The Ski Journal • Volume 18, Issue 1 • THE FREERIDER’S HAUTE ROUTE

The express route from France to Italy. Anna Dunér traverses the Aiguille d’Entrèves before dropping into the steep south face.

The historic Haute Route between Chamonix, France, and Zermatt, Switzerland, was first chartered by the English Alpine Club and skied as far back as the year 1911. The 80-mile route, that most opt to do over the course of a week, is legendary for good reason, traveling through complex glacial terrain amongst some of the most iconic peaks in the Alps.

Although rich in history, the classic traverse now attracts big crowds throughout the spring season. It’s not quite the wild and remote journey it once was. And for those looking to ski big faces and get on the steeps, the terrain could be deemed a little underwhelming. With this in mind, a few friends and I schemed up a new ski traverse, connecting Chamonix to La Grave. The goal was not to take the most direct route, but to see if we could ski across much of the French Alps while seeking out the best freeride terrain. We’d climb plenty along the way, but also use lifts. It was about the skiing after all.

Those not au fait with their languages will be forgiven for not knowing that haute means high in French, and although our route was designed to stay high as possible, connecting towns and traversing valleys via steep terrain also meant dropping down as low as 3,500 feet at times. Unfortunately, conditions had been hot and cold (quite literally) all season, with big storms up high and very little accumulation down low. The Alps are known for heavy, wet late-season storms, which often provide a huge boost of coverage in late March and April—even June last year. But we’d be relying on lifts to assist our journey, and we knew we couldn’t wait too long. We carved out a week in mid-March.

Anna Dunér, a Swede now living in Chamonix, was a new adventure partner to me. With long blonde hair and a rosy complexion, she has an impressive ability to pull off a year-round goggle tan. She’s a strong skier, yet also stoic—not the type to brag about her pursuits in the mountains. Her laidback attitude and relentless sense of fun would make her the perfect addition to our team. Rowan Brandreth, our third teammate, is a self-proclaimed “sea-muggle” living in southwest England. We’ve shared numerous climbing and skiing trips all over the world. He’s kind, sharp and has a cool head in any situation—the adventurous spirit we’d need for a route that could very well include missed buses, closed lifts and snowless ski slopes.

Leaving the house for a multi-day tour with nothing but a backpack and skis is a special feeling that is unique to the Alps. Here, wild ski runs are never too far from an alpine refuge with a hot meal and a cozy bed. The Aiguille du Midi doesn’t start running until 7:30 a.m. in March—no need for an alpine start—so we enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee before hopping on the cable car to the summit at 12,605 feet. We’re still sipping coffee as we unload the tram, and quickly descend the exposed arête down to the Vallée Blanche, opting to glissade rather than crampon down the well-trodden, zigzagging track. The glacier is in good shape, with only the largest crevasses gaping open, so we start off our big traverse with a fast descent, zipping down the valley toward the Italian border. On today’s menu is a classic steep line toward Courmeyeur called Aiguilles d’Entrèves, a sustained east face. As we scramble along the short and airy alpine traverse, we look far out towards the Ecrins massif, home to over 40 peaks, where we’ll hopefully arrive in several days. The 45-degree upper slopes of the south-facing shoulder are firm and require careful turns before it mellows a bit and turns to powder for nearly 5,000 vertical feet down the Toula Glacier.

Having departed a day late due to high winds, we decide to double down and race to the base to make the last ride of the day up to the top of Courmayeur. From there, we’ll descend to La Thuile, Italy. By the time we hit valley bottom and switch to trail runners, we’ve descended 18,000 feet and climbed only 2,000. The small and charming village of La Thuile greets us with a cold beer under the last rays of the sun.

La Thuile—La Rosière—Bourg-Saint-Maurice—Les Arcs—La Plagne—Bozel

We wake early in a rustic stone apartment to a wet and wild morning, the type of weather that might make even the keenest skier think twice. You rarely get a full week in the Alps without some kind of storm. Therein lies the beauty of this type of adventure—there’s no space for “fair-weather” skiers. So, we don our finest Gore-Tex and prepare to brave it. At the La Thuile ticket window, the wind is howling sideways, far stronger than the 30 mph forecast. “There’s no chance of the link to La Rosière in France opening today,” the woman in the ticket window says. She’s sympathetic, but clearly thinks she’s doing us a favor. We exchange glances: sure, the rain is pouring down here, but it must be snowing up high?

We head up to see what all the fuss is about. The gondola delivers us to a long and slow chairlift where sharp snowflakes pummel us like needles against our skin. We hold a quick team meeting behind a piste sign and decide to head down to the missing chairlift link—worst case we can ski over the Petit Saint Bernard Pass, a summer road which runs down a side valley to La Rosière in France.

Anna is a little unsure. “Aaron’s navigated us through more whiteouts than I care to remember,” Rowan pipes up. You can’t spell misadventure without adventure, so we descend into the vast sea of white, using the lift towers to navigate. The wall of headwind spindrift is almost impenetrable—at times we’re blown off our feet, forced to skate downhill as if gravity decided to take the day off. Stopping to assess our position, the clouds momentarily lift, revealing the closed chairlift that we had hoped to ride. The lights are on in the tiny chalet at the foot of the lift. Someone else must be waiting out the storm. Anna pokes her head inside, and two friendly lift operators immediately invite us inside for a morning limoncello.

Inside, we explain our plan. While our new friends clearly think we’re crazy, thankfully they’re equally as interested, and with a few swift Italian remarks, they get straight on the radio to make arrangements for us to continue our journey. Before we know it, two lifts will open just for us, and a snowmobile will take us across the border back into France. Viva l’Italia!

Just an hour later, we are descending into calmer environs. In the Alps, weather can come in just as quickly as it can leave, and often all it takes is skiing one valley over for an entirely different climate. We hop on a bus for a short ride down to Bourg-Saint-Maurice and jump on the funicular lift to Les Arcs. Miraculously the sun returns, and we enjoy excellent spring pow; it’s hard to believe that only a few hours ago we were trying to buy lift tickets in the pouring rain. Tucked into a cabin in the forest between La Plagne and Courchevel that night with the wood stove roaring, we toast marshmallows over the fire.

Les Tres Vallées is the largest connected ski area in the world and includes gems like Meribel, Courchevel and Val Thorens, among others. The steep terrain at Val Thorens is one of my favorite places to ski in the Alps, and I am excited to show Anna and Rowan some of the faces and couloirs in the area. The base village sits at 7,500 feet (the highest resort base in Europe) with lifts as far as the eye can see and a thriving aprés scene that could easily throw us off course if we’re not careful. Bustling with families, the slopes are crowded but off-piste is nearly empty. It’s a freeride skier’s dream.

Passing through the large, purpose-built and inherently commercial resorts contrasted nicely with remote and wild valleys. Today is all about the descents.

I’d visited many of these resorts while working for a travel company in my formative years, which regularly took me to the Alps each winter from England. As a late learner of skiing at age 21, it was a job that really ignited my love of snowsports and pointed me towards my path today. Chasing two friends around the endless resort today takes me on a trip down memory lane, and connecting them on foot leaves me with a much deeper understanding of the local geography and the realization that this part of the Alps doesn’t feel quite as big as it once did.

Val Thorens—Orelle—Valmeinier—Valoire—Refuge des Aiguilles d’Arves

In Orelle, the hidden fourth valley, we hop in a taxi to Valmeinier and Valloire, two sleepy villages with little fanfare aside from skiing. Traditional French chalets pepper the hillside, with sloping wooden roofs and just a few narrow winding streets. It’s clear that skiers don’t come here for the nightlife.

Small and quiet compared to Les Tres Vallées, it’s easy to hunt for fresh turns at this family-friendly hill, even though none of us has visited this area before. We enjoy a leisurely slopeside cheese fondue for lunch, basking in the sun before realizing that we do, however, need to keep on moving. We still need to reach a remote refuge located in the next valley over, our last stay before we reach La Grave. From Valloire’s high point at just over 10,000 feet, we opt for the direct route to our next skin track, dropping into a steep face off the back. The snow thins and I lose count of how many times we take our skis on and off. After a little scrambling, we successfully pick our way through a rocky cliff band, cross the valley river over a rickety old bridge and start climbing.

We’ve had it pretty easy today, descending tens of thousands of feet without ever completing the same run twice, and now we’re left with heavy legs. We happily sink back into the calm of a quiet skintrack. After negotiating a few creek crossings, using our skis to bridge small streams overflowing with glacial melt, we reach the compact, metal-clad Refuge des Aiguilles d’Arves as vibrant pinks and oranges slowly dim the sky. Neatly perched on a steep, snowy hillside a few hundred feet above the valley floor, a cheesy French potato bake and a carafe of local red wine awaits. Fellow refuge-goers are curious to hear about our journey from Chamonix. The hut is managed by a wiry French couple, weathered and lean from a lifetime in the alpine. They quiz us about our route as they tend to dozens of skiers all at once, the warmth of the cabin lulling us into a calm daze.

Yet tomorrow’s weather forecast is cause for concern: a storm blowing in by morning, without much blue sky for the next few days. All the other guests are planning to sleep in, enjoy thick slices of homemade bread and extra cups of coffee from the warmth of the hut, before descending back down-valley. It’s tempting to sleep in and take a bus the rest of the way. But we’ve come this far, so we decide our best option is to wake at 5 a.m. and make a break for La Grave, 12 miles and 3,500 feet of climbing away, while the weather holds.

Careful not to wake our fellow guests, we tiptoe to the boot room and close the refuge door quietly. The early morning air has a sharp bite, and clouds build above, but it’s not snowing yet. Before long, we can make out the towering Trois Pointes, three jagged peaks that loom impossibly high at the end of Combe des Aiguilles. The atmosphere within our group is determined, if a little apprehensive. We’ve come a very long way in only five days and there’s just one high point between us and La Grave: Col des Trois Pointes (11,164 feet). Having planned much of the route, I knew this would be the crux. Now, I feel the heavy weight of responsibility. During planning, it wasn’t entirely clear how skiable this col would be. The details of modern maps are great, but you never fully know how steep or rocky the terrain is until you see it firsthand. As the mountain steepens, we switch to crampons and ice axes. A firm crust covering deep, sugary powder makes for a wallowy affair; these mountains aren’t gonna let us out of here without a fight. A prickly faceful of icy wind picks up. For the first time on the trip, our happy-go-lucky trio is somber. We swim up the 45-degree face in silence.

After four hours, we finally approach the col. The westerly winds show no mercy. Below, the windhammered slope isn’t exactly inspiring, but I exhale when I see the snow stretching down toward the valley. “Ain’t no party like a spindrift party!” I shout to Anna, who can barely hear me. She grins back all the same.

We transition in a hurry on the hostile col and share quick hugs before pushing off into the descent to La Grave. Feeling small in this vast landscape, we weave down the valley. The snowy ground is indistinguishable from the bleached white skies.

The Ski Journal - Volume 18, Issue 1

THE FREERIDER’S HAUTE ROUTE

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