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In unforgiving circles it is known simply as Cursed Mountain. Though benign in name and appearance, Mont Blanc – White Mountain – has killed more climbers than any other mountain on earth. The annual death toll regularly passes 100, and for every person who’s died on Mount Everest, it’s figured that more than 10 have died on the European Alps’ highest mountain.

The weekend I arrived in Chamonix the familiar, macabre tale continued, with nine climbers killed on the slopes of Mont Blanc. In a rare phenomenon it rained above 4000 metres and in the freezing conditions the water turned to ungraspable ice on the mountain. Climbers fell to their deaths attempting the equivalent of scaling of a glass skyscraper.

For this reason I was not climbing the 4807-metre monolith, but walking around it. The Tour du Mont Blanc, a 200-kilometre trekking circuit around the massif that dominates the Western Alps, is undoubtedly one of the world’s great treks, some have said the greatest. The entire Alpine landscape is encapsulated in the valleys, passes and mountains that crowd its rim. Throw in a touch of Himalayan-style grandeur in the presence of Mont Blanc itself, and the reasons for the raps are obvious. Les Houches, a 15-minute train ride from the evergreen French resort town of Chamonix, is the popular and appropriate starting point for the Tour. At 1008 metres above sea level, it has significance as the lowest point of the trek. I took the popular course out of Les Houches – anticlockwise. That way, it’s said, the views will become steadily more impressive each day.

The first morning brought mixed blessings, a tedious slog onto the mountain then delivery into a carpet of lupins along the edge of the dirt-grey Bionnassay Glacier. It was from here that the first attempts to climb Mont Blanc were made in the 19th century. Tracing the line of the glacier between the impressive Aiguille du Goutier and Aiguilles de Bionnassay, a clear path seemed to point directly to the summit. Mont Blanc appeared deceptively attainable from this low point.

A pair of Englishmen, Ed and Paul, plodded ahead of me, laden like sherpas, faces gleaming with sweat. The packs on their backs, their boots and tent bore a showroom sheen – Ed and Paul’s last stop before Chamonix had been their local camping store. The pair were veterans of ‘tough-man’ outdoor trials and the London Marathon but trekking was new to their repertoire.
“This is a lot bloody harder than the marathon,” Ed complained. Ten more days stretched before him like eternity.

To picture the course of the Tour, you might imagine Mont Blanc as a giant, splayed starfish. Walking around it you must climb up and over each of the starfish’s arms. Valley, col, valley, col... By the time I completed the walk I would have climbed more than 10,000 metres, enough to have summited Everest from sea level with Ben Nevis as a warm down.

Over the next couple of days I wrestled with doubts about those who had trumpeted ever-improving views. Out of the Bionnassay valley, Mont Blanc had slipped from view, obscured by smaller peaks of the massif, and the path dipped into the obscurity of the valleys.

But as I rose onto Col de la Seigne late on the third day, everything changed. Here, on the French–Italian border, I was treated to my first full-length view of the massif’s eastern side. In the distance the Miage and Brenva glaciers, resembling roads of loose mountain rock, seemed intent on devouring the Courmayeur valley.

As I stood admiring, a familiar, fast-breathing steam engine approached from behind.
“Bollocks!” Ed dragged himself onto the col. “That’s all I’ve got to say. Bollocks to this walk.” Together we pushed on for Courmayeur, Chamonix’s poor Italian cousin.

The next morning I set out early from Refuge Bertone, located just off the ridge of Mont de la Saxe, above Courmayeur. A broth-like morning mist threatened to ruin the day, but it was just the curtain for a grand show.

Midway along the ridge the high cloud parted while the low cloud remained balled in the valley. The icy fins of the massif poked through into an unblemished sky. I snapped a couple of ambitious photos, knowing to expect disappointment – it would have taken the combined expertise of Corot, Monet and Turner to even touch at such beauty – but it was a scene I couldn’t let pass without trying to capture it as forever mine.

Literally and figuratively, there was only one way to go after this high point. Down. And down in this case was Switzerland. From almost the moment we crossed Grand Col Ferret (racing to the top in a petty attempt to humble a French tour party that had noisily ruined our previous night’s sleep. On a climb listed to take 135 minutes, Stuart, an Englishman I had teamed with, clocked 45 minutes) the walk changed character. It stopped being a mountain trek and became a casual stroll through typically Swiss milk-maid country.

At rare intervals the massif revealed itself, dramatic as ever, but distant. Chocolate-box-perfect Les Arlaches and Issert might have been the prettiest towns of the circuit but I’d not come to see towns. I wanted Mont Blanc back.

When it did return, at the exact moment I re-entered France, I began to understand the value of the Swiss stretch. Had Mont Blanc been laid out in ever more spectacular fashion, as promised, there would have been the risk of eventually taking it for granted. Instead Switzerland, in its tranquility, had refreshed me for the Tour du Mont Blanc’s coup de grace, the Aiguilles Rouges.

This mountain range, a natural reserve separated from Mont Blanc by the Chamonix valley, was what everybody meant with all that ‘improving-view’ stuff. They were simply saying, the finish is outstanding. The Aiguilles Rouge was the final arm of the starfish, a solid climb beyond 2500 metres until I was eyeball-to-eyeball with the Cursed Mountain’s pale face and its road-map of glaciers. With a valley and a line of towns holding me from Mont Blanc’s curse, it was the most comfortable of views. I’d circled the mountain and witnessed its quiet might, temporarily suppressing my climbing itch. The London Marathon sounded easier.

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