to Chamonix

I knew even last winter that I would want to return to the Alps this year. When I was way younger but already on my own, I loved scheming and finding ways to make possible the winter trips to these beautiful heights and vales, and though I took a great long pause in my midlife, I'm rediscovering my affection for this corner of the world. 

Except that both the mountains and I have changed.

Many of the villages and towns that were only modestly groomed for skiing fifty years ago, have gone hog wild in the direction of pleasing those with skis and snowboards. Winter tourism has exploded and not necessarily in good directions. Moreover, because there is less snow, the mountains can look pathetically sad with white ribbons of artificial white stuff twisting down once forested ridges. 

Then there is me -- I've changed. One creaky knee, one wisened soul. Reluctant to take part in the skiing frenzy now, and reluctant to drive or take buses great distances to reach the more remote towns and villages, I look for destinations that have something to say beyond opening up mountain runs for skiers, and I look only at places that are not too far a drive from a major airport. That limits my choices for sure. But I think it explains why I was so eager to put my bets this winter on Chamonix, in France. Or, as it has been called since 1921, Chamonix-Mt. Blanc. I booked this winter retreat even before summer was officially over.

I do realize that Chamonix is no small hidden gem. Though principally a summer tourism destination, it does see a good flow of people passing through or, like me, staying a while in winter. Yes, for the winter sports: Chamonix hosted the very first Winter Olympics back in 1924 -- that tells you something, though in those days there were all of maybe a dozen events, as compared to the last Winter Games in 2022, which had well over a hundred. And they keep coming year round for Mt. Blanc: you can get mighty close to this majestic summit by riding up on the world's highest cable car -- an engineering marvel that scared the daylights out of me when I rode up in it nearly fifty years ago. (Mt Blanc is, by the way, the highest peak in the Alps, rising to 15,780 ft, or 4810 m.) They come, too, for the little red train (built in 1909!) that'll take you all the way up to the glacier Mer de Glace.  And they come, like me, for the closeness of the mountains. With views onto not only French Alps, but the mountains of neighboring Switzerland and Italy. [And perhaps unfortunately, people  come, on their way to Italy: Chamonix is right by the road leading you to the 11.6 kilometer Mt Blanc tunnel, cutting through a dark mountain as if it weren't there. Been there, done that, hated every minute.]

Chamonix is just a tad over an hour's drive from the Geneva Airport. That's an easy trip! The weather? It is a town at a higher elevation (at 3400 ft, or about 1040m) so one could hope for snow, except that this year has pretty much wiped out thoughts of snowy Alpine meadows for most of us seeking that kind of winter serenity. From what I can tell, it's been an exceptionally warm December followed by an exceptionally warm January and after a brief series of snow storms, there followed an erratic February. But maybe... Who knows. We shall see.

No matter. This is a meditative trip for me: to be alone with my thoughts in the mountains. That is the goal.

Right after my morning routines (Ed, wake up! we've got another opossum in the barn!)...

(breakfast)

... I'm catching a flight  to Atlanta (beating a snowstorm that's coming to Madison tomorrow!), then one to Paris, then to Geneva. If all goes well, I will write tomorrow, from Chamonix.