Off the Beaten Slope in Chamonix, France..

A guest post by one of my favorite regular contributors, Jack Jones.

I was never meant to write this. My guest post for Beers and Beans this week was written, spell checked and eagerly awaiting its turn to be catapulted into cyberspace. But then, ruthlessly, I robbed it of its destiny. I selected its body, I slew it and then I saved it. I was left with a spotless, whitewashed screen which, for the first time ever, will probably serve to inspire rather than daunt.

I would like to tell you about a mountain called the Aiguille du Midi, or more specifically, the Téléphérique de l’Aiguille du Midi, which is the cable car that transports you to the top.

A house in the town of Chamonix.

My original post began there, at the top, and descended into a rather detailed account about a rather uneventful ski run. I had a great time whizzing down the slopes in Chamonix – the French commune which sits a snowball’s throw from France’s borders with Italy and Switzerland – but that’s not why I fell in love with the place. That’s not why I sit here wishing I was back, sucking in the brisk mountain breeze, savouring its icy bite on my flushed cheeks.

Initial impressions were very promising. “Chamonix is not just a ski resort,” excitable brochures tell you, “it is a genuine town with its own character and charm!” And it seemed (for once) the tourism board had told not only the truth, but the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This modest little settlement, with its jumbled mix of baroque and art deco architecture, its colourful local markets and its snow dusted pine trees, all sitting humbly at the foot of Mont Blanc, was delightfully and unexpectedly quaint. For the money I paid, my hotel may well have been the best deal I’ve ever snagged and a quick saunter round the slushy, lamp lit streets on my first evening convinced me the nightlife was something that would require my full attention.

But that would have to wait – I had an early start the next day. I had a mountain to check out.

* * *

The mountain top station of the Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix, France.

The Aiguille du Midi forms a formidably jagged shard of the Mont Blanc massif and the cable car that plucks you from the town centre and plonks you at the peak (which could better be described as a spire) holds the lofty record of being the ‘highest vertically ascending cable car in the world’. I won’t lie – I was daunted by this. In type format it’s just mindless trivia, but when faced with the reality, a 2,800m ascent in just 20 minutes didn’t seem at all right. Swallowing my doubts, I hopped on board, skis in tow. This, it turned out, was one of the best decisions of my life.

In moments the views became simply flabbergasting and vanquished any potential vertigo. I pressed my nose against the cool glass and fell into a sort of trance. The chattering children, the creaks and squeaks of the car and the moaning wind buffeting the sides faded into mere background murmur.

We soared over steep slopes of pine forest covered in virginal snow. We crept over craggy ridges of beige rock and loose stones. We came nose to nose with sheer, black and white cliffs. And always we climbed, higher and higher and higher. Approaching from below, the top station, perched impossibly on the pointy summit of Aiguille du Midi and haloed in fluffy cloud, had looked almost mythical, as though in a different realm – a kingdom of the sky.

Closer inspection revealed a gift shop and cafeteria, which tarnished the romance somewhat, so turning my back on the commercial world I wandered out on to a terrace and tried fruitlessly to absorb my natural surroundings. Before me lay the great valley, its top sides iced with snow that branched down towards the town in thin white plumes, like skeletal fingers reaching for warmth. The commune had transformed from a cosy little haven to a featureless amalgamation of tiny white boxes. I strained my eyes and searched for my Chamonix lodgings, but to no avail: everything looked the same. From up here, high in the mountains, Chamonix was a mere blip in the tremendous landscape, whitewashed and utterly engulfed by the terrain.

It was by far the most astonishing view I’ve ever bared witness to and it was with great reluctance that I strapped on my skis and began the descent.

Valley views in Chamonix, France.

Jack Jones is a freelance travel writer who has traveled extensively throughout Australia, Asia and Europe. His biggest adventure to date has been to traverse the vast and lonely emptiness of Australia’s outback (surviving Wolf Creek in the process) in an epic 10,000 mile road trip.

*All photos in this post provided by Jack Jones.

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