Flightster

The Englishman who went up a hill and ran away from a mountain

• by Jools Stone
• on December 16th, 2010
• 5 Comments

Chamonix Valley from Brevent, by John Williams of www.travelcrunch.co.uk

A friend of mine has a favorite saying: ‘I love work. I could watch people do it all day.’ I have the same relationship with mountains. There are few things I love more than marveling at snow capped mountain vistas, but I’m much happier looking at them, preferably from a train or a cable car window, than I am climbing them or hiking around them.

In my last flat I had an excellent view of Arthur’s Seat and the Craggs. Edinburgh really spoils us in providing such dramatic peaks so close to the center of town. There was something special about gazing on them from the comfort of my window seat every morning as I took what I call my Greek breakfast: a cup of strong coffee and a cigarette. Invariably there would be a cluster of little figures perched like ants high at the summit, come rain or shine (OK, it was usually rain).

Some years ago  I had the chance to test my mettle a bit. After all how can you say you don’t like something until you’ve given it a go?  I can’t pretend it was my idea. I was sent on a team building weekend with work to Chamonix in the French Alps. The weekend was an odd blend of gung ho outdoorsy stuff, touchy feely post match analysis and Olympic drinking sessions.

The reflective sessions were the most painful. After a long and exhausting day of physical activities we were cooped into an airless room for several hours of forced and cringe inducing pseudo self analysis. We sat in a circle and had to go round and share our reflections on the day with the rest of the group – what had we learned today and what are you thankful for, that type of thing. Almost everyone in the room couldn’t wait to escape to the nearest pub.

The course was led by a strange, vaguely shamanic Ex-SAS man called David. Self aggrandizing and overly earnest, he had a serious knack for swiftly making himself unpopular with our group. We bonded in our collective loathing of him, so in that respect he succeeded in bringing the team together.

With his patronizing disposition, disquieting thousand yard stare and paper thin veneer of calmness you could easily imagine him setting himself himself as some kind of cult leader, should the market for corporate team building suddenly dry up.  One of our group made the fatal error of arriving five minutes late for one early morning session. ‘You can’t afford to be late in the Army,’ he scolded solemnly, ‘it could be the difference between life and death.’

The outdoors activity sessions gave me all the self analysis I needed and put me squarely face to face with my manifold wussy shortcomings. We rapelled down a cliff face,  (well, some rapelled I took the ladder and rope option which tested my vertigo enough) walked over a glacier, took turns pulling each other out of ice crevasses, went on long hikes and tottered our way down a virtually vertical cliff face. This last one was the worst exercise for me.

As some of my more macho colleagues bounded down like frisky ibexes spying their last feed of the summer,  I was paralyzed with fear at times to the extent that our mountain guide even had to hold my hand for the steepest sections.

He was a revelation actually. A young, cool Aussie guy with a sensitivity belying the stereotype. I’ll always remember the gentle reassurance and encouragement he gave me. In the face of such extreme jessiness,  he continued to allay my dread and embarrassment, saying things like, ‘You’re doing really well. It’s easy when you’re not scared isn’t it?’ Even now I well up a little thinking about  his kindness, such is my manifest sissitude!

On the last day we were scheduled to go on a treetop assault course.  Myself and a mate sneaked off to the local auberge instead. When the rest of the team came back looking suitably battle scarred they told us about witnessing someone break their leg on the rope slide. We knew we’d made the right decision, and no one blamed us really. My colleague Mike pretty much nailed it: ‘So you’ve had enough fear and humiliation for one weekend eh?’

It wasn’t all bad though. I could happily return to Chamonix. It’s a charming and curious cultural cocktail, due to its  no man’s land location deep in the Alps,  with its picture perfect clapboard houses, scenic mountain railway, its spectacular peaks – still capped with snow even in balmy July – and easy going, multi national  apres ski bar scene.  There was also something pleasing about getting a packed lunch prepared for you every day.  It’s not every day I get to eat a hard boiled egg on a glacier.

In March I’m going to face those mountains again and have another go at testing the outer limits of my innate wussiness. I’m booked in to have my first ever skiing lesson at Le Massif, a pioneering new eco-friendly ski park outside Quebec, set up by one of the founders of Cirque du Soleil.

I hope my kindly old Antipodean mountain guide pops up. I think I’ll need him.  Wish me luck, send me some kendal mint cake and if I don’t make it back, please arrange for my ashes to be scattered on Arthur’s Seat… or at least my old kitchen window seat.

Jools Stone

Jools Stone's blog, He Thought of Trains, chronicles the highs - and occasional lows - of traveling by train in an age of budget flights.