Given how busy it gets now, it is almost impossible to imagine a time when there were no climbers or mountaineers on Mont Blanc. But until 1876 when Mont Blanc was first climbed by Jacques Balmat and Michel G. Paccard it remained a mystery as to whether there was a even route to the summit. With today’s modern clothing and equipment and the benefit of the knowledge of so many that have gone before there seemed to me no good excuse for not making it the top except perhaps my own lack of ability. Within the next two days I would know.

We awoke feeling fit and another warm day in the valley greeted us. The sun reflected from the snow dome of Mont Blanc, beguiling in its serenity and combined with the distorting effect of foreshortening and the pristine mountain air the summit appeared almost within arms reach.

Everyone breakfasted and we met by the minibus at 9am. Squeezing our packs and our very overdressed selves into the bus, we drove the few kilometers to Les Houches. Collecting all our gear and stepping on to the telepherique to meet the tramway at Bellvue station I was acutely aware of the difference in aspirations of the ‘normal’ tourists around me enjoying the warm sunny views and our own more heady goals. However, waiting in the sun at Bellvue the mood remained very relaxed before the rickety mountain tramway took us to the final assisted altitude at Le Nid d'Aigle (2,386m) about 15 minutes later.

We began the long twisting trudge up dry rocky pathways in the sweltering heat and finally I felt we had started the journey proper to the summit of Mont Blanc. The scenery was vast and open behind me but I did not really appreciate the views, concentrating instead on the regular and familiar crunch of boots on loose stones. Several times turning a corner we came across small groups of beautiful Chamois deer standing close by the path but just out of arms reach. They probably guessed by our heavy breathing that they could outrun us with ease and looked regally down their noses as though we ought not to be there.

Gradually my Swiss Army knife altimeter nudged toward 3,000m – so, being thoroughly British I slipped it into feet display to watch the transition to 10,000+ feet. It was like being a child again, riding around the block on my bike for the first time. I was loving every moment.

Just over a 100m further up and we stop for a rest at the Refuge du Tete Rousse (3,167m.) This wooden hut is perched on the side of the mountain and seems to be leaning over the edge in a most precarious manner. With a number of bunks and a rather well equipped take-away food counter it reminded me a little of a quainter wooden version of the Snowdon café. Several other climbers were huddled in groups outside, sipping tea or coke and eating one of the delicious French pies while taking in the view. There were patches of snow around and sitting still we quickly cooled down.

The Refuge du Tete Rousse

The next section to the Refuge de l'Aiguille du Gouter  (3,817m) where we intended to spend the night is only a kilometer horizontally but 700m higher. The ground started loose and steep with short sections of scrambling until rounding a corner gave us our first full frontal view of the infamous Grand Couloir. Although I had read plenty about the couloir’s hazards I was surprised by two things: firstly it didn’t appear to be very far to cross, perhaps 50 or 100m but secondly the debris field below spreading out hundreds and hundreds of meters made it very clear this was a seriously active part of the mountain.

The first yell of ‘belooow’ from above preceeded a minor flurry of pebbles tumbling down. On their way the cascade grew, dislodging ever larger blocks. This chain reaction eventually caused some boulders the size of small car engines to bounce unpredictably from one side to the other of the gully at incredible (motorway) speeds spitting off splinters of rock as they collided. Obviously this was indeed a dangerous spot. There was a queue of climbers hoping to scramble uninjured across the narrowest part which was about 50m wide while dodging natures excellent impression of a bowling alley. There were several flurries of stone fall thanks to a combination of the careless footing of those higher up and the warm day releasing rocks trapped in the softening ice. Our turn came to cross.

Roped up but without crampons the coulour seemed to slope sixty degrees to my right and as we crossed I felt incredibly exposed slipping on the ice and desperately hoping for a clean scramble across. Nothing unfortunate happened and we all crossed safely although there were many screams from above warning of impending rockfall while we traversed. I pitied Roger in front of me on the rope and behind Robbie – if a well-aimed rock had fallen he would have been hung out to dry while Robbie and I sprung in opposite directions and pulled the rope taut – a lesson here: never be the middle man on the rope!

The infamous Grand Colouir - looks safe enough in a photo !

There is two paths across the coulour but even once across there is the danger of stray rocks so we chose the upper crossing near the overhead cable (which I believe is a waist high safety line during the winter) and scrambled up onto the ridge out of the worst of harms way as quickly as we could possibly manage.

The next few hundred meters was a breathtaking scramble up good rock along the ridge. At times it was exposed but not overly. Unfortunately much of this route is spoiled by a steel cable threaded via ferrata style for those that prefer a firm handhold. I steadfastly refused to use this feeling that it somehow meant I would be cheating in spite of the fact that today’s first 1000m had been via cable car and tram.  A rather grim crucifix on one section indicated this place could still be treacherous and to stay alert.

 A long scramble to the Goutier hut

I don’t know whether is was my over-average weight, lack of acclimatisation, lower fitness than the others or extra effort taken to not use the rope handhold, but whatever it was I found the last hundred meters or so to the Goutier hut very hard going indeed and was panting furiously for air at every movement. With a push and a shove a French guide and his client forced their way past me shouting “vous client est morte” to Matt who was waiting patiently a few feet above me. While under any other circumstances I may have agreed with his sentiments, he did not know about my resolve to climb this mountain and it spurred me on to the platform of the Goutier hut.

Of our group, I was the last to arrive at the hut, I was freezing, struggling to catch my breath and my heart was pounding furiously. I collapsed into a nearby filthy bunk, suddenly feeling very hungry I ate the tuna sandwich I’d carried up from the Chalet and then slept until supper. Totally renewed from my rest I joined the others on the balcony overlooking one of the most fabulous views I could imagine. Below was the debris field of the Grand Coulour fanned out dramatically with a steady stream of climbers still to be seen inching their way up the ridge. To our left a mile or so away, a massive wall of immaculate snow and ice topped by a massive and darkening sky.

Matt had been telling horror stories all week about the squalor and germs that thrived in the overcrowded hut and just how many times it had caused him to have serious stomach upsets. So it was with trepidation that we settled down on the long wooden benches for the forthcoming evening meal.  The feast started with a garlic gruel followed by a boiled French sausage floating in polenta slop. It smelt, looked and tasted revolting. However, knowing that I would need the calories the following day I forced myself to eat it, notably Matt who was still trying to convince everyone that the hut housed every conceivable and foul illness known to man also ate his. Roger managed his sausage and a couple of spoonfuls of polenta - along with the illness earlier in the week and in spite of a good performance so far I thought that this was going to prove too little to eat before a hard summit day – a day that even the guides admitted was by far the hardest part of their week too.

We went to bed early, around 9pm having watched a magnificent sunset and planned to start at 2am to summit at sometime around dawn. In spite of squeezing 12 people into a bunk designed for 6 and sleeping head to toe with complete strangers, I quickly went to sleep.