As I cull through my library of photographs to write this post, I'm struck by having stood in this place; having seen it with my own eyes, and in so many different ways.
August 2019
"Non, pas du tout."
No, not at all.
I answer the officer preparing the brethalyzer, when he asks me if I've been drinking this evening. I haven't. It's about 11:30 p.m. and I'm driving to Chamonix because I've decided, on a whim, that I want to hike up to Lac Blanc tonight and catch the sunrise. I've been pulled over at a roadside check for the first time in my almost four years in France, and for the first time in my life at that.
I blow a 0.00—well, after (I'll chalk it up to nerves) first having sucked the brethalyzer, giving the officers a good laugh.
"Non, il faut souffler! Comme des bougies!"
No, you have to blow! Like candles! The officer clarifies.
—and they send me back on my merry way to Chamonix, with yet another anecdote in which I make a fool of myself in France.
I arrive at Col des Montets around 12:30 a.m. and sit in my car for a while. The hike should only take me about two hours. The refuge is closed this summer. I imagine, rather naively, star-gazing at the top until the sun comes up. I adjust my headlamp and start walking. It's been almost one year since I last hiked here. It is profoundly quiet. My heart is pounding due to the sudden incline and the fact that I'm alone in a dark forest. The eyes of a bouqetin a few meters ahead of me glow in line with my headlamp. My mom calls me and asks what the hell I'm doing after watching my Instagram story. The adrenaline has me climbing at a clip, and after an hour, I'm comforted by a sign marking the direction of Lac Blanc. As I approach les Lacs de Chéserys, located below Lac Blanc, I spot a few tents. I'm not completely alone, but I'm certainly the only one hiking at this hour. I know I'm getting close when I reach a set of ladders. I switch off my light, let my eyes adjust, and it's as if I am climbing into the stars.
At 3:00 a.m. I arrive at Lac Blanc. The silhouette of the Mont Blanc Massif stretched out under the stars, folds over, reflecting off the lake. I set up my tripod and camera and hope desperately that I can do justice to the moment.
And then I notice how very cold it is. At 2352 meters high in the dead of night, even in August,—it's cold; something I didn't anticipate when I concocted this plan a few hours ago. It's particularly windy at the lake, and I begin to worry that my one jacket and sweatshirt are not going to suffice. The sun won't come up for three more hours. I pace. I jump. I try to work up a sweat again. After about an hour of gritting my teeth, I concede in great disappointment that I'll have to come back another time to see the sunrise. It's just too cold.
I start heading down. After descending about 100 meters, it feels considerably less windy—still very cold, but perhaps bearable. I huddle up against a large rock wall and decide to try and wait it out there. I wrap my arms around myself and shut my eyes, hoping I can fall asleep and kill most of the next two hours.
But I don't fall asleep.
I think about being back in this place. I think about the next three and a half months I have to savor. I try to mentally salvage the prospects of my Tinder date last night (which will blow up in my face the next day, as per usual.) I think about the guy I hiked up here with two years ago, that I haven't talked to in almost a year. I think about my friends and I dancing in the valley below some years back. I think about how stupid I am for not bringing a proper coat tonight.
I wonder what I'm supposed to do with all the things thrown at my heart over the last four years. What am I supposed to take away from this, three months from now? What am I supposed to leave behind?
I think of all the times I stuck it out in the cold, so that I could see all the colors.
A reassuring orange glow starts to creep up in the distant sky. Here comes the sun. I climb back up to the lake, and watch morning paint softly over the dark night.
November 2016
It's a perfect day.
We catch the shortcut télécabine from La Flégère. I've put my long hair up in high pigtails, the way I like to wear it on hikes these days. I guess I look a little silly. I am a little silly.
I've recently scored my second year-long visa. The sun is shining, the kids are on vacation, i.e. I'm on vacation. I'm hiking up to Lac Blanc for the first time with my best friend. Life is good.
We laugh. We whine about our sore legs. We say "Bonjour," to the people we cross on the path.
When we get there, I think to myself— this might be the most beautiful place I've ever seen.
We grab a front row seat to watch the water sparkle before the snowy peaks across the valley.
After our hike we'll get hot chocolate and the most generous macarons at Ancey Chocolatier.
It's a perfect day.
September 2017
The clouds roll in and dance across the water. A lot has happened since the last time I was here, almost a year ago.
We drove up to Col des Montets in his Lotus. No short-cut télécabine this time.
I met him a month and a half ago on a night out in Chamonix. He's French. I'm 23. He's 38. I thought it would just be a one night stand, but I ended up spending the next weekend with him in Paris, and now he's invited me to spend the weekend back at his family chalet in Les Houches. I don't know what "this" is; but whatever it is, it's the first sort of relationship I've ever had. I've now had sex a handful of times since losing my virginity four months ago, but this feels like it could be something more. We have good conversations, and hey, here we are out on a hike together. That's something, right? And, God, do I need something right now. I want to feel like I have a life too. All my friendships are crumbling around my deep loneliness, and I think that maybe this could save me from that. So I'll overlook some things and get my heart broken in a couple months— but I don't know that today. Today, I'm excited.
Later tonight we'll have Raclette with his friends at the chalet, and I'll speak French with them and feel just a little bit grown up.
September 2018
Yesterday, I was in Chicago. Today, I'm here. Back in France after five months away. With a little help from my jet-lag, I caught the 5:00 a.m. train from Annecy to Chamonix, and wound up back at Lac Blanc. This is my second shot at France. In a week, I'll be heading to a new city to live with a new family; and I'm super nervous— mostly because I'm unsure whether I'll have to drive a manual car.
This afternoon, I'll catch the train back to Annecy, and get dressed up to see a guy I met just before leaving last spring. He kept in touch with me, so I'm hoping it might be something that—surprise—it's not.
A year and some later, when I have to leave again—and this time for longer— I won't have found that kind of love, but, I will have stoked a fire within me to figure out a way back. I'll want to stick it out. I'll have fallen in love with the sunny days, the days where the clouds hang low, and the cold nights. All the colors. How they looked then, and how I see them now.
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