Racing Killian Jornet
However.... I did book myself a trip to see what all the fuss was about. No 170km route for me. No 10,000m of climbing either. Simply two days exploring what the mountains had to offer. A training run. A taste. A glimpse of a world I love, but will never seriously compete in.
These mountain dwellers would stop to stare at me, snort loudly and then ignore my presence on their patch. Above me the wind whistled and hissed through the rocky crags. Darkening clouds threatened rain. We pushed on with M. Flaubert taking the strain.
Finally I spotted hikers making their way up towards me from the other end of the valley. We exchanged a 'bonjour' and 'merci' when making way for one another. I could now begin to run more, although there were sections of steep rocky gullies that needed to be taken with caution using hands as well as feet. Pieces of wood and occasionally metal steps had been added in places to help. Plenty of signposts kept me on course as I descended back to the valley floor.
During the summer Chamonix is rammed with runners. The winter sees the skiers and snowboarders arrive. Both times mean crowded accommodation and expensive flights. For this reason I chose October for my running recce.
I arrived on a damp, overcast Friday afternoon. This was my second visit having spent a week there in what now feels like a previous life. When I was 19, a friend and I stayed in the town and snowboarded. Actually, that's a lie. We fell down mountains with snowboards attached to our feet. A hazard to skiers and ourselves, we somehow survived to tell the tale. Now here I was 27 years later with more life experience, more appreciation of the place, and a more sensible approach - or so I hoped.
Friday was spent wandering the shops and cafes and planning possible routes for the weekend. I visited the church which forms the backdrop for the start / finish line of the UTMB.
I was staying for two nights, before returning to the UK late on Sunday. This gave me two full days of running the trails.
At 6am I crept quietly out of the dorm while it was still dark, leaving the three others I was sharing with still sleeping. I was staying at Vert Lodge to the south of the town, a friendly place with basic accommodation, free breakfast (also my lunch and trail snacks) and stunning views of the Mont Blanc massif. After kitting up and eating a huge breakfast of bread and cheese, cereal, banana and pain au chocolat washed down with juice, water and coffee I started my watch and headed off.
It was just under a mile to the start point of the day's trail. This would take me up the mountains to the north of Chamonix, the opposite side to Mont Blanc, so offering stunning views of the snow-capped peaks towering over the chalets and hotels below. Chamonix is located on the border of France, Italy and Switzerland. In fact the UTMB race takes participants through all three countries which is part of its appeal. I would be staying in France.
The milky green Arve river swept beside me carrying glacial water down the valley towards Les Hautes and Geneva. It was overcast, but mild for October and I only needed a t-shirt once I had warmed up. I was well prepared though. I had a quilted jacket, base layer, gloves, cap, sunglasses, food, salt tablets, headtorch and a litre of water in my two soft flasks.
Just below the Brevant ski lift, a steep dirt track led up and away from the road. This was my route to the first landmark of Chalet de la Floria. The ascent took we through a forest of fresh green spruce and pine mixed with the dazzling golden displays of larch. Millions of needles covered the ground along with elongated spruce cones mingled with the smaller ones from the larch and pine.
The twisting route revealed the occasional glimpse across the valley to the white mountain tops as the houses reduced in size as though someone was zooming out on their phone.
Around the corner I let out a gasp of delight as I noticed a group of toadstools, their scarlet colours and white spotted lids allowing me to identify them as Fly Agaric - the classic children's story toadstools.
Arriving at the Chalet I took in the vast panorama. The building was closed, but the window boxes were festooned with pink, red, white and purple flowers.
The view from the veranda took in the whole panorama. I could see why this is a popular place to come for coffee or lunch during the summer.
As I was soaking in the landscape, something darted past and caught my eye. It looked like a hummingbird. No bigger than my thumb, it was hovering around the blooms sipping nectar through its proboscis. I found out later that this is a humming bird hawk moth, a common sight during the daytime in temperate regions of Eurasia.
Further up the steady gradient through the wooded hillside, large rocks were covered in luminous crustose lichen and moss. Pixie cup lichen on the granite rocks just added to the otherworldly feelings previously brought on by the toadstools and moth. I felt I was venturing into the world of Ben and Holly - you'll have to look it up.
Up until this point I had been labouring at a slow pace with my hands on my knees, unused to such gradients in South-East London. I spotted a hefty stick discarded by the path and found it to be the perfect size and weight to act as a walking pole. Sweat was dripping off me and I was using up my water fast.
I began to motivate myself and comment on the beauty surrounding me. This began with an internal dialogue, but, as I hadn't passed another person in hours, I soon began to verbalise my thoughts. I finally lost it when I began to talk to my stick - or Monsieur Flaubert as I named him. Crazy as it sounds it was nice to share the experience even if it was with an inanimate object.
M.Flaubert and I climbed further until we reached La Flegere with its ski lift providing hikers with access to many glacial lakes. There was no snow to be seen and the lift and restaurant were closed. Still no people in sight and it was mid morning, I had the place to myself.
I was now in the Reserve Naturelle Aguilles Rouges - Red Eagle Nature Reserve. Birds of prey wheeled overhead. I was unable to identify the species so let's just say they were red eagles. A rocky path climbed ever higher past multiple rock cairns draped in colourful flags and Ibex grazing on the coarse grasses.
Eventually we arrived at the high point of the day's route - Lac Blanc. Snow had gathered in crevices around the shore of the crystal clear lake. I built a small snowman and then located the trail path heading back down as the rain began to fall.
At the foot of the climb another stunning lake reflected the mountain range and was bordered by yet more golden larches, stately pines and the bright robin red of Rowan berries. I now found myself half way between the two towns of Vallorcine and Argentiere.
There didn't seem to be a bus stop on the main road. A group of women were heading to a nearby car park and I asked if they were returning to Chamonix. Nervously looking at one another they admitted they were, but that the cars were full. What to do? I decided to say goodbye to M. Flaubert. Maybe he was not helping my cause - a bit wooden? I left him to accompany another hiker or trail runner later in the day. Maybe he had already been across the same trails numerous times with other tourists.
I began to walk back towards Chamonix with my thumb out. Hitch hiking old school style. To my surprise a car pulled up just ahead of me. A couple beckoned me in to the back seat and we managed to communicate with their minimal English and my practically non-existent French. I managed to remember Je m'appelle Adam et j'ai douze ans. (My name is Adam and I am 12 years old.) Shows how long ago I learnt French.
Olivier and Chloe were from Verbier and had been visiting the area. They gave me their number and invited me to stay with them in the future. We were soon back in Chamonix. I had run/hiked 10.5 miles and managed 4560ft of climbing and it was only lunchtime.
Time for a coffee and then another adventure. I'd had my eye on the Vertical KM challenge. Basically you run 1000m in height as quickly as possible i.e. in the shortest distance. Chamonix has the perfect trail for this. It is basically straight up the mountain beneath the Brevant ski lift. It looks like this:
Seemed like a good idea at the time. Killian Journet - aka King of the Trail Runners - ran a VKM in under 30 minutes. How would I do? Was his crown for the taking? Only one way to find out.
I'm 30 minutes into the climb. My legs are on fire. I can't breathe. I feel dizzy with vertigo. I've run out of water. Am I near the top? No. No Adam you are nowhere near the top. In fact you are barely at 300m. I hear Killian laughing somewhere in Norway. This is hard. I want to stop and go back down, but the fear of descending on these treacherous and precipitous zig zag paths fills me with more fear than continuing upwards. 'Don't look down' I say to myself. If only M. Flaubert were here to help me.
After an hour I am two thirds of the way to the top. I sit before casting a glance back and down. The cables stretch from the valley floor towards me, over my head and up into the clouds. Looking up I can't even see the ski lift station. I'm thirsty, but there'll be no water until the top and even then the cable car lift is closed. I find an apple and demolish it. Push on.
Just a short distance from the top the path changes. I have been ascending on rock strewn dirt trail, zig, zag, zig, zag. Now I was faced with a boulder to scrabble over. Nothing to catch me if I fall and nothing to grab onto. A long, painful descent awaits if I slip. No health and safety features here.
I sit there for what must be 10 minutes frozen by vertigo. Eventually I tell myself to man-up. I have no choice. I block out all thoughts of where I am and what could happen if I fall. It's just me and the rock. Placing both hands on top of the boulder I leap onto it and scrabble over. I grab another rock higher up to steady myself and see that above that is a rope leading up a steep rock face. Without engaging my brain I just go for it. Hand over hand, breath gasping, pulse racing.
And that is how I got to the top. By turning off my brain. I almost kissed the ground with relief when I stepped onto the viewing platform. My head spun and I was parched. It had taken me three times as long as Killian Journet.
The run down was much easier. After accosting a young hiking couple to give me a sip of their water, I began to run down a much steadier gradient. I was back on the wooded slopes and could relax. The adrenaline wore off and I even found an Alpine stream to refill my soft flasks. The chilled water refreshing my body and soul.
Back at the lodge I rewarded myself with a beer and reflected on an action packed day. 17 miles run and 7600 feet climbed. It had been an adventure, and there was more to come on day two.
