After pedalling uphill alone through thick clouds of mist for quite a while now, I sit down on a stone at the edge of the path and wait for my two fellow riders Gunder and Seb. And as I sit there nibbling on my bar, the clouds slowly clear. Individual rays of sunlight now illuminate the rollercoaster on which I have travelled. The path winds its way through lush alpine meadows to the small rock on which I have settled. Oh God, that's not even a rock I'm sitting on! My heart skips a beat. It's actually the overhanging ledge to a 300 metre deep abyss. On the other side of the towel-wide path, a steep grassy slope plunges into the depths. This place looks more like a launch pad for base jumpers than a bike trail. My knees are shaking. Fear of heights at this very moment, in the middle of the French Alps! Okay, carefully take the bike and push it back towards the alpine meadow. This is definitely the most exposed trail I've ever experienced. Just as I feel enough solid ground around me again, a couple of hikers come along the path. Both around 70 years old. They stroll casually through the exposed section as if it were a pavement on a village street. "Bonjour!" I can't even reply, I'm so flabbergasted. What a whiner I am.
My long-time travelling buddy and photographer Grant Gunderson called me for this late summer trip. This time it would be to Europe in the Alps. A bike route on Mont Blanc, from one rustic mountain hut to another. No sooner said than done: we flew from Seattle to Geneva, got on a shuttle bus and arrived in Bourg St. Maurice after a two-hour journey. This small town is not necessarily familiar to us in the USA, but the names of the ski resorts around it are: Les Arcs, Tignes and Les Rosieres - there is hardly an American skier who doesn't want to go there. After another 30 minutes, we finally reached the Col du Petit St. Bernard. Hannibal is said to have crossed this 2188 metre high pass. Italians and Frenchmen fought here during the Second World War, and Lance Armstrong routed Schleck and Contador here during the Tour de France. Now we are standing here on the French-Italian border to meet our guide. Sebastian Nestolat is not a guide as such, but he has been roaming the mountains here since he was a child. Grant got to know him on one of his ski trips and arranged to meet him for this bike tour.
As soon as we get out of our car, Sebastian drives up. To greet us, he waves us straight from the car park into the alpine meadow and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm: "You've landed in one of the best trail areas in the world!" If you let your gaze wander over the mountain flanks, you can actually focus on the fine lines zigzagging towards the summit. A few hundred metres below us, the black bands circle around a small lake, then break up again into a network and disappear somewhere behind the next mountain peak. It's unbelievable how long you can follow the trails here with your eyes. In fact - is it jet lag that makes the mountains here seem so mighty? According to the map, the white peak of Mont Blanc over there on the horizon isn't even 5,000 metres high. Anyway, I can hardly wait. Let's get going!
That's the strange thing about the French Alps: although the mountains are so gigantic, every few kilometres you come across a valley with a town or larger village. It's only lonely here at the summit.
I'm planning a route that a friend of mine has already done on skis. From the Little St Bernard Pass around the flanks of Mont Blanc to Beaufort. It will take us three days and we will spend the night in huts along the way. I'm most excited about the latter, as many Americans returning from Europe rave about this managed hut system in the Alps. Only time will tell whether the trails on our route are all rideable. Sebastian only knows two thirds of the route. The rest is new territory for him too. We hurry to assemble the bikes and finally roll from the Col du Petit St. Bernard into the first trail. He takes us across a sea of bumpy alpine meadows down to the small Italian town of La Thuile. We are suddenly surrounded by a maze of street cafés, cars, motorbikes and tourists. "This is the last civilisation. From here, it's off into the lonely mountain world," promises Sebastian. Just a short climb up to a viewpoint, then a short descent and finally another climb up to the hut where we will spend the night tonight. That sounds like a pleasant programme for the rest of the day.
We cycle through mountain villages called Cretez-Jean and Orgères. At first, we hardly realise that we are going uphill because we are so fascinated by the 100-200 year old houses. They are made entirely of stone! But soon the distractions become few and far between, our conversations become scarcer and the end of the "little climb" is still not in sight. Step by step, I feel my strength dwindling. Instead of the noise of engines and people from La Thuile, our own panting becomes louder, the tyres crunch in the gravel and every now and then a cowbell rings.
We climb up to an altitude of 3500 metres and soon reach Monte Fortin, at the back of the Courmayeur ski resort. We are now heading towards a ridge path, at the end of which a white colossus slowly rises into the sky: the Mont Blanc massif. Like a patriarch, it dominates the surrounding peaks and the valley below, in which yet another town glitters. That's the strange thing about the French Alps: although the mountains are so gigantic, every few kilometres you come across a valley with a town or village. With 116 people per square kilometre, this is a stark contrast to Canada, where just four people live per square kilometre. Only when we reach the summit regions do we see nothing but mountains and trails. Incidentally, some of the latter were created here 100 years ago. This is probably the real reason for people here to go to the mountains: to finally enjoy the peace and quiet. The evening sun is slowly setting over the scenery, and we still have around 600 metres of altitude ahead of us. Although we make rapid progress on the flowing trail, it is almost dark as we descend the last few metres to the Les Mottets hut. Thick fog has rolled in, making it increasingly difficult to avoid the rocks and cow pats on the trail. After 37 kilometres and 1680 metres of ascent, we heave ourselves up the stairs to the hut at around 9 pm. Inside, we are not only met by the brawny stove air, but also 70-80 heads turn towards us. Hikers of all ages and from all continents stop off here on their way around Mont Blanc. It seems they have been waiting for us, the "crazy mountain bikers". The tables are immediately pulled together and we take our seats among the English, Japanese and Scots.
We stop at the Robert Blanc hut for a coffee and a glass of wine. Stops like this can take up to two hours. Nobody seems to be worried about their Strava times here.
The next morning, I feel like I'm waking up in a postcard. Huge glacier tongues hang over the rocks, just a few metres from our hut. Cow bells are ringing. After a typical breakfast of café au lait, baguette and jam, we start the second stage, which will take us 24 kilometres southwest on the Mont Blanc Trail before we deviate from the classic route and head for the next hut. We will cross the so-called Beaufortain area, which is famous for its Beaufort cheese. Pressed into a beechwood ring, the cheese matures for six to twelve months. Sometimes even five years. At least that's what we learn when we stop at one of the many cheese dairies en route. It's really funny: you just stop here and can buy cheese right next to the trail. The cheesemakers talk at you like a waterfall. Of course, we don't understand a single word, but it gives us the feeling that we've really arrived in the Alps. Another thing that would be unimaginable in the USA.
A cart track leads us on to the Tête de Sud Fours. Then a trail finally takes over again, but unfortunately uphill and so steep that we have to carry the bikes through rocky terrain at the end. As we cross the 2600 metre altitude mark, the Mont Blanc massif shines behind us and the Ville des Glaciers far below us. An amazing view that makes up for all the exertion. Now down a bumpy rocky trail, then we reach the Robert Blanc hut, where we stop for an espresso and a glass of wine. Stops like this can take up to two hours. You could really get used to this French way of cycling. Nobody checks their Strava times here or is worried because they only wanted to ride for an hour. No, you really do take a whole day or even several days off here!
According to Seb, our last stage includes the most ingenious trail in the region. However, there are still 1200 metres of altitude difference between us and this super trail. So it's going to be another tough day, with plenty of time to think. We crank up to Roche Parstire for hours. Somehow I feel like I've been travelling for weeks. When we finally plunge into the final downhill trail, the valley is already in darkness again. Soon the lights and noise of civilisation will suck us back in.
TOUR INFO:
The 3-day tour starts at the Little St. Bernard (2188 m) and largely follows the hiking trail (TMB, Tour de Mont Blanc). At Tête de Sud Fours, the route branches off towards the Plan-de-la-Laie hut and heads to Beaufort via Lake Roseland and Roche Parstire.
Guided tours: www-aostavalleyfreeride.com
