#56. Chamonix, France: June 24 and 26, 2025

This would be my third trip to Chamonix in four years to visit Julie Hernandez, who rents a small house for two months each summer at the foot of the Massif du Mont Blanc. Weather permitting, the three full days would allow for two hikes in the area.The previous year Julie had taken me on a “reentry hike” to le Vallon de la Pierre à Bérard, as I put my recovering knee to its first test seven months post-injury. This year I was feeling somewhat more confident about my knee but suggested to Julie that she prioritize distance over elevation gain (long was OK, but not too steep).  Given the literally hundreds, if not, thousands of hiking options in and around Chamonix, Julie refused to repeat anything we’d done before. She was also trying to live down the now legendary “warm-up hike” of 2023, a 7-hour excursion with 4600' elevation gain, which practically did me in before the main hike started the next day.

Her decision was the Grand Balcon Sud. On the morning after my arrival, we headed out at 8 AM and walked to the base of Planpraz, where a cable car transported us up to le Brévent, thus avoiding the 3-hour ascent that we had done on the warm-up hike two years earlier. As fellow passengers pushed into the cable car, several carrying rounds of climbing rope, carabiners clipped their belts, and helmets strapped to their backpacks, I smiled as I mentally compared this excursion to the one two days earlier in the Netherlands, where we never got above 400 feet. I was quickly reminded of how energizing it is to be in a place where one is surrounded by very fit people decked out in athletic gear, no small number with white hair. Couch potatoes need not apply.

The weather was glorious and the scenery sensational. We were surrounded by snow-capped peaks with spires and needles jutting into the bluebird sky. The paragliders with their colorful sails crisscrossed gracefully through the sky against the backdrop of the Massif du Mont Blanc. We got off the cable car at le Brévent. Julie needed to take a call from her brother, and toward the end, I shouted out, “Say hi from me.” Ludo’s reply: “Jane, it’s a trap. Get out while you can.” (Implication: you never know what you’re getting into with Julie as guide).

The first hour of the hike was by far the most challenging, but very manageable. Julie had feared there might be snow on the trail, and indeed there were several short but well-trampled snowfields. For good measure, she lent me her micro spikes, which increased the chances I’d stay on my feet as I crossed them.

We encountered a set of metal ladders that required a backward descent, but that too went smoothly. We did have to scramble up, down, and around several rock formations, during which Julie took my trekking poles to allow me greater freedom to find solid handholds on the rocks. Before Julie had time to say it herself, I verbalized her constant refrain in these situations: “lean into the mountain.”

Julie pointed to the steep slope that ran perpendicular to ours, on which we could see the profile of hikers edging their way across the top. “That’s what kids in Chamonix do for P.E.,” she noted. We mused on the fate of the poor child born in Chamonix who didn’t have an athletic bone in their body or any interest in the surrounding Alpine playground.

Little did I know that the rest of the five-hour hike would be, if not a walk in the park, a walk along a long rolling trail, with the Massif du Mont Blanc ever in our line of sight. Julie and I fell into easy conversation on multiple topics: our plans for hiking Katahdin in late August, my worries about Candelaria, who was in her 10th day of hospitalization back in New Orleans, and my upcoming trip with Katy to visit our grandson Liam and his parents.

Julie found herself providing a bilingual information service to fellow hikers along the way about trail options, snowfields, and the best buvette for a mid-hike crêpe.  We stopped to rehydrate with electrolyte-laced water and consume high-calorie snacks that would keep us moving forward. 

The excursion was uncharacteristically devoid of drama until the final hour. We had crisscrossed several times with an Indian couple who were on the same route, so it wasn’t surprising when we came upon them as they navigated a tricky part of the trail. Julie, ever in mountain-rescue mode, immediately sensed that the wife was in trouble. We stopped for a few moments, after which Julie urged me to go on. The trail was well marked, and my going ahead would allow us to make better time overall, while she attended to the couple. Suddenly, I felt like a grown-up, given the green light to hike on my own for a stretch. (Julie knows my propensity to get lost.) Some 30 minutes later, we rendezvoused at one of the few snack bars open this early in the season.

The husband insisted on buying us a drink, and we learned what had happened. He was an anesthesiologist, she an OB/GYN celebrating her 69th birthday. They were visiting the area from their home base in England. Apparently, the husband was a competent hiker who enjoyed a challenge, whereas his wife, “who can walk forever on a flat surface,“ had a problem with heights. His way of dealing with her anxiety was to bark out commands that she focus on the stunningly beautiful scenery rather than her fears. Soon after we met up, Julie whispered in a quick aside, “My main role there was to avoid a divorce.” Our cold drinks hit the spot, given that the temperature had risen to the high 80s by midafternoon. We watched in disbelief as the Indian couple, who had also been on the trail for five hours, shared a small bottle of wine to quench their thirst. Julie surmised that tourists to France believe that the French drink wine all the time, so to fit in with the local culture, they order wine, which they might never have done in a similar situation back home.

By 3 PM we had a decision to make. Did we want to hike an additional 8 km (5 miles) round trip to Lac Blanc, a highly frequented tourist location, or did we want to call it quits and take the cable car down? Julie would do either; I weighed the decision with three factors. Would I risk aggravating my knee, which, to my disbelief, had given me almost no problem the entire hike? Might we get rained out on our second excursion two days later, given the dicey weather forecast? And might my trip to Chamonix get cut short if I needed to return urgently to the US because of Candelaria’s situation (thus the need to squeeze every minute of hiking out of this excursion)? FOMO kicked in, and I told Julie that I was in. As we were heading toward the trail, Julie said, “Let me just check one thing.” Five minutes later, she returned with the news that this was not going to work. The last cable car would descend at 5 PM, and if we missed it, we’d be walking down an additional 3 miles to Chamonix. The decision was instantaneous; this hike was over.

We headed down in the cable car, caught the local train into town, detoured past the Maison de la Montagne for Julie to complete an errand, and walked back a mile to Julie’s house. We showered, laid out a plate of delicious fresh vegetables, French bread, and cheese, and nibbled happily as we reflected on a great excursion. 

Chamonix never gets old. 

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Between the two excursions, we had an impromptu social gathering chez Julie with a friend and Tulane colleague (also French-American) Dauphine Sloan, her sister, and niece. Years ago, Bill Bertrand had hired Dauphine to join the Tulane faculty for her expertise in international development. She and Julie were long-time friends, and I had guest-lectured in her class this spring. She and her sister happened to be visiting Chamonix while I was there and were on the same trail to Lac Blanc two days earlier, but we hadn’t crossed paths.

Apparently, the 81-year-old sister had taken a tumble, and her daughter, well-connected to the transport and rescue community in Chamonix, was able to get the cable car operators to make an additional run after closing to get her back to safety. The small gathering of other hikers caught unaware by the 5 pm deadline happily crowded into the cable car to take advantage of this unexpected bit of good luck for them.

The rosé and quiche were delicious.

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We hoped for a second excursion the following day, weather permitting. The forecast suggested the possibility of showers in the afternoon, but we decided to take our chances. We’d previously hiked from west to east on the Grand Balcon Sud, so this time we started at the far end of the valley to hike east to west. Destination: Lac Blanc (which we’d decided not to attempt two days earlier). We took the bus through the Chamonix valley, descending at Montroc. Julie had to make a game-day decision on the trail: shorter but much steeper at the start or longer but more gradual?  We were an hour into the hike on the latter when Julie admitted that she’d forgotten it would have a series of metal ladders. No problem. The trail was considerably steeper than on the previous hike, but again manageable.

At one point, we reached a 20-foot narrow ridge of rock that required hikers to edge across it sideways. It looked more challenging than it was, thanks to the metal bars bolted into the rock that provided handholds. I insisted that Julie take a photo of me on it to send to Will Smith, my PT specialist. For months, he had me walking backwards, forwards, and sideways, carrying a dumbbell or bouncing a ball while maintaining my balance on a 1’ x 4’ foam pad, precisely in training for this very moment.

With equal parts joy and relief, I was euphoric that the many months of PT had paid off. I felt a confidence in hiking that had alluded me since injuring my knee 18 months before. As I blathered on about physical therapy (“my Medicare-supported preparation for Chamonix”) while standing on a ladder, Julie replied, “less talk, more climbing.” She appreciated my newfound confidence but was mindful of the forecast.

Julie’s rescue services were not called into play on this hike, but we passed several couples who had bitten off more than they could chew. Said the husband of one Chinese couple in broken English, “very dangerous.” We got the question to which we are now accustomed: “Are you mother and daughter?"

I continued to guzzle large amounts of my water treated with electrolyte tablets that had passed the expiration date (Julie was not amused). The chocolate bar from Delta and half a banana gave us extra energy as we neared the highest point on the trail. A fellow hiker snapped this photo of the two of us, which perfectly captured our elation of hiking in such an exquisite location.

The drama for the excursion would come in the final 90 minutes. As we made our way toward Lac Blanc, the skies darkened. Across the valley on the Massif du Mont Blanc, the peaks were entirely enshrouded in menacing clouds, and thunder clapped in the distance. Julie attempted to provide some reassurance. “When it rains on one side of the valley, it doesn’t necessarily cross to the other.” Fat chance, I thought. We donned our rain jackets and picked up the pace.

On arriving at Lac Blanc, the ostensible destination, Julie reacted to the swarms of tourists encircling the lake. In less than three minutes, we snapped the obligatory photo and hit the trail, ever mindful of the dark skies. In the final 45 minutes before returning to the cable car, we got a smattering of rain with a flicker of lightning. But Julie had been right: the major storms stayed on the other side of the valley.

We consulted on our plan: would we walk an extra three hours down to Chamonix from our position a mile above it, or would we take the cable car en route to a delicious late lunch at a terrace restaurant in Chamonix?  Within minutes, we were on the cable car, swinging gently back and forth as it inched down the mountainside. The quick walk through downtown took us past several tourist shops, where I was able to stock up on the necessary trinkets to take home to those watching vigil over Cande. As we settled into our chairs at the Boccalate restaurant, the skies opened with torrential rains for 10 minutes, but by the time we finished our delicious salade de chèvre chaud, the sun was shining for the 20-minute walk back to Julie’s house.

Over the past 18 months, I would constantly ask myself: “If given the opportunity to climb Mount Katahdin (in Maine) tomorrow, would I take it?”  In addition to its tremendous sentimental value, it represents the upper limit of what I believe I could responsibly attempt. At the end of the two excursions in Chamonix, my answer was an enthusiastic yes. This was not a hypothetical notion, since we already had the necessary parking space reserved at the Abol campground for August 25, two months away. Julie’s final comment as I departed Chamonix by bus for Geneva was, “Don’t let anything happen to that knee!”

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