La Montagne des Agneaux (3664m) with Ian Hough – Ecrins Range

            This past weekend Ian Hough and I headed to the Ecrins for his first high-mountain trip since arriving in Grenoble seven months ago. The Ecrins get me fired up, and I was nervous about biting off too much too soon for our first outing together. We did our best to begin at the beginning by spending an afternoon on the Meije glacier working on avalanche and crevasse rescue skills, and also on skiing through heavy snow with a heavy pack. Ian’s quick mind sorted out snow anchor construction and 5 to 1 hauling systems in no time, and I soon felt comfortable with the idea of tying in on a glacier together.

            Plan A involved heading out from the mythical Ailefroide trailhead and skiing up the Glacier Noir to the Pic Coolidge. We figured that if the access road was closed there would be snow for us to ski on, and if there was no snow then the road would be open. As we found out post 5am wakeup, the asphalt on the access road was bone dry and the gate securely locked. Just as we were deciding what to do, a local drove up, coolly unlocked the padlock and drove on through. For a second we thought we had hit the jackpot, only to see him stop the car and stroll back to lock the gate – sorry boys, locals only.

            Rather than trudge up 10km of pavement, we decided to reroute our plan for the weekend – “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough” is a phrase I tend to live by, but in this case forcing it just seemed too stupid. So we laid out the map on the hood of the Chipie and weighed our options.

            I noticed a valley called the Vallon du Grand Tabuc, running from a village named Monetier-les-Bains and providing what looked like relatively rapid access to the Montagne des Agneaux. In 2006, Christophe and I got turned around on les Agneaux while trying to ski it from the NW side, and the idea of another attempt six years later appealed to me. In the trusty, sandbagged “Easy Alpinism in les Ecrins” guidebook, Ian and I found that we could access the regular route of les Agneaux by way of this Vallon du Grand Tabuc. Following the ski approach, the route description mentioned some steep snow early on followed by 2c rock (you know, your standard pitch of 5.3d), all wrapped up in the modest grade of Peu Difficile (truc de PD bien évidemment…). This plan would enable most of our initial objectives, minus the 20km round trip on pavement: snow camping in a spectacular setting, skiing up a glacier, and getting on top of big summit in les Ecrins. Despite the extra driving and delayed start, we were both psyched and committed to the new plan.

          After navigating the complex array of ski lifts, chalet complexes and faux parking lots, we found what had to be the trailhead and began suiting up. Ian was struck by the bizarreness of putting on goretex pants, harnesses, heavy packs and ski boots in a sunny field surrounded by families going about their weekend stroll through the village. And he’s right, it’s a weird sport. The contrast between the demands of the high mountain world a few kilometers away and the serenity of the valley floor below is difficult to overstate, and the low trailheads and general lack of tram access in les Ecrins force  you to travel from one world to the next by putting one foot in front of the other.

       
           The skin up to our bivy site was just right. Sunny but not too hot, efficient but not too steep, and above all not so far that we felt we had to rush. Arriving in the middle of the afternoon left us with plenty of time to play sandbox and build a righteous tent platform, not to mention eat dinner and crawl into sleeping bags at the rowdy hour of 7pm. After much discussion of time estimates we could only guess at, we decided to set the alarm for 2:45am.

            Alpine starts are a trial even when you know more or less what’s coming. Ian was remarkably patient with the tedious process of melting snow for breakfast, reluctantly leaving and then packing your sleeping bag and the tent, and then figuring out which trinkets you need for the day ahead and which you don’t, all by the harsh light of a headlamp. I find that the stress and discomfort of an alpine start make the actual motion of forward progress up the mountain seem all the more simple and peaceful.  Finally, you’ve got just what’s in your pack, the logistics are over, and it’s time to play ball.

            The first few hundred meters of moving up the glacier went quickly and easily. Just as dawn began to emerge on the horizon, we began skiing up the 40-45° headwall that I’m sure both of us were thinking about the night before in the tent. Thankfully, the snow stayed soft and allowed for a secure skin track that took the path of least resistance between bits of exposed rock and serac. When we reached the glacial plateau at 3000m, the early morning sun brilliantly lit up our surroundings and reminded us that we were now in the inner sanctum of les Ecrins.

            I thoroughly enjoyed track-setting across a fresh canvas of such beautiful slopes, and for both us I think those couple hours of winding up the glacier were among the most beautiful of the trip. Just before 9am we found ourselves at the base of the Col Tuckett and the start of the summit ridge. We had decided on an 11am turnaround time, so it seemed like the right move to carry on.

The first pitch involved surprisingly steep snow and a scrappy cornice exit in order to then straddle the col. As I belayed Ian up, I was fully ready (although of course I would have been bummed) for him to say, “you know what, I don’t need to do this” and to lower him right back down to our skis. He moved with style and ease though and even seemed to be enjoying himself, and so we played on. The 2c slab in ski boots and crampons was a good dose of hero climbing, which was then followed by an airy but straightforward ridge romp to the summit. 11:02am, and we were hanging out on the summit, slurping GU and oggling the glaciated burl around us. Both of us felt a little light headed from thirst and altitude, but overall we were in pretty good shape. I was amazed that Ian had the strength and calm to get up there on his first climb up high.

Down-climbing mixed rock and snow with big fall consequences is a particular medium that recreaters in the Northeast rarely encounter. Cragging back home, one generally climbs up and then rappels or walks down through the woods, and the practice of spidering down the same way one went up is rarely part of the program (then again, the climbing is usually wicked hard).  I was a bit worried about how this part of the game might go. I had left gear and anchors for the last stretch of the ridge, and so Ian was able to clip the rope through these points as I did my best to provide a minimum of assurance from a slip or misstep from above. Once again, and to his credit, Ian was solid and took the time he needed to be secure on his feet. Once we arrived safely at the top of ye olde 5.3d crux, we decided to sling a prominent horn and descend from there. I lowered Ian a full rope length and was able to beam him to the security of the snow slopes below. I then rapped half of that distance and did a bit of extra down-climbing to join him and our skis.

I love skiing!!! It is the coolest and the most efficient. In just a couple hours, we schussed our way down about 7,000 feet of mountain, stopping midway to recover our bivy gear before gliding all the way to the car and the world we had left only the day before. Olivier would be pleased to know that our first move upon returning to the Chipie was to start pounding Coca Cola – beer would have been delicious but also completely incapacitating.

            I’m curious to see how this adventure sits with Ian. It was a big first dose, and a pretty impressive achievement for somebody’s first rodeo. I was hesitant to pose the question in the dehydrated and bonked aftermath of our day – “so, do you want to do more of this?” I hope he does, because I thoroughly enjoyed his company up there and am psyched by the prospect of future adventures together.

Ian on the home stretch of the summit ridge with the Glacier des Violettes of the Mont Pelvoux in the background.

Happy 60^th Birthday, Jean-Mi!

Jean-Michel Asselin on the summit of Pumori (7,161m) in 1996, Nepal.
Photo courtesy of his latest book, Les années montagne

           I remember the moment well when Jean-Mi greeted me into his home at 6 bis île d’amour three years ago, when I first arrived in Grenoble. The black gate was already open and he gestured me in without fanfare, as if my presence at his house was already a daily occurrence. As I struggled in the driveway under the load of my skis, climbing equipment and the cursory clothing I’d packed, I caught a glimpse of a sticker on the glass door of the garage advertising “NEPAL: Mystical Kingdom.” While someday I would love to travel to Nepal, ideally with Jean-Mi, over the days and months that followed my arrival I realized that Jean-Mi had given me the keys to a mystical kingdom right here in Grenoble.

           Jean-Mi and Anne’s house is indeed an enchanted place, ruled by their cat, Titi, and powered by love, friendship, wine and delicious food. The bookshelves are full of mysterious titles and pages waiting to be discovered, on diverse subjects all united by the force of Jean-Mi’s curiosity and intellect. The furniture is soft, low and welcoming, allowing friends, food and drinks to interchange freely and with maximum comfort and minimum formality. The garden is an extension of this wondrous landscape: on the western edge there are fruit trees that I remember being planted in 2009, on the southern edge there is a fence preventing the neighbors’ goats and chickens from straying into Titi’s realm, on the eastern edge there is Anne’s vegetable garden and a cherry tree, and in the middle there is soft grass where many contented feet have wandered. Arriving in Grenoble alone as I did, I immediately felt immersed in a family of friends that appeared to be welcoming and tolerant of my strange appearance, accent and tendency to spend every possible moment in the mountains.

         I came to appreciate who Jean-Mi was and his role in the Grenoble mountain community over time and via inference. Of course he would never sit me down and do something so dull as to explain his life story and accomplishments. My clues consisted of his books lying about the house, his photos on the wall, the bins of climbing equipment in the basement spanning several decades worth of designs and styles, his stories over wine, and the reactions of friends and people I met when I mentioned that I lived chez Jean-Michel Asselin. “Ah bon!” they would say, and go on to mention his Himalayan exploits, his time at Vertical magazine, his many books and legendary reputation of being “un alpiniste de la plume.” All of these clues led me to the same conclusion: by pure chance, I had landed in the home of an extraordinary human being.

         From what I have gathered, Jean-Mi appears to interact with mountains in the same way he engages a room full of people, that is to say with boundless energy, surefootedness and humor. His abilities seem to rest more on his agility in the present moment than on prior-planning or calculations. I’ve never climbed with Jean-Mi, but I can imagine him riding the energy of a mountain as he climbs higher and higher, building energy just like he does moving from one glass of red wine to the next.

             I had the privilege of spending one day in the mountains with Jean-Mi, this time on the last day of my stay in Grenoble before flying back to the US that June. I knew we were heading to the Chartreuse Mountains, but to this day I couldn’t say which trailhead we went to or where on the map we hiked. I remember Jean-Mi pointing out the beautiful wooden chalet where he used to live, and saying that part of him would still like to be there. There was no map other than the one in Jean-Mi’s head, no discussion of itinerary or schedule. We just started walking. At an invisible juncture he veered off the well-established trail and motioned for me to follow. We popped out of the forest and were soon traversing beneath glittering limestone cliffs that seemed to reflect the light from the snow-covered slopes of the Belledonne Mountains across the valley. Spying occasional bolts on steep and sculpted stone inspired my climber’s imagination and further enhanced my sense of wonder. I asked Jean-Mi if there was a guidebook published for these routes and he just shook his head. Where was I? Who’s kingdom was this?

        Without warning Jean-Mi stopped and turned to look back at me, gesturing for quiet. We proceeded slowly and silently for a few moments before the sound of clambering hooves caught our attention and caused me to look up. About fifty feet away, amother chamois and her little one were perched in the middle of a steep cliff-face, nonchalantly nibbling on a vertiginous berry patch. We were transfixed. Before we could look away the momma chamois abruptly pointed her horns down the fall-line and, followed by her little one, the two animals rode gravity in perfect balance down the near vertical rock slab to the grassy slopes below. The sight of such agility and grace left me awestruck, and still trying to make sense of what I had just seen long after the pair had sauntered out of sight.

          I found myself trying to work out why it would be in any animal’s best interest to charge down a cliff-face, closely followed by one’s descendant nonetheless. Such a scenario would have surely stumped everybody had it appeared on the Ecology and Evolution exam I took this past fall in my master's program.

              Jean-Mi smiled and pranced about in excite-ment for some time, reveling in the wonder of these animals and feeling perhaps more empathy than puzzlement. I know I will never successfully mimic the grace of a chamois or the charisma of Jean-Mi, but I can embrace their approach to the world around them and do my best to apply it to my own life. Whether it is my relationship with Hillary, my quests in the mountains, my need for friendship, or my aim to gain momentum with school, I can think of no better inspiration than Jean-Mi. In all cases the strategy seems to be similar: be playful, be loving, be strong, and don’t hesitate to point it down the fall-line with everything you’ve got.

             Happy Birthday, Jean-Mi, and thank you for opening the door to life in the mystical kingdom of Grenoble. I will always be grateful.

Grand Armet (2752 m) – East Face, Cros de Quinchol (1600m, WI 3+)

The upper half of the route.

Last Monday I felt the urge for a big mission, alone.
School was happening that day, not to mention the usual voices of hesitation and caution resonating in my head. I decided to listen to the voice of going, to tap into the kind of energy that trumps 4 hours of sleep, tired legs, and reasonable thoughts about what one should be doing that day. 

The result was one of my more ambitious days in the mountains to date. The climb begins a 5-minute walk from the road and doesn’t stop for over 5,000 vertical feet, essentially following a single weakness that runs top to bottom. My trip began with surreal scratching through mist and frozen turf, hoping desperately that I had picked the right gully and that the mountain would let me keep going up. My uncertainty gradually burned off with the morning clouds, and I found myself kicking and swinging up the endless couloir leading directly to the summit.

The descent involved 2000’ or so of steep snow down-climbing off the backside of the summit, followed by a trudge up to a col in order to get back to the eastern side of the mountain, and finally a long, heinous descending traverse through 50°, cliff-ridden schwack to get back to the road. The last couple hours of the descent were illuminated by headlamp and the mantra, "it ain't over till it's over." Bonked and postholing on my way to the top of the pass during hour 10 or so, I found myself singing John Prine’s words on repeat,

“I been thinking lately about the people I meet

The carwash on the corner and the hole in the street

The way my ankles hurt with shoes on my feet

And I'm wondering if I'm gonna see tomorrow.

Father forgive us for what we must do, you forgive us 

and we’ll forgive you

We’ll forgive each other until we both turn blue

Then we’ll whistle and go fishin’ in the ever…”

On the summit ridge looking south toward the Dévoluy and the Pic de Bure (2708m).

I_realized that even glued to the slopes of an obscure mountain that almost nobody I know has heard of, I’m still not alone. Hillary called to tell me that she loved me and to coach me through the night routefinding. I could feel my parents, not wanting me to be exposed to such risk but letting me go with understanding and grace. I thought about how important the time was this past summer when my brother, myself and Mom and Dad were in the same place for a few days. I thought about good times in Keene Valley just a couple months ago over Christmas and New Years, and how much those friends mean to me. I wish I didn’t need to be so far out there to fully appreciate the importance of such moments and people, but there it is. 

As usual the exploit itself didn’t change a thing in my world. People asked why I had missed school the following day, and my story began and ended with, “J’étais en montagne, tout s’est bien passé.” A week and a half later, I find myself still thinking about the energy that total commitment enables. Such uncompromising momentum opens up endless possibilities in the mountains and elsewhere, but needs to be handled with care. I need to learn more about when to drop the clutch, with whom, and to what end. My safety and that of my mountain partners depends on this learning. In the meantime I want to express my gratitude to those who keep a light on back home and whose love and patience ensures that I’m never really alone out there.