Chamonix and the Urban Bivy

By Freddie Wilkinson 

"Your backpacks are very big, no? Surely you do not require so much equipment for such a grande course classique." I watched the gendarme's eyes move from our packs to our skis, then over Max and I, and back to our packs. The summary inspection was followed with an apathetic shrug, and then a dismissive, "As you wish".  

Outside the cafe, plumb raindrops bounced on the Rue De Pacard. We were, of course, in Chamonix: crown jewel of the French Alps, birthplace of alpine climbing, the world headquarters for all things extreme. One might confuse the scene — the arrogant locals, the wet cobblestone streets crowded with patisseries, cafés and lingerie shops — with any ordinary European city in March. But the fact that a traffic cop was dissing our climbing style tells you that Chamonix is anything but ordinary.  

People have lived in these mountains since the last ice age, some 10,000 years ago.  The wooded, pacific valley we were in with its elevation a modest 4,000 feet, once provided an ideal environment for pastoral and agrarian pursuits.  I say once because today the Chamonix valley is a bustling urban landscape that, according to one source, houses more than 100,000 people during peak vacation season. Imagine taking a town the size of Manchester, New Hampshire, or Charleston, South Carolina, and dropping it smack dab in the middle of the Central Alaska Range or the Khumbu Himal. Chamonix boasts a network of chairlifts, telepheriques, and trains that whisk the alpine commuter thousands of feet into serious mountain terrain, and deliver him or her safely down to the town’s lively bar scene in time for dinner. This unrivaled accessibility, combined with the limitless shopping and partying available in town, makes Chamonix the number-one mountain town in the world.  

Unfortunately, Max and I were stymied by this same modern engineering. The lift was closed. We had hoped to ride up the Aiguille Du Midi, a 9,000-foot miracle of engineering to access the steep ice and mixed climbs of the Mount Blanc massif.  In virtually any other place in the world, this type of terrain would require a multi-day, expeditionary approach.  In Cham, however, it's a half-hour cable-car ride.  

But the weather was crap, the lift was closed, and we had nothing better to do than loaf around town and wait for circumstances to improve. As we were building up a good caffeine buzz, Max noticed an acquaintance named Eric, who worked at the Gendarmerie. This is not to say that Eric spends his days writing tickets or tracking down robbers. He is part of a professional police mountain unit specializing in mountaineering. Such groups were originally created during World War Two, when the high-alpine borders needed to be defended from the Axis powers. These days, war is a distant possibility, but the French take it as a matter of national pride. So Eric's job is to climb, train with various other guide and rescue organizations, and generally project the perceived French superiority in all matters alpine. The bastard.