I was climbing with Max Turgeon, a young French Canadian alpinist (even younger then me!) who’s recently been downing hard alpine routes like a serving of Mamma’s meatloaf. Once the guy bites into something, he doesn’t stop until his plate is empty. This makes Max the ideal partner for yours truly, since I’m a bit lazy and prefer to climb with people better then me. It means I have to do less work — I recommend trying it sometime. Anyways, Max and I had already experienced a few snafus with the local public transportation: after an evening of revelry in town, we found ourselves stranded five miles from the chalet we were staying in (courtesy of Max’s girlfriend, Zoe) in the adjacent village of Argentiere. The trains had stopped. The buses had stopped. And, of course, no one would stop to pick us up. Finally we called a taxi, only to discover that it would be a 30 euro fare for the five-minute drive, a rate far greater then even New York. We kindly suggested the French cabbie could drive to hell instead. 

With a nonchalant shrug, Max started to walk home. It was 1:30 in the morning; I was tired, a little drunk, and not psyched to finish the evening with an hour and half journey up the moonlit Cham Valley a pied. Normally, in these sorts of situations, I resort to a tried-and-true solution I’ve relied on most of my life: throw a temper tantrum. But I knew that Max, my Quebecois ropegun, would think I was a total pud-knocker and probably refuse to go climbing with me. So I grumbled and bitched, but started walking. An hour later, a kind soul took pity on us and drove us the final two kilometers through winding avalanche tunnels to our chalet in the shadow of the Dru.