Europe > France > French Alps > Chamonix > Skiing and winter sports > Articles > Skiing the Vallee Blanche

We left Will at the mountain refuge with a Mars bar. In his state of advanced exhaustion, he looked forlorn. But a helicopter was on its way to collect him and we now had ourselves to think about. The sun had sunk behind the peaks which towered above us on every side, leaving a blue hue in this menacingly still world. The day was late and we still had several kilometres of crevasse-riddled glacier to cross in order to reach Chamonix before dark.

Our day had begun well enough. In the hire shop, midst nervous banter, we strapped on avalanche transmitters, fitted harnesses and slipped crampons in to our packs. Jean Marie, our guide and as gentle a man as you could wish to meet on the other end of a rope (on the vertical side of a mountain), tried to soothe us as we headed for the cable car.

The Vallee Blanche is Europe’s longest ski run, he explained, and in perfect conditions, it is an unforgettable high-mountain experience that shames piste skiing into comparisons with sports of lesser adventure, like curling. In imperfect conditions, it kills - 10 a year, to add to the 50 or so other climbers and skiers who annually drop off the peaks of the Chamonix valley. The run starts on the top of the Aiguille du Midi, a 3,842m rocky pinnacle on the shoulder of Mont Blanc, western Europe’s highest mountain and ends in Chamonix, the no-nonsense, mountaineer’s town nearly 2,000m below. It follows a long, treacherous swirl of ice rivers, quarter of a mile thick and pocked with unexpected crevasses and luminous, green seracs (ice pillars).

From the top of the cable car, the view is wonderful. The smooth white dome of Mont Blanc gleams enticingly, so close you feel you could touch it. In the other direction, the Alps stretch through a polar sea of rocky summits, ice and cobalt blue sky, across Switzerland to the Matterhorn, 80km away. Swallowing double lung-fulls of diamond bright air, we fixed our crampons and under Jean Marie’s calm instruction, roped ourselves together.

The first few yards of the Vallee Blanche are enough to make you wish you had chosen curling. Later in the season, edging down the ridge which leads to the first bowl is facilitated by a rope and glassy steps. In December, it is a precarious, white knuckle walk.

“Take care”, Jean Marie remonstrated, “one step at a time. Last year five British people died here.”

We peered to our left down the vertiginous face which descends uninterrupted from where we stood in a panting line, to Chamonix, a mile and a half below.

“They were good people,” he added by way of dubious assurance.

Beneath the ridge, we un-roped as the thrill of the walk sank in. Will looked more apprehensive than ever and we all took time to swallow our surroundings. Mountain chuffs glided nonchalantly by. Cathedral spires of brown rock and towers of ice made us feel minuscule. Yet despite their enormity and apparent indifference to our presence, the mountains have a fragile ecology which Jean Marie and his fellow guides encourage all skiers and climbers to respect.

After a short traverse, we breasted our first steep drop. The snow was wind-stripped and it hid surprise icy patches - the very worst conditions. Two turns in, Will fell and tumbled 40 metres, stopping only a skis length from the lip of a crevasse. With pounding hearts in our mouths, we all recognised our stupidity in encouraging an intermediate skier up here at this time of year.

Dave started making reparations by helping Will with his technique while the rest of us struggled to string turns together in the couloirs and followed Jean Marie’s tracks over crevasse bridges.

We reached the refuge three hours later. It should have taken half that time. Will was obviously too fatigued to continue and Jean Marie radioed for a helicopter while we anxiously ate.

Below the refuge, the descents got easier, and without Will, we made swifter progress. The helicopter flew over our heads as we reached the Mer de Glass, Europe’s longest glacier. We poled and lurched our way along this great ocean of ice, following tracks to keep out of the crevasses. Our legs were weakening, but we could see the lights of Chamonix twinkling in the twilight.

When we reached the town, it was dark. We kicked off our skis and walked uncomfortably to the bar. It would be a rowdy night, but for now we kept our silence, part in exhaustion and part in reverence for the mountains that had moodily tolerated our presence for an unforgettable day.

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