arriving alone in chamonix with little more than a few days’ food, a coil of rope, and a piolet strapped to my rucksack, i stared up through the heavy veil of fog.  great glaciers blanket the jagged shoulders of mont blanc, and an early summer storm raged above the forested valley – pelting the wood timber chalets and flooding the already raging rivers churning through the sleepy mountain town.  two weeks to high season and this veritable mecca of the alpine climbing world lay deep in winter sleep.

wandering alone, my footfall carried me up through the shuttered storefronts of the high street, past the gingerbread façades of the gare du chamonix-mont-blanc, and up to the silent cemetery nestled against the sheer walls of the mountain at the far edge of town.

long lines of tombstones and countless placards there bear testament to generations of fallen mountaineers: young men and women, the chosen warriors of another age, who’d come to test themselves against the greatest summit of the alps.  so why do we climb mountains?  standing there before the grave of edward whymper, looking up at the cloud-shrouded summit of the mountain, the question burned like fire in my mind: why am i here?

there, amongst the graves of my compatriots, confronted with the reality that in just two days, i, too, would join the innumerable ranks of mountaineers before me who have answered the call of the white mountain – to return victorious to chamonix from the windy summit or to die in the attempt – i felt a nagging sense of my mortality which i’d seldom felt before in waking life.

so why do we climb mountains?  trudging through the scree up to the base of the tête rousse glacier, my kit heavy on my back, my mind churning over the risks and consequences of the climb ahead, i found myself no closer to an answer than i had been two days before.

3167 meters; 1:30 am on summit day.  my climbing partner awakens to wrenching stomach cramps and fatigue uncharacteristic of his constitution at an elevation such as this.  i stare out the darkened windows of the refuge, up at the twinkling constellations of an alpine night.  weather forecasts predict a three day storm front moving in tomorrow; it’s all or nothing: either risk a solo attempt of the summit or admit my fourth consecutive defeat of the climbing year.

risks and consequence.  i glance over the dozens of aspiring climbers sharing the mountain hut with me.  i watch them uncoiling ropes, repacking rucksacks, lacing mountaineering boots, and setting out.  do i dare to ask an unknown team to take me on?  more importantly, do i trust an unknown and untested crew to share responsibility for my life?

my eyes return to my own trusted partner, racked with pain and tortured by a looming sense of guilt.  “i’ll solo it,” i say.

with hundreds of other climbers on the move, the concept of ‘soloing’ the mountain is arbitrary at best, and when i look back up at the couloir, i see a line of headlamps zigzagging up the ridge like the fire dragon in a chinese new year parade.

i set my resolve, repack my kit, and head out into the night.

thirty minutes and several hundred vertical meters from the refuge, my stiff fingers clinging to the frozen face of the couloir and my crampons scrambling for purchase in the loose snow, the question returns to me again: why am i here?

the last stragglers of the first ascent groups have long since vanished over the ridgeline, and there i cling, buffeted by the mountain winds, suspended a thousand feet above the tête rousse glacier far below.

so why do we climb mountains?  four hours later, slogging up the bosses ridge, alone once more, a good hour behind the other climbers, most of whom are now on the descent, i look out over three thousand meters below to the green valley of chamonix.  summit ridge.  and there i am.  far above the mortal world.  higher than any man in europe.  there amongst the winds and clouds.  alone.

and as i look out into the too blue sky, over the distant peaks of italy and switzerland and france, i see a sight that sets my beating heart straight into overdrive.  a mounting wall of white moves across the valley from the west.  i watch in helpless fear as it engulfs the distant valley, engulfs the greener ridgelines far below me, engulfs the tête rousse glacier, engulfs the couloir.

blizzard.

several hundred feet below me, i watch the silhouettes of the last guided party disappear into the advancing clouds.  i shoulder my rucksack, don my balaclava, grip my piolet, and run.  i run down the bosses ridge at a speed i would have thought impossible to demand of my already over-taxed body just fifteen minutes before.  ambivalent to the hundreds of meters of exposure to either side, i run, my crampons gripping into the surface of the glacier, my piolet thumping to the frantic rhythm of my heart.  i run.  my eyes scan the swiftly vanishing trail of boot prints, impossible now to make out just a few meters ahead.  i slip and slide my way up and back down the petit boss, my heart in my throat, the adrenaline pumping through my veins: there’s safety in numbers, i tell myself, you catch up with that mountain guide, it’s do or die!

and then, out of the blinding white, a shadow moves: the guide.

“i don’t mean to make too bold,” i wheeze and pant, “i don’t mean to make too bold, but would you mind if i tag along for just a bit?  i’m all alone.”

he laughs.

as we plod down the mountain together, we swap tales.  american?  no points for me there amongst the french.  californian?  well, that’s different.  do i know yosemite?  i’ve been several times?  an instant friend.  this is his 67^th summit.  “shit conditions,” he laughs, but he has seen far worse.

as we summit the dôm du gôuter, the final big ascent of the down climb, he turns to me and we shake hands.  visibility hovers at a few meters, but with nothing but a gradual descent and one final push up to the upper refuge, i feel like i’m on the home stretch.

an hour later and a call in down to my worried partner at the lower refuge, i breathe a sigh of relief at last.  with the morning, i’ll have another six hundred meters of vertical rock to down climb in fresh snow and another six hour hike down valley, but i feel as though the worst is now behind.

4 pm.  i turn in for an early night.

after two days, two burgers, and many a heartfelt embrace with my still-shaken partner, i sit back and stare back up towards the dreadful summit of the mountain – now obscured by an indomitable crown of thunder clouds.  lightning rips across the valley, and torrential rains pour down.  i sip my tea.

“i wouldn’t have done it, mate.”  my climbing partner laughs and shakes his head.

“i wouldn’t do it again,” i say.

“yeah, i know, dude.  but at least you did.”

i nod my head.

so why do we climb mountains?  five days and 4807 meters later, i still find myself little nearer to answering that question.  i breathe deeply of the thick, oxygen-rich valley air.  i run my hand through my freshly shampooed hair and wiggle my toes in fresh, white cotton socks.

the enigma of the great mountains still eludes me, but as i sort my kit and repack for the long journey home, i feel an overwhelming sense of calm.  the higher summits present us, exponentially, with more chances to reassess ourselves.  they push us to the boundaries of self-reliance and confront us with the value of camaraderie.  the raw power of the mountain strips the fool-hearty of their pride, and when a sudden storm blows down out of the proverbial blue sky, we experience, as few of us will ever experience, the sheer power of nature and the incredible fragility of man.

the mountain called.  my eyes strain against the blanket of cloud cover.  mont blanc retreats into obscurity, and still my heart beats in my throat when i remember the sudden mountain storm.  leaving a broken shard of abalone on the grave of edward whymper, i think i understand a little more now what it means to mountaineer.

there have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which i have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind i say: climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end. – edward whymper

the memory of the white mountain is etched deep in my conscience, and the risks and consequences seem more present now than ever in my mind.