Starry-eyed

Trying to not be too rash about a big leap toward change, but grateful I feel ready to do so

I’ve never felt at home in Europe until this year. Perhaps it took a winter visit to reveal the true benevolence of the Alps. The beauty is so expansive that I could spend the rest of my life wandering these trails and never find an end to my inquisitiveness. But it’s also so immersive that I could spend this time sitting in one place and my soul would still be fulfilled.

On Tuesday we had one more afternoon to explore the Valais in Switzerland before heading toward the Chamonix Valley to visit friends and explore potential dream communities in France. We crossed over to the northern side of the Rhone Valley and back to the Bernese Alps for a recommended snowshoe route above Gyron.

We passed a trailside creperie with woodsmoke wafting from the chimney and adorable children riding sleds. Peaks of unparalleled resplendence surrounded the Solalex Valley, casting shadows across the snowy forest beneath brilliant blue skies. It was just another ho-hum winter Tuesday in Switzerland.

The climb steeped toward the village of Anzeindaz, yet another cluster of buildings abandoned for the winter after the cows were ceremoniously brought down from the hills. The myriad ski tracks veered up a steep slope toward Col de la Poreyette. We set out alone along a large, open valley of deliciously low-angle snow and expansive views.

The fierce February sun made the climb with a light tailwind feel like baking in a slickrock desert in August. But as soon as we turned to face the wind, we quickly donned puffy coats and mittens. Such is the strange dynamic of high-altitude snowfields.

We turned around at Pas Cheville, a dead end because everything below was avalanche terrain. We loved having the valley to ourselves, basking in the sunshine and devouring views that really are a dime-a-dozen in the Alps, but still amazing to us.

We made our way to St. Grevais, groaning at the school holiday ski traffic through Chamonix that made UTMB week look like the off-season. When we consider dream retirement locations, the French Alps are high on our list. As a Swiss citizen, Beat can live anywhere in the E.U. France has a similarly high quality of living and lower costs than Switzerland. We like Chamonix and the surrounding valleys because we’re already familiar with the area and have a few friends here. This week, we made plans to visit our British expat friends Rob and Ali while checking out the winter grandeur of Les Contamines.

The obvious choice from there was the Tour du Mont Blanc route, which we have both been on multiple times during the summer months — although I haven’t specifically made this climb since I raced UTMB in 2015. It was nighttime then, and all I remember is an endless procession of headlamps on a black backdrop, zig-zagging toward Col Bonhomme like angels ascending to heaven. Winter is both very different and kind of the same — the forested trail was covered in death ice, meltwater, and tentative hikers. Not unlike dodging erratic runners in the mud! The higher slopes were a haven for skiers zig-zagging up the mountain, even in these terrifically chunky and icy conditions.

Beat donned his shorts and snowshoes combo again as we trudged up the mangled slope. The snow was solid — not even a breakable crust. This gave me confidence for potentially climbing to Col Bonhomme. But when the route narrowed to a steep, off-camber slide-slope over a ravine, we took stock of our meager gear (lightweight snowshoes, minimal spikes, no ice axes) and decided to turn around at 2,000 meters.

That night, we joined Rob and Ali at Rob’s favorite local brewery which just happens to be a satellite of a brewery in Frisco, Colorado. Rob thought Outer Range was in our backyard and the kind of place we probably went to all the time. I told him not quite, that Frisco was about a two-hour drive from where we live. The same amount of driving from St. Grevais could take one well into Italy or Switzerland. It’s amazing to think about, really — the amount of distance I frequently cover in the U.S. to visit Utah or California could take me to Norway or North Africa. There is just so much to explore.

Outer Range serves American food of the Southern variety. I was skeptical that the French would deign to not put their own spin on Southern cuisine, so I ordered the most ridiculously American thing on the menu — fried chicken and waffles. I was amazed. Not only was the chicken fried to delicate crispness with a spicy crunch, and the waffle light and airy with the perfect amount of sweetness, but the 13-Euro dish arrived on a sheet of newspaper with an enormous serving of fries, complete with a vat of ketchup from which one could ladle as much as they liked. I admit, I am struggling with my national identity right now, but I was proud of my chicken and waffles. I assured Rob that this was authentic American food.

On Thursday, Rob recommended we visit one of his favorite villages in the area, Cordon. This quiet town above the city of Sallanches lacks the heavy ski traffic of other towns in the valley. Rob promised accessible trails with fantastic views of Mont Blanc and nice bakeries and shops to explore. We left in the late morning under overcast skies and rain, feeling a bit worn out from our heavy weeks of hiking and grumpy about the weather.

We took the time to stop for pastries at the tiny bakery in town. The sky began to clear just as we set out for our hike. A steep ridge revealed expansive views — the Arvais Massif immediately over us to the west, the limestone cliffs of Faucigny Massif to the northeast, and the familiar grandeur of Mont Blanc to the southeast. It was just … everything. Everything we knew and loved about the Chamonix Valley seemed to be in view, and we were standing in the center of it all.

We climbed nearly 4,000 feet to the closed Cabane du Petite Patre and enjoyed our small-town raspberry tarts that were more delicious than most anything we’ve found in Boulder. How is every small-town baker in France so talented at creating the most incredible pastries? “Because they wouldn’t stay open for long otherwise,” Beat said.

By the time we returned, we were fully in love and ready to put a down payment on the first house we could find on the market in Cordon. Beat looked at real-estate listings that night and found one that seemed incredible — perfect location, modern construction, a large, open plot of land. It was more expensive than our budget, and it’s far too soon for us to make this leap because we’re not logistically prepared — but the house was ideal all the same. Rob, using his supreme investigative skills, surmised from the real-estate listing photos where the house was located. We returned with him and Ali to check it out today.

I just can’t believe places like this exist. Quiet places where I could walk to the little grocery store in town for my daily goods, grow a vegetable garden in the backyard, practice my French at the local bar, walk out my front door to access a network of thousands of kilometers of trails crisscrossing mountain ranges, and wake up every day to views like this.

Beat and I already know this area well — we’ve visited nearly every summer since 2011 — and have explored it extensively. My explorations aren’t as wide-reaching compared to Beat’s with his years of PTL, but when you’ve covered 100 kilometers in a single day in a place, it’s easier to imagine waking up and walking to Italy on a whim. I want it. So much. But after running wild with our daydreams, Beat and I talked ourselves back down to Earth with the myriad logistics and reasons why we’re not ready to leap.

Still, as I spend more time away from my waking nightmares about growing old in an authoritarian hellscape, I feel an odd sense of calm — a steady tranquility my muddled brain hasn’t been able to find in years. And I think, “I still care. I still want a better future for my nieces and nephews. So do I stay? Do I stew about a timeline I can’t change? What can I be besides another mournful voice crying into the void, telling stories about how we once had it all and then we threw it away?”

The questions are complex, the answers more so. I don’t have the answer today, but for one more day, I have these mountains, and I have a Mary Oliver poem to carry on my trip home:

Don't Hesitate

by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.