrils of rain, a streaming prism. The thunderstorm spiraled above the peaks and thunder clamored. Lightning flashed, the storm moving swiftly through the silvery alpine craggy crest. I cooked my dinner and watched the show framed above the larch. My tired body soaked up the early evening and cold feet soak. I was feeling so good being so tired. I retired to my tarp as the edge of the storm dropped some fat raindrops on me. I laid in my tarp as the storm dropped the big drops that slapped my shelter. I laid on my back and listened to the roar of water from the surrounding valley below and cirques above me and across from me. The sky cleared and the hues of sunset filled the valley and the alpine country with a tinge of rosy light, the clouds a soft orange, the ambiance like a big scoop of rainbow sherbert.

I endeavored on another huge day. I slurped my early morning coffee as Mont Blanc, under the morning light, held a refulgent rosy and purply shine. I stood in awe so much so I had a second cup of coffee. I encountered the crowds on my descent to Courmayeur. Switchback after switchback I usually stood astride the banked curve to let pulsing and sweating climbers pass on by. I felt a bit jovial from the atmospheric spectacles of the morning and the previous night, so I felt unphased by the countless trekkers. In and out of Courmayeur after an espresso and a pastry, I began a quick and steep ascent that accessed a ridge that conjoined the glacial valleys into one massive river drainage. I lost my joviality and popped in my headphones. Shortly after though I ran into a helicopter exercise removing log pylons. About 20 minutes went by as I stood watching the whirling rotors chop the tops of trees like spindrift from waves. As soon as the hovering ceased, I scooted out of sight of the crowd.

I went over four passes that day, the last one under grinding legs. I grueled out the last steep pitch as chamois bounded about the limestone bleakness. Around a bend, soon enough, I also found steinbock grazing on stunted apline grass, the long coiled horns curved and aligned with backdrop of mountains. I found a flat spot in a meadow on the other side of the last pass, a rounded and level traverse. I pitched my tarp as the wind rattled in. I slurped my ramen as darkness encompassed the basin from an ominous sky. My tarp wickedly flapped and I tightened my guylines as hatches on a seafaring ship. Within seconds after climbing into my tarp the sky opened up. Lightning shattered and broke the darkness and somehow I fell asleep. I woke up about an hour later amid utter nausea. I tossed and turned, and moaned. I breathed deeply from the bottom of my abdomen trying to stave off vomiting. I wasn’t so sure what was happening. I had felt some lower back pain the day before, even some big time tiredness, yet today I accomplished more than I thought I would and felt strong at the same time. Food poisoning crossed my mind, however, I couldn’t fletch out what would’ve caused it. Bad water couldn’t have been it, for I had either bought store water or drank fountain spring water. Exhaustion crossed my mind again, that bleak night in the Pyrenees where I came to in the midnight meadow. Electrolyte imbalance? Heat exhaustion? Soon I escaped my tarp and pulled my pants down and drained my guts onto the meadow. Lightning cracked all around me. Shook and frightened, light headed, I finished; I was finished. I wanted to stand up from my crotched position but the lightning was just too close. Rain pelted me and a chill ran across my body and I shivered as the wind gusted. I crawled back into my tarp and continued shivering as a cold sweat moistened and beaded up on my body. An hour went by. I came to again with nausea. I staved it off with some deep breathing. But, as soon as the nausea seemed to relinquish an incredible sense to shit came rushing on. This time I couldn't even make it out of my vestibule. Angled under a pitched awning I let go of whatever liquid was left. Lighting flashed around me. Thunder boomed loudly reverberting against the abyssmal walls. I had one more bout of whatever was ailing me, the last time so draining and stronger I collapsed onto the wet ground naked, the rain cleaning me off. After a few minutes, I gathered the strength to venture back into my tarp and wrapped my silk liner around me. I shivered again and once I felt dry enough I crawled into my quilt. The storm raged. Have I been as frightened as this moment before I am not sure. Surely, the incident in the Grand Canyon was worse, more threathening. The Iceland river incident potentially the scariest and most life threatening event. The HRP event just plain scary and confusing. Either way, the build up of all these events in an 11 month period can really take a toll on the mind, let alone the body. I just felt wrecked, lost and confused, weakly vulnerable, as I laid there trying tofall asleep for the last time under a tumultuous sky. I was a shitty wreck. Why even write anymore. I’m finished.

What hero am I to portray in my own story. I am not the heroine. I am merely a character in the story. I am not judged by anyone on this endeavor. Solely I, and I alone, look into the mirror and see the reflection of what ahs been told. I stare into the mirror and see the cast. I am not the same man today as I was a year ago. I am not changed completely though, by no means whatsoever. For my personality and foibles and character are the same, the same old mule. But my spirit has made me different, has filled me with something far beyond what I was, a far shadow of how I loomed before. The beauty of travel has aided in the passing of time, the markings of erosion. I am as carved as a canyon, deeper still. I can call an end to this adventure whenever I want.

Think of this…

‘We all impose some coherence—some meaning—on the chaotic events of our existence. We rummage through the raw images of our memories, selecting, burnishing, erasing. We emerge as the heroes of our stories, allowing us to live with what we have done—or haven’t done.

...But these men believed their very lives depended on the stories they told. If they failed to provide a convincing tale, they could be secured to a ship’s yardarm and hanged.’

I am captive to my own dreams. No one to judge yet the roped restraints squeeze tight around me tied to the ship’s yardarm. It’s all part of the journey, the story I continue to tell myself. I am the hangman and the one being hanged.

My memory fails me of the author of the quote I had written down, though I understand the meaning of it and the impetus to jot it down. I think it is an excerpt from the seafaring adventure The Wager. I digress but I hope it sticks. Let's continue again. 

I staggered out of my tarp on a very damp morning. I craved for cool air. I must be feverish, I thought. I packed up as quick as I could under the circumstances and condition I was in. A morning mist hung along the grassy bench I strode across. I stopped and threw on my rain gear. I knew I was in for a long day. I had started and I needed to commit to the long haul. The mist turned to rain and the rain became consistent. Yet I staggered on, my head fogged up, my stomach swooning with nausea. I muscled my way nauseously to town in pouring rain, back to the beginning of the loop some 25 miles away. Just imagine the walking dead in the rain, a sad looking bearded corpse, wet rain gear sagging over a shell of a body. Imagine a sorry looking wet dog. I could barely muster anything to eat. For the first 3 hours since leaving camp I ate nothing. I barely nursed a few sips of water. My stomach just couldn't handle it. I stopped worrying about why this had happened or was occurring. I was in survival mode despite crossing heaps of hikers and a few villages where I could find safety. I was in my own cave, in an absolute paincave. And, I was determined to get myself through, just like all the other health related events of the previous year. I stopped at a market for a brief second. I found a can of ginger ale, ate half a banana, and bought a tube of Mentos for the last 15 miles. The brevity of my situation sunk in as the ginger ale slowly seeped into my body. I was in trouble but I had to get through it. I found the eave of a garage and hid against a heavy downpour, my stomach almost forcing me to butt. I tried the Mentos, usually a sure shot of digestion for me in any type of weather. I could barely get half of it down. I focused my breathing and shoved the nausea aside and stood up and sidled up the road tilting like a drunk. Again the rain fell heavily, this time in curtains. I hunkered on my butt under a wide-bottom spruce. I nearly dozed off but staved off the nap. I couldn't relent the pushing through the feeling of nausea. I had to maintain the survival push. An hour later I attained the pass, thick clouds slamming into the tree tops, a vacuum of wind signifying a vast valley below. This landmark gave me some hope, but I knew I wasn't out of the paincave yet. I shivered down the slippery mountain towards the haven of safety. I yearned for comfort, warmth, and most of all solace within. The mechanism in my brain needed a new conditioning, a spur in the occupation. Every machine needs a break at some point, I fathomed. I kept going focusing on my breathing and trying to calm the swell of nausea.

Think of this...

Visuality —visualing the reality of action, the foundation of will, the budding of drive. What drives and propels me also limits me, diseases me. Alas, I understood the need to shift and change some processes. Fuck, I understood I should get checked up. I should do yoga. I should strength train. I need to plan better. I must go to the dentist. I need to take care of myself better. I need to actually care for myself. Breath work, cold water plunges, winter bikepacking, portion control; I want to fulfil the need for it.

As I stumbled into town I felt defeated, almost guilty for the way I had been pursuing things and living. I wanted some inner peace. Sadly, I knew this was probably brought on by the moment I was so struggling in. What is the sake of effort if you are not preparing for the effort? What is the process of again without care? I pushed on to the hotel. I was freezing, staggering and tilting like a wind blown lodgepole in a crazy windstorm. I wasn't hungry. I was nauseous. I had staved off collapse. I had staved off vomiting and shitting myself for 25 miles in heavy rain. All I wanted was to be naked and in a very hot shower. All I wanted was a long and heavy sleep. 

Something like this….

I wasn’t sure how this year would end up. Where I would go, what would I do, where would I end, what would have I seen, how would I feel—a slew of questions oozed both uncertainty and excitement. I took a chance on living the dreams and goals I had. I’m so glad I did. As much as the same stays the same, my vision and goals have only broadened. I see bigger adventures ahead. I see further exploration.

I needed an end point. I needed mentally to have a place to stop, to transition from a form of occupation to a completely different form of occupation. I could have stopped when I wanted to, yet I needed to stop when I needed to. In adventures, not all decisions are easy, but some decisions are mandatory. The end point was obvious.

This year long adventure truly started 2 days into the Grand Canyon Traverse. I succumbed to the heat and over exertion coupled with a highly probable electrolyte imbalance. I know with certainty that I was close to something that I can barely even muster to type out. A minor relapse in the canyon occurred and I knew I was behind the 8-ball of endurance from the onset. I managed fairly well over the next few months by not pushing too hard. I also had favorable weather conditions. 

Seven months or so later after accumulating thousands of miles, I entered a raging glacial river in Iceland and got swept away. I do not know how I survived that event, but I did. Even on the HRP I still had black blisters on my hands from the frostbite. I could still feel my ears ringing. This time I can muster out the word 'fatal.' This may have been the closest encounter of all of the sketchy encounters. But, this one felt less like my fault.  With the constant pushing of the limits throughout the year, this crossing may have pushed me even farther over the line where any moment I could fall. And, I did, where I fell unconscious in the middle of the night in a remote meadow in the High Pyrenees. Seemingly spurred on by something uncontrollable and unknowable, I had another terrible night of illness. Then, this event, the last night of the TMB, most likely brought on by an electrolyte imbalance from the previous incident---another very close call. Just let me tell you: lightning and diarrhea don’t mix. Like I said, the decision to call everything off was obvious, an easy choice.

My body is telling me something. No need to jeopardize future endeavors, I am finally done with this year long adventure and headed back soon to home in the mountains of Colorado. After 11 months and ~9,100 miles of backpacking/bikepacking, I am tired and strong at the same time, happy and content, grateful for this worn body that gave me so much healing, strength, endurance and exhaustion. I am also scared and empty. I need to take care for myself. Most importantly, I need to care for myself. I have learned so much more about the depths of myself and the world around me, even how fragile and vulnerable I am. 

What a challenging and fulfilling year. I gave it everything I had. I understand even more how precious life is. Traveling can do this to you, and some potential fatal encounters can enhance this belief. I gave it all I had. I am stoked to return to work and be around a team of people. I am stoked to train and play in the mountains and desert as much as I can. I am stoked to have the time to plan another adventure all over again. I am stoked to be resting, recovering and somewhat stationary and all those other things I listed above. I am stoked to keep pushing forward again. Life is constantly now.