Arriving in Chamonix after a beautiful flight into Geneve, spotting the Mont Blanc massif from the plane window, felt like such a quintessential hiker experience. The Alps were surprisingly the mountain area in the West I’d explored the least – with only a road trip in 2007 (when I was a 12 year-old petit pois) on my record. It was high time to conquer the mountainous heart of Europe.

The Haute Route was a convenient choice for limited annual leave, given last year’s whopper, 500km on the GR11. But for the first time since the John Muir Trail in 2017, I wouldn’t be going alone. Dad is an Alps fiend, having lived in Switzerland and trekked there his entire adult life. He was solidly overweight, 67 years old, and had done zero training despite my constant nagging. He was rearing to go.

Chamonix is beautiful, bustling, blindingly bright on a sunny day from the snow reflected down from the Mont Blanc massif. Europe’s adventure capital, with prices as high as the peaks crowning it. Dad and I had a joyful reunion in the sunny square, and an enormous lunch before setting off up the cable car.

Today’s route: we opted for the much more scenic treeline-level option tracing the mountainside rather than the valley floor route to Argentiere. Already at the top of the cable car the views were out of a fantasy book. Glittering white peaks, lush green grass, and blue skies 360. It was the platonic ideal of alpine scenery. I was vibrating with adrenaline and dragged dad down the wide path. And so the adventure begins.

14.00 is late to start a hiking stage, but the mountains lay bathed in the most beautiful early afternoon sunlight as we made our way through blueberry bushes on gentle earthy trail. The trail was heavily trafficked by sporty looking families and other hikers with impressive backpacks. This section of the Haute Route followed the Tour du Mont Blanc route, its more popular and slightly shorter cousin, traversing France, Switzerland, and Italy around the massif.

By the time we got to la Flégère cabin, it was clear that we’d have to make a direct route to our destination for the night in time for dinner. This is the major downside of staying in booked accommodation – unfortunately a must in the Alps – dinnertime is set. This meant bypassing the iconic Lac Blanc, one of the major highlights of the whole route. Bummer. But the trail still grew more beautiful as it climbed up past the treeline and into the mountains, a groomed dirt ribbon among white rock and lush shrubs.

Only when the shadows grew long did we begin our descent back down the valley, losing nearly 1000 altitude metres on knee-crippling slopes. This was the first time my knees had ever gone bust on day 1. However, the true test was when the trail became vertical ladders gripping sheer rockface. Dad had developed a fear of heights after becoming a parent, and between that and navigating the ladders with a considerable belly, we both had quite shaky legs coming down into the shady valley.

Once on the road, we emergency-hitched a ride with a young father up to Le Tour where dinner was already on the table. Fit-looking French and Swiss people of all ages (although I noted a much older clientele compared to my other hikes) were gobbling down salad, sausages, and potatoes. To my delight, we shared a table with a chatty Pennsylvanian couple who had hiked the Appalachian Trail and were now finishing the Tour du MB. The hiker world is full of sweet coincidences – and of sweet treats, dad had packed an enormous slab of my favourite Norwegian milk chocolate with salty pieces of Dorritos. Long live Smash. Every Norwegian reading this is nodding in approval.

Day one of the 2023 adventure complete!

 This first morning on trail was already a taste of the temperamental Alps. We weren’t 20 metres outside the door before rain began pelting down. Distant thunder clapped as we sought refuge under a roof. Luckily this first storm came and went in time for us to enjoy a hazard free chair lift ride up to Col de Balme, leaving France behind and entering Switzerland.

The Col is a famous pass for crossing between the two countries, but once at the top, I took one look at the horizon and knew we were in for more trouble. Dad wanted to continue, but my hard-earned lessons on the GR20 placed safety above all. Within 15 minutes of arriving at the hut, the whole pass was engulfed in a complete whiteout. Thunder boomed, rain whipped the windows, and we could barely see the green grass on the ground below the window. Two dozen other hikers had taken refuge inside the dining area too, and we all sat munching brownies and drinking terrible coffee for a solid hour before the storm finally abated.

A soggy descent ensued down into the Trient valley. This perpetual up and down motion would be the norm for the whole trip, the Alps aren’t exactly known for their level terrain. We made our way down below the treeline all the way to the valley floor, where we immediately began the climb back up towards the Trient glacier – regaining all the altitude we’d just lost. I outpaced dad on uphills more than anything, and hiked ahead to the Chalet du Glacier, a small stone hut serving food (in the middle of nowhere, as you do in the Alps). Officially the first time I’ve ever had a kombucha at this altitude! In front of us lay the enormous climb up to Frenetre d’Arpette alongside the Trient glacier, which looked half-eaten by climate change.

At this point I was beginning to realise with some panic what it would really entail to hike with an overweight senior hiking partner. Dad was barely putting one foot in front of the other and stopping every few steps to catch his breath. It was a torturous pace, much harder than power-blasting up the hill. I told him I’d wait for him further up the pass, which he wasn’t too happy about – but I need momentum to keep me going. The climb was horrifically long, and at one point a small chamois (mountain buck) hopped out on the trail followed by her mother right in front of me, the three of us scaring the living daylights out of each other.

The enormous Glacier du Trient cascaded down the mountain in front of me as I heaved myself up the near vertical climb. At long last, the Frenetre d’Arpette, a tiny gap in the mountain.

The view was stunning, but again we were late for dinner. The stages were taking so much longer than I was used to, and I knew that my best bet was to race down from the pass to reach the hut in time to hold food for us. But that would mean leaving dad to navigate the boulder field by himself. Dad has a lifetime’s worth of trekking experience, and I made my choice to power ahead. Knees crunching, I hopped between the huge boulders, down the path and back into the forest. The sun set behind the mountains, and I rushed through the twilight.

Arpette was another sizeable hut specimen in the middle of the forest. It was buzzing with hikers of all ages, already finishing up their main course when I tumbled in and begged them to serve us separately. Dinner was no impressive affair. I still can’t believe how much these mountain huts charge for the most basic course of rice and bland stews. I waited and waited, no sign of dad as I slowly chewed through our dinner and everyone else trickled out. When he at last came in, he was anything but happy at having been left behind – while I staunchly defended my race to save our evening meal. Predictably, food cured some of the grumpiness. I still worried at how mismatched out paces were, considering that my enjoyment of hiking largely stems from feeling powerful as I eat up miles at a blazing pace. But darkness was already falling, and we didn’t even have time to stretch out our stiff legs before we fell into our dorm beds for the night.

We woke up feeling… canned. The air inside the dorm room (which we shared with two other men) was stale, we were stiff as sticks from the arduous day before, and the weather was grey and misty again. I thought back with longing to Corsica, Spain, California, and the seemingly eternally sunny New Zealand. I knew the Alps weren’t known for stable weather, but I’d still thought hiking in August would have given us a solid shot at sunny days.

Oh well, today was but a shortie – a very early “nearo” (almost zero because we were doing so few miles) where we would head off-trail to visit my dad’s longtime friend who lived in Sion and had a mountain chalet in Fionnay.

We headed down into the boot room to collect our boots and poles, and a dead moth fell out of my left boot. What a gruesome death, surrounded by foot stench. We plodded down the broad forest trail as tendrils of mist snaked across the pines.

It was only a couple of km down to Champex Lac, a picture-perfect mountain village by a calm lake. Families fished in the still morning water, flowers spilled out of every bed, as cute as it gets. Getting to Fionnay by bus would be quite an ordeal, so we tried our luck at hitchhiking. We probably looked as non-threatening as one can. A young woman accompanied by her pleasantly elderly father.

This day truly was a testament to the kindness and generous spirit of not just the Swiss, but of travellers. We hitched with a Swiss farmer to the neighbouring valley. A Turkish family that barely spoke a word of English then drove us miles out of their way to the next town. They gave us watermelon and hugged us even though we stank, we waved at them until they passed out of sight. Our last hitch (the most difficult one, we had to wait a whole 10 minutes), was with a sporty-looking couple in their 50s who also drove us two villages past their original destination and promptly delivered us at Pierre’s doorstep.

Pierre and my dad met on their high school exchange to Cleveland, Ohio. The most formative experience of dad’s life thus far, he still sees his host family ever year and stays in touch with the friends he made. Pierre and his wife Sylvia kept lively company, with three daughters, 3 ½ grandchildren, and the adorable golden retriever, Toffee, populating the spacious chalet.

They took us to the nearby dam, a stunning hike in the hot afternoon sun. All there was to do come evening was to inhale the raclette cheese and snuggle soft dog before loading up for one of the heftiest days on the whole trail.  

 Pierre dropped as off at the bottom of Le Chable ski resort. Two cable cars (another wild expense) took us to the top of Les Ruinettes, where today’s alternate trail route started. We’d decided to take a high-level alternative over three passes, marked with the hardest walking grade in the Alps – blue and white. Grassy banks of a water race offered splendid views of the iconic Grand Combin, a snowy diamond across the valley to the southeast. Dad oohed and aahed at the magnificent views as the trail crept up through ski slopes in their lush summer coat towards Cabane du Louvie.

The trail shot straight up towards Col de la Chaux, a steep narrow slit in the mountains with rocky snow fields on the ascent. Dad was freaking out about falling on the snow, but at this point I’d had to reconcile myself to the fact that I couldn’t hike the trail for him. He always got grumpy about me charging ahead, but I simply couldn’t keep his torturous pace. The top of the pass offered stunning mountain views, and a guy hiking in tennis shoes, who pointedly ignored me staring and shaking my head.

A knee-crippling descent led into a stone basin with wildflowers growing between the rocks. I would have loved to swim in the mountain lakes, but I knew our pace would once again challenge dinner hours, and we still had two more cols to go. Col de Louvie was a shorter climb, but brutally steep, and even I had to stop and shake out my legs multiple times. I couldn’t bear to stop at the top, and headed into the enormous basin on the other side. La Grande Desert was decorated by green mineral lakes and braided rivers, a perfect lunch spot under the blazing sun. Norwegian chocolate enters the scene. Heaven.

We picked our way among the milky green lakes and hot rocks of La Grande Desert. Aptly named, it was a moonscape of grey and green. I let myself drift ahead of dad submerged in thought. On yesteryear’s thru-hike I had been heartbroken, this year I was furious. Worn down to the bone by indifferent, immature, emotionally constipated men who didn’t care who or what they smashed up with their selfishness. Dating in your mid and late 20s was an actual joke. You’d see men at 36 on dating apps claiming they weren’t looking for anything serious (but they obviously wanted kids at some point). When you’ve got 5 years of hair left, you might wanna start thinking about addressing those commitment issues.

Last year after coming back from the GR11, I thought I’d struck gold. I finally met someone who seemed like everything I’d ever wanted, and who was also inexplicably like me in ways I’d never thought I’d find. I was dizzy with relief that the chase was over, that I too could finally settle down with someone who appreciated me for who I was. Fast forward 6 months, I ended the relationship he had initiated with an actual divorce party to celebrate being rid of his manipulation. The man I thought could be my forever turned out to be someone who turned everything about me, even the parts I was most proud of, into problems. I was inadequate in every way, hidden from his family, and made to doubt everything about his commitment. Tim claimed I wasn’t intellectually curious enough for him because I didn’t listen to Sam Harris podcasts on my thru-hikes (a comment I thought a lot about when I guest lectured at Oxford University a few months later). Fuck him totally, I thought blackly, as I stabbed my poles into the stony ground.

Dad was struggling with the narrow gulleys up towards Col de Prafleuri. This was a whopper of a trail day, but I was on fire and desperate to surge ahead. Coming up over the col, I was greeted by one of the best views I’ve ever seen on any hike. Vast mountainscapes, and a basin of braided turquoise rivers stretching all the way into the horizon. Such a feeling of victory. The sign to Cabane de Prafleuri said 1 hr 15 minutes. But I was unleashed. I ran down from the high pass, bounded over the rivers, and reached the stunningly located  hut in 25 minutes. Eight years of thru-hiking, and nothing ever really beats the feeling of flying, of being so powerful that you almost transcend human limitations and become part of nature itself.

Prafleuri was stuffed with hikers, the food was terrible, the dark old dorm gloomy and dirty. 100 CHF per head. Switzerland was ridiculous. But nothing could take away from the sun setting beyond the peaks around us. Glinting gold on my wrist was my leaving gift from the company I’d worked at since I came back to London in 2021 after graduating university. A beautiful slender bracelet with the ending of wild carved into it in elegant cursive. How wild it was. To let it be.

 We woke before our alarm to an enormous boom of thunder. Every single time I hear thunder, I’m instantly transported back to my horrible last night on the GR20 in Corsica, when a huge thunderstorm seemed to rip the mountain apart. I hated storms now, to the point where thunder in London bothered me. I curled up into a pretzel hoping that it was one single angry cloud passing through. But of course, no such luck. By the time everyone was up and gathered in the main room of the hut, it was as dark as night outside. Black skies and black moods. This day’s trail went over a pass just beyond the hut, traced the long Lac de Dix, before traversing Pas du Chevres, with rickety ladders over Col de Riedmatten. In other words, the last possible place you’d want to be in a thunderstorm.

We waited, we pondered. The forecast was grim. A group of American hikers in their 40s with their jazzy French guide pondered whether to hike the standard stage or take an emergency route past the dam at the end of Lac du Dix and get busses to Arolla. One of the blonde women loudly proclaimed to be directly descended from Vikings (ahem), for all the good it did her in that moment. A big group of Japanese hikers walked out to climb the pass. Dad rested his judgement on my expertise for this decision. I’d really looked forward to this day along the pretty lake, but there was no way in hell I’d want to be on Riedmatten if a storm struck. Once you were between the passes, there was no way out. I stepped out of the hut and tentatively walked in the direction of the first pass.

No sooner had I walked the initial metres from the hut, when a giant crack of thunder boomed from the pass above. I spun 180 degrees and stalked right back in. The Americans stared. I proclaimed that we were taking the escape route. They scuttled after us. When in doubt, follow those with the most expensive health insurance. They want to live.

The escape route was a quick valley stroll to the dam, down to the trailhead car park, where three different busses took us down the valley and back up the other side to Arolla. Skipping stages always feels like a bit of a failure, but as we climbed up towards Arolla on a narrow road, rain pelting down, a fierce bolt of lightning struck directly on the Pas du Chevres on our right. Everyone on the bus went dead quiet. I learned later that the lightning had unleashed a rockfall right on the pass, almost killing an Irish hiker. The big Japanese group made it safely. But I remain firm in my conviction that adventure and real risk are two very different things, and I know which side I will always fall on.

We ended the day in our quiet little mountain hotel, with pizza and ice cream sundaes for dinner like true hiker trash.

Pleasant morning in our mountain hotel, where gear had dried on every surface overnight after a wash in the sink. A light dusting of snow coated the high peaks around us. It felt decidedly summery in the valley as we made our way along a forest trail zigzagging the road. Across the valley lay the enormous Dent Blanche mountain, its peak still hiding in the early morning cloud.

The hike itself wasn’t much to report. A miniscule 10 km took us all the way down into the valley where we’d bussed up the day before, through wet fields and even wetter forest. This was the first time since day 1 out of Chamonix that dad and I had hiked together the whole way. We talked about my grandparents (both deceased, when I was 12 and 19 respectively) and his upbringing. It transpired that every single family member except dad himself, from great uncles downward, had suffered from mental health issues. Having been on antidepressants myself for nearly two years at this point, I was hardly surprised. Ill mental health is, like many other illnesses, hereditary. While some people might find it demoralising to constrain oneself to genetic baggage, to me it also elevated the burden slightly. At least my fried brain wasn’t entirely my fault.

Pretty Swiss villages lay scattered at the bottom of the valley. Big flower beds spilled out over wooden chalet railings, a kitty licked itself and meowed for a pet. It was all very charming, although the highlight was obviously the big Coop grocery store in Evolene. Crispy puffed quinoa and freeze-dried raspberry dark chocolate? YES. Avocado, smoked salmon, fluffy sourdough bread? YES. A big punnet of blackberries and strawberries? YES.

We lounged around outside with our culinary treasures while sun and clouds crept across the sky. This thru-hike was so short, it was crazy to think that we were halfway through our days already. And it didn't really feel like wilderness – more like a walking holiday at a crippling price point. Dad started sweating every time we received the bill at restaurants, and I could only be grateful that I could live off him for this trip. Anyone attempting the Haute Route on a regular budget would have to bring resupplies in from overseas, a simple steak & fries meal could set you back nearly 100 CHF. The Swiss also didn’t seem overly fond of vegetables – somewhat surprising given their otherwise healthy outdoor culture. Cheese and meat in vast quantities aren’t exactly the dream diet for hikers who rely on vegetal fibre to counteract all the chocolate and trail snacks.

An easy day before tomorrow’s biggie!