It's a warm July evening in Baume, a tiny French hamlet of sixty people located in Burgundy, the heart of wine country. Seated outside in their backyard, my hosts Jean and Chantal refuse to allow me to stand up and assist in clearing plates through our multi-coursed, three-hour meal. We began with an aperitif of Pastis and Aveze, licorice and gentian liquors blended with water, a mixture that goes particularly well with the heat. Then a cantaloupe and cheese appetizer washed down with Nederburg, a rose wine brought from South Africa by my host's daughter. Many rounds of raclette, prepared individually by melting a special cheese in tiny pans, then pouring the gooey mixture onto potatoes and five kinds of meat. More wine, this time a local favorite called Monthelie (a hearty Burgundy), followed by salad, six different types of fromage (cheese) and lots of bread. Top this off with dessert consisting of ice cream and sorbet and I'm ready for bed. I need this incredible meal because I'm emaciated after two weeks on the glacial ice eating like a squirrel. I'm secretly grateful they won't allow me to stand as my legs are hurting and I can't walk without limping.
Evan and I use beautifully detailed Swiss maps dominated by massive glaciers to describe our two-week journey through the Alps. We began in Zermatt, Switzerland (5300') where we were greeted by bad weather and unstable climbing conditions for 24 hours. Local alpinists chuckled at the two Americans overloaded with mammoth 90-pound packs, passing through the quaint mountain village, home to a long history of alpinism. Preferring isolation and solitude to the convenience of using an extensive system of mountain huts, we had arrived with our usual kit— tent, sleeping bags, stove and fuel, etc., much of which filled a large locker at the train station once we discovered the basic protocol for climbing in the Alps: Climb light.
With the Matterhorn engulfed in storm clouds at the head of the valley, we took a sobering walk through the climber's cemetery, filled with so many young alpinists now buried beneath headstones bearing ice axes, ropes and epitaphs like "He chose to climb" and "'Twas not his to be afraid.” A little healthy fear can go a long ways in these mountains, however. Two days prior to our arrival in Zermatt a rope team of three on the Matterhorn slipped on the ice and fell to their deaths in a crevasse. The next day a massive rockfall on the immensely popular Hornli Ridge resulted in a rare closure of all the Matterhorn's Swiss routes. A rumor quickly circulated around Zermatt that the largest helicopter evacuation in the history of the Alps was taking place, transporting some 90 people from the Hornli hut. But the most obvious sign of trouble was the continuous chime of the village church bell signaling yet another fatality on the famous pyramid above.
The rockfall on the Matterhorn was blamed, to a great extent, on the intense and ongoing heat wave plaguing Europe that summer (2003). While trying to absorb these new developments taking place in the mountains around us we adopted a conservative "Choose Life" theme that would influence our climbing decisions over the coming days. Climbing teams of many nationalities seemed to be in agreement about the dangerous conditions in the Alps and enjoyed our newfound phrase and philosophy as it was translated into various languages.
When the weather cleared we took the aerial tramway to the top of Klein (small) Matterhorn at an elevation of 12,736 feet. Dazed by the abrupt change in temperature and rapid elevation gain, we quickly added warm clothing and roped up in preparation for our traverse out onto the ice, but were suddenly cut off by a mob of happy Japanese tourists wanting photos of the two highly skilled and handsome alpinists. Some folks will take pictures of most anything. After fulfilling our diplomatic obligations, we began the long traverse across the Breithorn Plateau towards the Glacier de Ghiacciao di Verra in Italy, our loads significantly lighter despite the addition of passports and lots of euro cash for staying in the huts. Yet it wasn't long before we encountered our first obstacle while laboring through deep snow under a blazing sun: Confronted with the driest season in nearly two centuries, the glacier resembled Swiss cheese and each section of terrain had to be analyzed for hidden holes, the integrity of snow bridges carefully assessed. Each crack had to then be circumvented, stepped or leapt over, vaulted, or crawled around delicately as we repeatedly avoided falls into ostensibly bottomless crevasses while making our way into Italy.
Sitting on glacial moraine beneath the immense south face of Liskamm at an elevation of 12,654 feet, many visitors to the Sella hut were visibly suffering from altitude sickness, mostly those who had come up from Italy that day. The hut guardian was a young woman overseeing an experienced cook staff and managing the place with an efficiency and friendliness that made us feel at home. With huge cumulus clouds building to the southeast, we photographed the landscape and discussed our plans for the next day. Our original goal, a traverse of the entire Mont Rosa massif (the highest in Western Europe with eleven summits over 14,000 feet), and descent to the Gornergrat railway servicing Zermatt, would obviously not be possible because the huts were booked solid in that direction. We chose instead to re-climb Castor the next day and return the way we had come, via the Klein Matterhorn to Zermatt. The “Spaghetti Tour,” as it is affectionately referred to, would be waiting for us next year.
