Ten Days Around a Giant – The Soul of the Tour du Mont Blanc
From the first cable-car launch out of Chamonix to the tear-streaked final descent eight stages later, we circled the Mont Blanc massif on foot: lungs burning up Col du Bonhomme, crossing invisible borders at windswept Seigne and Grand Col Ferret, sharing ridges with ultra-running legends during UTMB week, sleeping in stone refuges beneath star-drenched skies, trading French stews for Italian pasta and Swiss chocolate, laughing with new friends over aching knees and turquoise glacier lakes. Every brutal climb earned a view that stole breath all over again, and on the last morning the mountain finally revealed itself in full, blazing glory from Col de Balme—only for us to leap off a hillside and paraglide above the valleys we’d earned step by blistered step. Ten days of sweat, wonder, and the deepest kind of joy the Alps can offer.
Aug 24th: Day 1 of TMB
Chamonix to Les Contamines-Montjoie
The day began quietly in Chamonix, the streets just stirring awake, the air cool and edged with the smell of fresh bread drifting out from a nearby boulangerie. Over coffee and a croissant, I tried to steady myself for the first real stage of the trek. By the time we boarded the local bus to Les Houches, my pack felt heavier than I’d expected, though I suspected the weight was more anticipation than gear.
The Bellevue cable car whisked us upward, higher and higher until the rooftops shrank to toy-sized squares. From the windows, the Mont Blanc range unfolded in all its sharp, snow-crusted brilliance. I pressed my forehead to the glass like a child, hoping to burn the sight into memory.
The trail out of Bellevue climbed immediately. At first, we walked through damp, pine-scented forest, the kind that muffles your footsteps. Soon enough, the terrain steepened, and by the time we approached the Col du Tricot, my legs burned with each step. The Bionnassay Glacier appeared suddenly, a vast river of ice glowing in the morning light. It creaked faintly in the distance, as if the mountain itself was breathing. I paused often—sometimes for air, sometimes just to pretend I needed a photo, when in truth I simply couldn’t stop staring.
Crossing the col was like slipping behind a curtain into another valley. The descent was brutal on my knees, a switchbacking path that seemed to go on forever. Still, wildflowers pushed through the grass in defiance of the altitude—yellows, purples, and whites—cheerful markers guiding me down. Cowbells rang faintly below, a comforting, almost musical reminder that life went on steadily here, no matter how small or tired I felt.
Eventually, the path led us along a ridge built by Romans long ago. The stones were worn smooth and uneven, the bridge weathered but enduring. I ran my hand along the cool rock, thinking of all the centuries of footsteps that had echoed there before mine. That thought carried me through the final stretch to Les Contamines.
When the roof of Refuge Nant Borrant came into view at the head of the valley, I nearly laughed out loud from relief. Inside, the air smelled of woodsmoke and simmering stew. Dinner was hearty—thick slices of bread, soup rich with vegetables, and a plate of meat and cheese that tasted far better than it had any right to after a day of hiking. A simple apple tart arrived last, and I savored every bite, eating slowly so the day didn’t end too quickly.
That night, I climbed into my bunk with legs sore and feet blistered, but I felt the deep, satisfying fatigue of a day spent fully in the mountains. The quiet hum of voices from the dining hall drifted up, and beyond the windows, the valley lay in darkness, the stars clear and sharp above Montjoie. Sleep came quickly, like a stone dropped into water.
Aug 25th: Day 2 of TMB
Les Contamines-Montjoie to Les Chapieux
The morning began at Refuge Nant Borrant with the smell of strong coffee and bread toasting somewhere in the kitchen. My legs were heavy from the long march of the day before, but after lacing up my boots and stepping outside, the crisp alpine air shocked me awake. Ahead lay one of the most demanding days of the trek: a steep climb toward the Col du Bonhomme, followed by another push up to the Croix du Bonhomme.
The trail wasted no time in turning uphill. We climbed steadily, first through meadows where cows grazed lazily, their bells echoing in the stillness, then into rocky switchbacks where the greenery gave way to scree and stone. My breath came hard and quick. Each glance backward offered a reward—the valley shrinking below us, the village of Les Contamines reduced to a scattering of rooftops, the morning mist burning away as the sun began to warm the slopes.
The climb to Col du Bonhomme was relentless, a grind of step after step, but reaching the top felt like breaking through the roof of the world. Wind swept across the pass, cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of snow even in summer. There was no real summit sign, just a rough path winding onward, but the sense of arrival was enough to make me drop my pack and stand still for a long moment, letting my heartbeat slow.
We pushed on, another steep stretch leading to the Croix du Bonhomme, where jagged rocks framed a wide-open panorama of the Vallée des Chapieux. We stopped there for lunch, eating sandwiches with numb fingers while staring out across the ridges. The view made every aching muscle worth it: layer upon layer of mountains fading into the horizon, their outlines soft in the afternoon haze. I remember chewing slowly, not just because I was tired, but because I wanted to stretch out the moment as long as possible.
The descent tested me in a different way. The trail dropped steeply over loose gravel, and my knees absorbed every jolt. I leaned heavily on my trekking poles, focusing on each step while the valley crept closer. The farther we went, the wilder it felt—no villages, no roads, just wide pastures scattered with grazing sheep and the occasional shepherd’s hut.
By late afternoon, the roofs of Les Chapieux appeared, a small cluster of buildings tucked at the valley’s end. I felt equal parts drained and elated; the kind of exhaustion that wraps around you like a heavy blanket. Refuge des Mottets offered shelter for the night, and by the time dinner was served—pasta with thick sauce, hearty enough to refill all the energy I’d spent—I could feel my body slowly coming back to life.
That evening, sitting outside with a bottle of local beer, I watched the light fade from the peaks. The satisfaction of the day was simple but profound: I had climbed to the Col du Bonhomme, walked the ridge, and carried myself, step by step, into a new valley. Tomorrow would bring another challenge, but for that moment, I let myself rest, full and content in the shadow of the mountains.
Aug 26th: Day 3 of TMB
I woke in Les Chapieux to the faint bleating of sheep and the sound of boots scuffing the gravel outside the refuge. My body was still stiff from the long climbs of the day before, but the knowledge that we were crossing into Italy gave me a jolt of excitement. Over breakfast—simple bread, butter, and jam—I studied the map, tracing the route up to Col de la Seigne. The pass marked not just another climb, but the border itself.
The trail began gently through wide pastures, where sheep and cows grazed, their bells creating a low, constant chorus that carried through the valley. Gradually, the green softened into rock and snow. The air thinned, cool and sharp, and the ascent to Col de la Seigne turned into a steady grind. Each step took more effort, but the view unfolded in ways that made me forget the fatigue: wide meadows shrinking below, the peaks of the Mont Blanc massif looming ever closer.
At the top, the world opened suddenly. The Col de la Seigne stood bare and wind-swept, marked only by a stone cairn and a weathered sign. Crossing it felt momentous—one moment France, the next Italy. I stood there a long time, letting the wind whip at my jacket, marveling at how a single ridge could separate two countries yet share the same vast sky.
From there, the descent into Val Veny felt almost dreamlike. The first glacier lakes appeared like mirrors, their surfaces reflecting the jagged peaks and the shifting clouds above. Their color—impossibly turquoise—looked more like paint than water. We stopped at one to rest, dipping our hands into the icy shallows, the cold biting our skin. The valley stretched endlessly ahead, framed by mountains that looked sculpted by giants.
Rifugio Elisabetta appeared after about 45 minutes, perched on its rocky outcrop, overlooking the valley like a sentinel. We paused for water and a snack, but the pull of Courmayeur pushed us onward. Another 45 minutes of descent brought us to La Visaille, a tiny hamlet where a bus waited to ferry us the final stretch.
When we arrived in Courmayeur, it felt like another world entirely. The narrow streets wound between stone houses and lively cafés, and Italian voices floated through the air like music. I dropped my pack at the hotel and wandered into town, legs aching but heart light. That evening, I traded the hearty stews of the French refuges for a plate of pasta and a glass of Chianti, savoring each bite slowly, almost reverently.
Crossing the border had been less about paperwork and more about passage—through landscape, through effort, through wonder. As the sun set over Courmayeur, painting the town golden, I felt both humbled and privileged to be walking this ancient path, country to country, step by step.
Aug 27th: Day 4 of TMB
Courmayeur
Our rest day in Courmayeur turned out to be anything but restful—more of a different kind of adventure, one wrapped in history, adrenaline, and anticipation. The town, already charming on its own, buzzed with an electric energy. Tourists filled the cafés and boutique shops, but they were outnumbered by the dozens of crew members setting up for the upcoming CCC and UTMB races. Over the famed cobblestone streets, barriers were being assembled, banners raised, and runners jogged past with focused eyes, their minds clearly somewhere along the rugged ridgelines ahead.
Despite the gloomy, mist-laden weather, Courmayeur felt alive. We wandered slowly through the heart of town, ducking into bakeries and gear shops, absorbing this mix of quaint Italian alpine life and world-class endurance culture. It felt like standing at the intersection of two worlds—tourists savoring gelato, and athletes preparing for the kind of suffering most people can’t fathom.
By midday, we made our way to the Mont Bianco Skyway, an architectural triumph jutting out of the valley like something from a sci-fi film. The cable car itself was astonishing: a spacious, futuristic cabin that rotated 360 degrees as it climbed, giving every passenger an uninterrupted view of the surrounding ridgelines. Even with the clouds swirling around us, the ascent felt surreal—ice, rock, and sky blending into one sweeping panorama.
At Pointe Helbronner, we stepped out onto the platform, ready for that classic front-row look at the Mont Blanc massif. But the mountains were playful that day, hiding behind thick veils of fog, appearing for a moment only to disappear again. It became a game of patience—waiting, watching, hoping the clouds would part just long enough for us to feel small beneath the giant walls of ice.
After descending back into the valley, the real adrenaline began. I had signed up for white-water rafting earlier in the afternoon—a spontaneous choice that turned into one of the trip’s most unexpected highlights. I shared the raft with four local college students—energetic, loud, and hilariously unfiltered. The river was cold enough to bite through the wetsuit, and the rapids were full of chaotic dips and jolts. Water slammed against the raft, sprayed across our faces, and soaked us in seconds, but the laughter was constant. Each rapid was a shared victory, a mix of fear and joy that bonded strangers into teammates.
By evening, with my clothes finally dry and the adrenaline easing into a pleasant tiredness, we met the group for a big dinner—one of those meals that feels celebratory even before the food arrives. Plates of pasta, polenta, and hearty mountain dishes filled the table, and the conversation flowed easily. It was the perfect reset before returning to the trail the next morning.
Courmayeur might have been a “rest day” on the itinerary, but it felt more like a deep breath—full of excitement, warmth, and everything that makes travel unforgettable.
Aug 28th: Day 5 of TMB
Courmayeur to Val Farret
Leaving Courmayeur felt harder than I expected. The cobbled streets, the warm cafés, the simple luxury of an unhurried Italian breakfast—it was tempting to linger. But the mountains don’t wait, and with boots laced and pack adjusted, I set off once again.
The day wasted no time in demanding effort. The climb out of Courmayeur was brutally steep, and within minutes my shirt clung damp against my back. The path zigzagged upward, switchback after switchback, through shaded forest. My lungs burned, and more than once I found myself counting steps just to distract from the climb. But then, as if by reward, Rifugio Bertone appeared, perched high above the valley. The view from its terrace nearly stopped me in my tracks: the Mont Blanc massif rising in full, impossible grandeur, snowfields glittering in the sunlight, ridges cutting the sky like blades. It felt as if the entire range had unfolded just for us.
From there, the path followed the Mont de la Saxe, a balcony trail clinging to the mountainside. To one side, the sheer face of the Grandes Jorasses towered, so close and so massive it felt almost within reach. The air was cooler now, edged with the scent of grass and pine. We paused for a picnic lunch along the trail, unwrapping bread, cheese, and fruit while sitting on sun-warmed rocks. I ate slowly, letting the view sink into memory—the kind of view so vast it makes food taste better, laughter easier, silence deeper.
The trail undulated gently after lunch, each bend revealing new angles of the valley below. Wildflowers pushed up stubbornly through cracks in the rocks, flashes of color against the gray. My legs, though tired, carried me forward almost on autopilot, pulled by the promise of what lay ahead.
By late afternoon, Rifugio Bonatti came into view, standing proudly on its ridge with the Italian Val Ferret spread wide below. It looked almost unreal, like something from a painting—stone walls warmed by the sun, a terrace perfectly placed to watch the peaks glow in evening light. Inside, the refuge was warm and bustling, the clatter of dishes mixing with the low hum of conversation. Dinner was hearty—pasta, meat, and wine that tasted richer simply because it was earned.
That night, I stepped outside before bed. The sky was clear, a dome of stars spilling above the jagged peaks. From the terrace, I could trace the line of the trail we had followed, etched faintly across the slope, and for a moment I felt both small and infinite. The day had been steep, exhausting, beautiful. Tomorrow would bring more miles, more mountains, but for that moment, I let the quiet of Val Ferret settle into me like a blessing.
Aug 29th: Day 6 of TMB
Val Farret to La Fouly
Morning in Val Ferret felt almost too calm for a day that promised such a demanding climb. The sky was a soft blue, the air crisp enough to make me tug my jacket a little tighter as we left the refuge. My legs were still recovering from the steep balcony paths of the day before, but there’s a specific kind of energy that comes only when you know you’re crossing a major border on foot — today we would leave Italy behind and enter Switzerland over the Grand Col Ferret.
The path began gently toward Arp Nouva, following the valley floor. Cows grazed lazily in the fields, their bells echoing faintly, a soundtrack I had come to associate with morning in the Alps. But soon the trail tilted upward, and the climb toward the col began in earnest. It was one of those ascents where the switchbacks felt endless, where every time I thought I saw the top, the path curled around another ridge waiting to test me.
But then something unexpected happened — runners. The first CCC athletes appeared like ghosts on the ridge behind us: moving fast, impossibly smooth, barely seeming to put effort into the very incline that had me gasping. Their bibs fluttered in the wind, their faces tight with focus but still carrying a spark of something electric. And then, suddenly, the tiny cluster of hikers around me began murmuring; a name rippled up the trail before I even saw him.
Francesco Puppi.
He came flying around the bend — lean, controlled, and astonishingly fast for someone who had already run so far. His stride was long and fluid, almost effortless, as if gravity worked differently for him. We stepped aside to cheer, and he gave a brief nod, eyes locked on the trail ahead. Watching him surge up that slope made the mountain feel both bigger and smaller at once — bigger, because it humbled us; smaller, because somehow humans could conquer it with such grace.
After they passed, the trail felt strangely alive, as if the energy of the racers had charged the air. I found myself climbing with a little more purpose, a little more determination, carried by the thrill of what we’d just seen.
Near the top, the wind picked up, cool and sharp enough to sting the cheeks. The summit of the Grand Col Ferret stood exposed, a simple marker overlooking two worlds. One final push and we reached it: Italy behind us, Switzerland ahead. I turned back for one last look at the Italian peaks, then stepped across the border — not through a gate, not with a passport, just on my own two tired legs.
The descent into Switzerland was long and steep, a constant reminder that what goes up must come down — painfully. We wound into the tiny hamlet of Ferret, then down toward La Peule, an alpine pasture surrounded by rolling hills and thick forests that climbed the mountainsides in deep green waves. The air here felt different — quieter, softer, somehow more reserved.
A high traverse carried us above the valley, offering sweeping views of the forest stretching endlessly below. It was the kind of view that made the fatigue momentarily vanish, replaced by a quiet awe. But as the trail angled downward again, my knees began to protest loudly. The switchbacks felt never-ending, each step a little victory closer to rest.
Finally, the roofs of La Fouly appeared — a beautiful Swiss mountain village tucked neatly at the base of towering cliffs. Auberge des Glaciers was simple, warm, and exactly what I needed. I dropped my pack with a groan, stretched my aching legs, and for the first time that day, let myself fully relax.
At dinner, all anyone could talk about was the CCC runners — the sound of their footsteps, the determination in their faces, the stunning moment when the leader passed us. We had come here to hike, but unexpectedly, we found ourselves witnesses to something extraordinary — a reminder of what the human body is capable of when pushed to its edges.
That night, lying in my bunk with the window cracked open to the cool Swiss air, I felt the fatigue settle deep into my bones — but also a quiet gratitude. We had crossed a border today, climbed one of the great passes of the trek, and brushed shoulders with greatness on the trail. It was a day worthy of remembering.
Aug 30th: Day 7 of TMB
La Fouly to Trient
We left La Fouly behind with a short, sleepy bus ride to Champex—one of those impossibly picturesque Swiss villages that looks staged for a postcard. From there, we picked up the “Bovine Way,” an old trail once used by herders moving their cows to summer pastures, now a steady climb through forests, farms, and big alpine meadows that feel like nature’s amphitheater.
The trail wound past quiet chalets and open slopes dotted with wildflowers, and even though the day’s trek was gentler than the Grand Col Ferret, it still demanded steady effort: 750m up, 950m down, about five hours of hiking. The kind of day where your legs are working but your mind finally gets to wander.
But what made this section unforgettable wasn’t just the scenery—it was sharing the mountains with the athletes of the UTMB.
Not long after we set out, the thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades echoed through the valley. The UTMB broadcast helicopter appeared overhead and, almost theatrically, seemed to follow our route. For long stretches, it hovered above the ridgelines trailing the elite runners pushing through the same terrain we were crossing. Every time it swept past, the air vibrated with that mix of drama and adrenaline you normally only feel on race day.
Throughout the hike we saw runners—some fast, some steady, all relentless—powering through their own battle with the mountain. Watching them gave the day a kind of magic overlap: our slow pilgrimage alongside their full-tilt charge.
By late afternoon we descended toward Trient, the village glowing in soft pink evening light. And that’s when the energy hit us. The aid station in Trient was buzzing—amateur runners were rolling in, grabbing soups and snacks, refilling bottles, stretching, limping, laughing, and then—almost unbelievably—continuing on toward Chamonix to run through the night.
Standing there with our packs and trekking poles, legs tired from the day, we felt part of something bigger. Two journeys on the same mountain: one about endurance, one about experience. Both beautiful in their own way.
That night, tucked into La Grande Ourse, you could still hear muffled cheers outside as runners passed through the dark.
A reminder that in the Alps, the mountains never sleep—and on this night, neither did the spirit of the UTMB.
Aug 31st: Day 8
Trient to Chamonix
There’s a different kind of silence on the last morning of a long trek. Not the silence of dawn or altitude, but the silence of knowing it’s almost over. As we left Trient for the final stretch back toward France, the air felt heavier—not from humidity or effort, but from the realization that every step was now a last.
The day began with a steady climb through a dense forest, the kind where sunlight filters through in thin, shifting columns. The trail was familiar by now—uphill, rhythmic, meditative—but the emotions were new. Each switchback felt like a countdown.
Eventually the trees thinned and the world opened into broad alpine slopes. The wind picked up. The sky widened. And then, after one final push, the Col de la Balme revealed itself—and with it, the most magnificent view of Mont Blanc we had seen the entire trip.
It wasn’t the first time we’d seen the mountain, but it felt like the right time. Staring at that massive, glowing summit—the reason for the whole journey—felt like meeting the main character in the final chapter. The UTMB energy from the previous days still lingered in the air too, as if the mountain itself was cheering us through the finish.
Standing there on the pass, looking back into Switzerland and forward into the Chamonix Valley, it hit me how far we’d come: the climbs, the aching legs, the refuges, the laughs, the moments I questioned my life choices on slopes way too steep. But also the stillness, the joy, the shared awe. It was all there on that ridge.
The descent into Montroc was a blur—part fatigue, part gratitude, part disbelief that the trail was actually ending. By the time we reached the valley and stepped off the path for the last time, it felt surreal. We were done. Six countries’ worth of emotions packed into a 12 km day.
Back in Chamonix, after dropping bags at Pointe Isabelle and letting the reality settle in, I decided the only fitting way to end a trek around Mont Blanc… was to fly.
So I went paragliding.
Running off the hillside with the chute catching behind me was terrifying for half a second—and then suddenly I was weightless, floating above the valley we had spent days walking through step by step. From the air, the trails looked like faint threads on a vast tapestry. Mont Blanc towered above everything, serene and unbothered, as if the whole week had been just a small footnote in its thousand-year diary.
But for me, it was everything.
And drifting through that sky, legs dangling, wind in my face, I realized: there couldn’t have been a more perfect ending to an unforgettable journey.