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[Our morning weather as we leave Elisabetta] |
We left Rifugio Elisabetta, and walked downvalley
towards a slight haze that I supposed marked the distant town of Courmayeur. We
would be dropping down almost 1000m to this busy town. In my imagination – and
perhaps I missed today’s briefing from Julie – it would be a long but pleasant
descent to a town that promised rest and refreshments.
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[Early in the day: a view downvalley towards Courmayeur] |
I may also have
been beguiled by our surroundings. For someone trained in earth science, but
living in a place in which
arêtes, nunataks, cirques and moraines are but vestiges
of long-gone glaciers, it was dizzying to be somewhere where these were still
active components of the landscape. It was as though I’d stumbled upon trolls hurling
rocks and snow at each other as they fought over a mountain range.
At the end of the
steep Vallon de la Lée Blanche, our
path levelled out as it met a lateral moraine coming off the Glacier du Miage. That moraine took the
form of a steep, gravelly bank, now partially forested. As it barged its way
across the path of the small stream we were following, it dammed the water
flow, creating a series of ponds and lakes in which the towering Mont Blanc
massif was now wonderfully mirrored.
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[Mountain reflections in a moraine-dammed pool] |
Beyond here lay the
broader Val Veny, its terminus close
to the town of Courmayeur. But our path, we soon learned, wouldn’t follow the
Doire river downvalley. Instead it would climb sharply 350m or so up to terraces
on the southern flank of Val Veny.
We felt less
annoyed by this seemingly unnecessary climb when we saw that the easier downvalley
route would have been on a road. Instead we were rewarded with an ever-varying
set of views across the steep valley towards the Mont Blanc massif’s southern
bulk. And beyond that, to the east, we began to see the Grandes Jorasses. Their edge is marked by the towering Rochefort
Ridge, and its dramatic aiguille, La Dent
de Géant (“The Giant’s Tooth”), which nature writer Robert Macfarlane
described as “a caffeine-stained fang”.
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[Looking north across the Val Veny] |
While traversing
this steep and spectacular edge, I began to wonder whether our capacity for
marvels might diminish with exposure, in some kind of “familiarity breeds
contempt” fashion. My eyes provided my answer. Without consulting me, they just
kept turning mountainward. That said, a person can only keep walking for so
long and, regardless of what my eyes thought, the rest of me was mightily
pleased when we finally reached a series of inns and rifugio. One of these offered some humbler wonders in the form of food,
drink, seats and tables.
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[Always steep; always spectacular] |
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[Yes, the traverse has precipitous edges!] |
The day had become
hot, and I dearly hoped that in this Italian inn, I would find limonata – surely one of Italy’s best
(soft) drinks. When my broken Italian finally broke through (the bar staff had
thought I wanted generic lemonade, rather that the proprietary Sanpellegrino limonata), they could only produce a
different brand of lemon fizz. Perhaps thirst breeds the opposite of contempt,
but before the end of lunch, I’d downed two cans of whatever form of lemon
drink it was.
After lunch we had
a choice. From near the rifugio, a
chairlift could take us down to Courmayeur. Would we be purists, and go down
with Julie and Nikita? Or would we be pragmatists, and rest ourselves by taking
this brief, mechanical short-cut? Had this been a pilgrimage, with a
certificate signifying you’d walked the whole way, I probably would have
walked. It wasn’t, and I didn’t. I gladly caught the chairlift, along with
several others of our group. But let it be said, nearly half our group trudged
down the steep track into Courmayeur.
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[A chairlift's-eye view of our hardcore walkers] |
After our ride, while
we waited for the hard-core walkers to join us, we had a couple of tasks to
complete. One was to find Joan, who had rested in Chamonix, and was to rejoin
us in Courmayeur for the rest of the walk. The other was to simply enjoy
sitting in a café, and letting the town buzz around us while we enjoyed a bit
more food and drink. (Dietary guilt had long left us to our own devices,
knowing that we were burning off more calories than we could take in.)
Despite some mobile
phone issues, we eventually met up with Joan near the bus station. She was
looking dangerously refreshed and raring to go. But first we had to wait for
the rest of our party. We did some back-of-the-envelope estimations, and
thought it may another couple of hours before we heard the tell-tale clop of
mule hooves. So we were pleasantly surprised when the rest of the party arrived
a little before that.
Still, it was late
on a hot afternoon that we all left for the final section of the day’s walk. Our
task was to climb back from 1200m to almost 2000m. For those who had rested
this felt like a big ask; for those who had just come down on foot, it felt
cruel.
There was at least
some good news: the bulk of the ascent would be in shade, following the
ever-narrowing path from Courmayeur’s outskirts into a dense pine forest. Our
night’s rest was at Rifugio Bertone,
which sat near the treeline.
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[On the climb from Courmayeur to Rifugio Bertone] |
We pushed on. I was
trying to enjoy the resin-scented shade of the forest, and just put one foot in
front of the other, but the was effort was telling. Just when we noticed the
tree height lowering – a sure sign that you’re nearing the treeline – there was
a commotion from the forest below. Word soon reached us that Nikita, our mule,
had fallen. By the time we’d joined the concerned group that clustered around
the mule, she was back on her feet. It seemed she had fallen when her pack
saddle had become loose and unbalanced, tipping her down slope and onto her
back.
After a lot of
debate and discussion, a number of us volunteered to carry our own dry sacks
the rest of the way, to relieve Nikita of most of her burden. Apart from adding
to our own effort levels, it served as a good distraction. After a bit of
grunting and sweating and pausing to catch breath, we turned a corner, and
there was the refuge, just a little further above us.
Compared with the
spartan quarters and water shortages of our first night in Italy, Rifugio Bertone was wonderful. The
refuge’s full name is Rifugio Alpino G.
Bertone. It was built in 1982 to
commemorate Italian mountaineer Giorgio Bertone, who was killed in a light
plane crash near Mont Blanc in 1977.
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[Rifugio Bertone] |
After six and a
half hours of walking, covering 20km in distance, including 1250m in elevation
gain, we rated a hot shower as our number one need. And with four days of
similar toil under our belts, we also hoped we’d have the chance to wash and
dry some of our clothes. The rifugio not
only provided both, it added excellent twin rooms, a very tasty meal, and a
good selection of Italian wine to its credit. I decided it would have been churlish
to complain that they didn’t have limonata.
* * *
Hoofnote: Nikita arrived just after us, safe and seemingly
none-the-worse for her earlier mishap. She was given a wash, a rub down, and a
good feed before being let loose in a grassy alpage for the night.
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