A Trip to the Top of Mt. Blanc: March 1984
by Carol Nicklaus

He thought I would prefer Chamonix, a glamorous ski town...No way. I much prefer the soft and accommodating valley to the harsh and rugged peaks (as has, I must say, the majority of civilized humanity, through the centuries). He somehow managed to convince me that we should take the cable car--or, as they call it--the funicular--up Mt. Blanc. I put on leg warmers over my cotton pants, put a second sweater over my sweater, wrapped up in my scarf and gloves. I was petrified. I was about to dangle on a wire over sheer snow-covered Alps, and what would be at the top? Would someone go with us? Would we have to stand around in the snow for god knows how long? What if it fell down? What if there were an avalanche? ...And so on...

It was spectacular, but I was afraid to look back down at the village as we began our ascent. A guide did ride with us, which was reassuring. (And he was very good-looking.) We got to the first stop, Aiguille de Plan, in about ten minutes. AND THEN we were shuffled into a smaller car to go ALL THE WAY UP. Oh no, oh no, I thought. It was cold; the cables disappeared into the fog above; all I could see were rocks, glacier, and snow...

I got on the car...So did an even better-looking guide...

It seemed we went straight up...The fog enclosed the car. Black rocks loomed up from below, maybe fifty feet from the car. In about five minutes we were there--but where? The top of the world? A hut, wood and cement, with rock tunnels leading to an overlook, and a bar, with postcards and souvenirs...(Vive la France!) Altitude: 3800 M...

It was bitter cold; fog swirled around us, coming and going, and the wind outside howled among the peaks. We couldn't see the actual tip of the thing because of the fog and snow. Inside, people sat and drank coffee or brandy. I was a bit overwhelmed by the altitude. For a few moments I thought I might pass out, from fear and thin air, but it was soon okay. I was ill-dressed, and it was too cold to be outside for more than a quick commemorative photo or two...

The mountains are awesome--cold, silent, their own universe--and spectacularly beautiful. The light came and went; the sky was blue-black in the thin air. It is an ascent into another world, of cold, snow, another atmosphere, going on all the while we move about below in sheltered and benevolent innocence...

Back down to the middle plateau, which, after the top, was easy and joyful. There, it was sunny and comparatively warm. Above, we could see the fog enveloping the peak where we had just been, and rolling down the mountain. We gamboled in the snow, looked across the ridges, and took more photos. Then went back down to the town. It seemed dull, boring, and claustrophobic, compared to the wildness of the peaks. On the mountains, they are all you can think about--except for your own frail vulnerability...

Think of all the phrases: a "peak" experience, "monumental," a "high," "sitting on top of the world," and so on. They do seem to reach toward the gods...As if, when the world was flung from god's hand, these places were the last to be released, and, petrified in place, are still closest to the creator...