"Alright, OK Andre?"
Filippo has just shortened the rope between us. I wrap it a couple of times over my shoulder and then check the closure of the carabiner in the loop.
There’s now about fifty centimeters between us, more or less. This way, we can run across without being dangerously far apart. I touch the helmet strap under my chin and then look up... more rocks... look how many are falling, thank goodness they’re small... otherwise we would have heard someone from above shouting "rock" or whatever else in any language, but we’d know what it meant. The important thing is to be loud enough for those below to hear.
Mont Blanc, French side, the normal route via Aiguille du Goûter. Finally, here we are at the entrance of the Grand Couloir, the gully infamous for the constant danger of being hit by stones dislodged by climbers ascending and descending its edges or by natural landslides triggered by the retreating ice that once covered its base, holding the stones in place.
I glance at the steel safety cable, so far above us and so useless... maybe at the start of the season, with the gully fully snow-covered, but today it’s of no use at all.
“Andre?” I take a breath.
“OK Fil, go.”
We set off, twenty, maybe twenty-five meters running with crampons on, sometimes on ice, sometimes on rocks and dirt, ears straining to hear any sound from above. I run, almost holding my breath, trying to glance uphill now and then. If something big comes down, we need to move together, either speeding up or slowing down, but together, because we’re roped in so close... We’re almost out... I feel dirt falling and small rocks grazing my legs, hoping nothing bigger follows.
We reach the rocky shoulder. I look up and see the near-vertical face of the Aiguille du Goûter that now awaits us. I can make out the colorful helmets of other roped parties winding their way up the route.
Up there, still so impossibly small, I see the glimmer of the roof of the refuge.
“Well done, Fede. See, this is us, where the little cairn is, and this dotted line shows the whole path we’ve taken…”
“Like Hansel and Gretel? Look, Dad, we left behind our little stones so we can find our way back if we get lost…”
I glance at the display of my GPS. The function is called trackback, and indeed, it’s thanks to storing the position of those “electronic pebbles” that the GPS can guide you home. How many times, during your solo climbs, have you used it to get out of trouble, right Andrea? Federica is not yet six years old, and she looks up at me, curious and eager for an answer, just as kids that age do.
“Yes, Fede, just like Hansel and Gretel.”
“And so, Dad, this is my mountain!”
In reality, we’re on a grassy mound, barely 2,000 meters high, but the small rise—due to its isolation—stands clearly marked on the map, though without a name.
I add a new waypoint on the GPS, marking our location. “Federica’s Peak, do you like it, Fede? We’ll call it that, OK?”
“That’s awesome! And we’ll come back here thanks to your little computer, Dad.”
GPS = “little computer that helps you do what Hansel and Gretel did.” Well, I’d say she’s got the gist of it. Federica sits down, happily sipping her juice.
“Dad, can I come with you to Mont Blanc?”
Mont Blanc?! What does Mont Blanc have to do with this now? Maybe I’ve been talking about it too much at home lately.
“Fede, I’m not sure I’ll ever climb Mont Blanc. It’s a very tall mountain, and you need a lot of luck to reach the top. And anyway, you’re still too little. To climb that high, you’ll need to wait until you’re a bit older… Plus, isn’t this peak where we are now beautiful? Aren’t you happy to be here with me?”
“How much older? I’m already big!”
“Well, I read in the Alpine Club magazine that it’s better to be at least 14…”
Now, she’s looking down… I bet she’s counting how many years she has left…
“Hey Fede, what are you thinking about…? You’re not upset, are you?”
“No, Dad. I was just looking at this little flower. Look how beautiful it is.”
Now it’s my turn to be careful not to dislodge any rocks.
There are people below getting ready to cross the Couloir, so I need to be very cautious and focused. No missteps, I have to move slowly and smoothly, watching carefully where I place my feet. Getting hit by a rock on the head isn’t pleasant, but being the one responsible for sending a rock down on someone else’s head isn’t exactly exciting either.
“Careful, Andre, not so abrupt. Move more steadily, or you’ll wear yourself out too much.”
And just like that, a nice cramp hits me right in the thigh. “Hold on, Fil, my legs feel like two boulders.”
The ascent is steep, but fortunately, conditions have been ideal so far—no ice, and the footholds are excellent. Three weeks ago, on the normal route of the Dom de Mischabel, I saw much worse. I remember that third-grade climbing section, and then that traverse across the void...
“OK, Fil, let’s go.”
Here we go, now the fixed ropes start. I know this route by heart from reading and rereading the descriptions hundreds of times. But wow, from here, it’s really “upright”... I glance at the roof of the refuge, we’re right underneath it now... A quick look at the altimeter, we’re just above 3,700 meters, only 100 more meters of wall, and we’ll be there.
I brush my hand along the steel cable. The route is well-equipped, especially on this final steep section. Better not look down. I wonder how it will be to descend tomorrow.
Filippo calls out, “All good, Andre?”
How does he do it? As soon as I hesitate, he notices right away, even though he’s ahead of me without even looking, just sensing a slight tension in the rope connecting us, caused by a delayed movement on my part.
I enjoy climbing with Filippo, I like this sense of teamwork.
“All good, Fil.”
The last twenty meters. Now there’s ice too, but we can’t put on crampons here. I pull myself up with my arms, and I’m on the terrace of the Gouter Refuge, at 3,817 meters. From here to the summit, “only” 1,000 meters of ascent remain.
“Look, Daddy, I made a drawing for you.”
The A4 sheet slips from her little hands into mine. The drawing is carefully colored with markers, and there’s even a kind of dedication written in uppercase letters: “Daddy Andrea. Federica.”
“That’s beautiful, Fede. You made it just for me?”
“Yes, Daddy. This is me, and this one holding my hand is you.”
“Wow, Fede, it’s amazing. And what a lovely mountain you’ve drawn. I can see we’re climbing it together.”
“See the snow, Daddy? That’s Mont Blanc. Since you say I’m too small to go with you, if you take this drawing to the summit, it’s like I made it too, right? There’s a lot of snow on Mont Blanc, isn’t there, Daddy? That’s why it’s called that, right?”
“Yes, Fede, there’s lots of snow up there. It’s amazing snow, it never melts. It’s glacier snow, meaning eternal snow.”
Satisfied with my answer, I watch her skip back to her room. I roll up the drawing and tie it with a small red ribbon. This way, it won’t get damaged in my backpack on that day.
“Good morning. We start the news by announcing that this morning, around 3:15 AM, a serac detached from the shoulder of Mont Blanc du Tacul, on one of the normal climbing routes on the French side of Mont Blanc. The detachment triggered an avalanche with a front of about 200 meters, which swept over the climbing parties passing through at that time. Eight climbers are missing, including two mountain guides.”
I’m still in my pajamas, holding Leonardo, who I’ve just finished feeding his bottle. I quickly turn off the TV before Fiore can hear. Leo giggles happily with his full belly, so I put him down to let him kick around, and I sit down.
My God, I was supposed to be there! At that time, in that place! Only a last-minute doubt about the weather made us postpone the climb to Tuesday, opting for the Gouter route instead of the Cosmiques.
The avalanche likely hit the first parties that had left the refuge. At that hour, those already below the Tacul shoulder are the ones headed straight for the summit—light and fast climbing parties, of well-trained people.
We would have been caught right in the middle of it. I can picture them waking up in the refuge... I know that atmosphere, the way you move in those cramped spaces, lit only by headlamps. The breakfast, the harnesses, the crampons, and off you go, hopefully under a sky full of stars.
They would’ve been walking for maybe an hour or so... I don’t think they heard much noise. They probably only had time to feel the cold gust of air displaced by the avalanche. A sea of snow and ice. Then, only silence.
I call Fil, who doesn’t know yet because he’s climbing in Gressoney.
“Andre, does your wife know?”
“No, I need to find the right moment... to explain to her... that we’re climbing from the Gouter and that there are no seracs there, that the objective dangers are fewer... I hope she’ll understand.”
The problem is, in the coming days, a flood of people will redirect to the Gouter route because the Cosmiques route will surely remain closed for some time, due to the rescue operations and the continued risk of more seracs collapsing.
Fil and I will have to be incredibly fast.
We’ll need to climb the Couloir early in the morning when it’s still in the shade. And especially the next day, after reaching the summit, we need to be out of the Couloir before everyone else and before the sun warms the ground too much, increasing the risk of rockfall.
“Fiore, when did you find out?”
“Today, from the radio. I didn’t say anything because you hadn’t brought it up yet.”
“Look, Fiore, everything’s under control. Fil and I never take risks, you know that, right?”
I see her manage a smile. She doesn’t want to be the one to force me not to go. I get up from the table, go to the bedroom, and grab Federica’s drawing of the two of us climbing a mountain together. It’s still rolled up, with the same red ribbon.
I don’t even unroll it, and I slip it just as it is into the top pocket of my backpack, so it doesn’t get crushed under the weight of the harness, crampons, helmet, and all the other gear.
I go back to her; she’s putting Fede and Leo to bed. She knows I’ve already made up my mind, and we don’t talk about it anymore. She also knows how much it means to me, and in the end, she understands a little. After all, we met in the mountains twenty years ago.
I feel immense gratitude for her smile. So quiet, so sweet.
“OK, Andre?” The weather conditions are perfect. We’ve just strapped ourselves into our harnesses outside the hut, with a sky full of stars, pulsing against the glowing backdrop of the Milky Way. “OK, Fil.”
We’re among the first to set off. Behind us, a string of headlamps lights up the other roped parties ascending in the night, and further below, the lights of Chamonix. The crampons bite into the ice. We’re moving fast, our pace steady, perfected through several acclimatization climbs.
We steadily gain elevation until our first stop at Col du Gouter, at 4,240 meters. Then we push forward, still under the light of our headlamps, to Vallot Hut, an emergency shelter at 4,362 meters. This is usually where people start to falter, struggling with the altitude and the sheer amount of elevation still left to climb.
Indeed, nearly 500 meters remain before the summit, which we can now just make out in the darkness of the night. I can clearly see the climbing route ahead, up the Bosses Ridge, first passing Grande Bosse at 4,513 meters, then Petite Bosse at 4,547 meters, skirting around the Eperon de la Tournette at 4,677 meters, before tackling the narrow and airy final ridge, leading all the way to the summit.
I catch a glimpse of the vastness of the glacier towards the Aiguille du Midi. I'm climbing Mont Blanc, my 27th 4,000-meter peak, and yet this immense expanse still manages to leave me speechless. This mountain is unique—it overwhelms you with its sheer proportions, makes you feel like nothing, makes you feel infinitely small.
We set off again, maintaining the same steady rhythm, one step after another. Meanwhile, to the east, a beautiful red glow heralds the approaching dawn. We pass the Bosses and the Tournette Rock. At 4,700 meters, I pause for a moment to check the altitude—higher than I’ve ever climbed before.
We turn off our headlamps; we no longer need them.
Another 100 meters, the last stretch. Our pace slows now, the lack of oxygen starting to take its toll, though fortunately, thanks to our training and acclimatization, I don’t feel any altitude sickness.
I realize I’m counting the steps that separate me from the summit. Roughly a hundred to go. I walk and count, count and walk, my eyes fixed on Filippo’s boots ahead of me, matching my steps to his.
99, 100, 101 steps… still a bit more to climb. We’re on the final ridge now, beautifully exposed though never truly difficult. To the right, the Italian side drops down towards Courmayeur; to the left, the French side descends towards Chamonix.
But… even the summit itself is surprisingly narrow. I expected more of a dome from the photos I’d seen, but it’s actually quite a sharp ridge. Then again, I remember reading that the summit of Mont Blanc changes shape depending on the year.
Even its height varies; it’s now back to being 4,810 meters after sitting at 4,807 meters for a few years. 150, 151, 152 steps…
Filippo stops. There’s nothing more to climb.
Filippo turns toward me. We hug. “Amazing, Andre... I’m happy... this is the greatest joy for a guide.”
“Amazing, Fil!”
I feel an indescribable joy; all the peaks I can see are lower than us, even those of the highest 4,000-meter summits I’ve already climbed—like the Dom in the Mischabel range and the Gnifetti and Zumstein peaks in the Monte Rosa, all above 4,500 meters.
Then I see Mont Blanc’s shadow stretching over France as the sun rises behind the Matterhorn.
An absolute silence, the same silence I felt at 3:00 a.m. when we set off from the Gouter refuge. I open my backpack and take out Federica’s drawing.
That’s when Filippo snaps a picture of me.
I’ve been here, I’ve been here with Fil. Now we have to descend. I turn for one last look at the summit. I can still make out our footprints in the ice. Then a slight gust of wind lifts some powder snow. And covers them.
by Andrea Olivotto
Altitude 4810
