MONT BLANC: A MASTER CLASS IN SUFFERING

Or: How I learned to stop worrying and love altitude sickness

Day 1: Welcome to Hell's Waiting Room

Amsterdam border control gave me that special look when I mentioned climbing Mont Blanc, the universal expression for "good luck, you absolute muppet."

Chamonix greeted me with 20°C heat and the immediate challenge of schlepping a mile with heavy luggage while sweating just from existing. The hotel couldn't find my booking under my name (because nothing's ever simple), but "Montagne Expeditions" finally got me sorted into a cosy room that was basically a human slow-cooker.

Met the crew in the beer garden: Eggsy from Liverpool (chatty), brothers Liam and Blake from Kendal (farmer and construction), plus later arrivals Adam (investment consultant, secretly spoke fluent French but kept that nugget to himself until we were descending Mont Blanc) and Manny (tech guy with enough foot potions to stock a pharmacy).

Our guide Fred showed up, inspected our gear like a disappointed headmaster, then immediately buggered off to meet a mate. Brilliant start.

Day 2: The March of Death Begins

Fred's guiding philosophy became immediately clear: no explanations, no stops, just follow and suffer. The "two hour walk with 400m ascent" turned into a four and a half hour death march in winter boots through sweltering heat.

Three of us developed blisters within forty five minutes. Fred's response to stopping? Barely tolerated reluctance.

We climbed to Albert 1er refuge, a gorgeous spot I couldn't properly appreciate because I was too busy trying not to die. Got fifteen whole minutes of crampon training, which seemed optimistic given we'd be using them to cross glaciers the next day.

The refuge was chaos. Everything in French, communal crocs, and M&Ms for £6. Someone nicked my bunk while I was at dinner, so I had to play musical beds at midnight.

Day 3: Altitude Sickness Enters the Chat

Much Better Adventures promised "eight km, 800m ascent, nine hours", basically a standard Scottish Munro. What they didn't mention was doing it while your lungs forgot how to process oxygen.

My head torch died, which was fine since Fred had us moving at dawn anyway. Twenty minutes of rock scrambling to reach Glacier du Tour, then crampons on and roped up. No instruction from Fred beyond "follow me."

Walking in crampons is like learning to walk again, except harder and while gasping for air. I had to stop the entire rope team multiple times, which was mortifying. Everyone was understanding except Fred, who kept muttering about weather turning (it never did).

Tête Blanche summit: took me the entire twenty minute break just to catch my breath. Then we descended a steep couloir where Adam lost his footing and went sliding, jerking me forward and driving my own crampon into my calf. Blood through the trousers, but nothing stitches-worthy.

By the time we reached flat glacier, I was completely done. Had to sit for fifteen minutes at the final scramble while everyone else ran up. That's when I knew something was seriously wrong, I wasn't this unfit.

Blake offered to carry my pack in sight of the refuge. I refused, probably dickishly, but I had to finish what I started.

Spent an hour researching symptoms on my phone (after climbing a hill to get reception) and discovered I had seven of nine altitude sickness symptoms. Started taking Acetazolamide, which immediately killed the headache and nausea.

The Swiss refuge manager was an absolute weapon, treated anyone who didn't speak French like contaminated livestock. When my water bladder leaked all over the dorm, he grudgingly gave me one tea towel to clean up two litres of water. I spent thirty minutes running up and down stairs mopping while 120 people watched. Not one offered to help.

Europeans, eh?

Day 4: The Spite March

Resolved not to stop the group again, altitude sickness drugs or not. If I couldn't keep up, I'd fail quietly rather than drag everyone down.

Another glacier crossing, this time counting steps to force myself to keep moving. Made it without stopping anyone, I was about 75% better.

Fred and I ended up ahead of the group on the descent. He's not completely horrible, just has the communication skills of a particularly morose rock. We covered ten km in under five hours because apparently everything must be a time trial.

Back in Chamonix, got moved to the swanky Lykke Hotel & Spa. Spent the afternoon buying a head torch and trying not to think about Mont Blanc looming overhead like a particularly smug giant.

Avoided the group's big night out, alcohol and altitude sickness don't mix, and I wasn't about to sabotage myself twenty four hours before the main event.

Day 5: The Calm Before

Luxury lie-in while repacking my bag to fighting weight. Today's objective: take the scenic route via cable car and tramway to our launch point.

Got three guides now: Fred, Matthew, and Luigi (aka Gigi), a 63-year-old legend who'd climbed Mont Blanc 300+ times and knew literally everyone on the mountain.

The tramway kicked off all tourists at the last stop, leaving just climbers for the final gear-driven ascent up a forty five degree incline. Properly terrifying bit of engineering.

Short walk to Refuge de la Tête Rousse, perched on a cliff with spectacular views and the trip's worst toilets, chemical hell that burned your nostrils. But the food was phenomenal, especially after days of refuge rations.

Got paired with Eggsy and Gigi for summit day. We dubbed ourselves "the old dude crew" and tried not to think about the four am wake-up call.

Day 6: Summit Day (Or: How to Nearly Die Gloriously)

The big day arrived with Vivaldi's Summer playing over breakfast, surreal but motivating. Me, Eggsy, and the legendary Gigi set off into the dawn.

First major obstacle: Grand Couloir, the "shooting gallery" where rocks rain down from melting permafrost. You clip into a line, listen for incoming death, then sprint across when it's quiet. We made it; some idiot without crampons or helmet didn't and got airlifted out.

Fifteen minutes of crampon-on-rock scrambling (properly awful), then the Aiguille du Goûter ridge, 600m of Grade two or three scrambling that I'd been dreading. Turned out to be fine, more like Grade one, and we flew up without time to get scared.

Brief stop at Refuge du Goûter to dump excess weight and fuel up. They were playing Stromae on repeat, which added a surreal club vibe to our alpine suffering.

Then onto the main event: a long trudge up Mont Blanc Glacier. Like climbing Ben Nevis, but at altitude and roped to two other people. First milestone was Dome du Goûter (one and a half hours of uphill slog), then Refuge Vallot.

Gigi's pep talk at Vallot: "No more stops on the dangerous bits, it's all mental from here." Encouraging.

The Bosses Ridge was next, narrow enough for both feet side by side with vertical drops either way. Sounds terrifying, but with little wind it was just a careful walk with consequences.

Then Gigi started shouting "Summit! Summit! Summit!" like some ancient mountain incantation and suddenly we were there.

Empty summit, just us three. Ate jelly beans, took photos, had a swig of Ardmore Scotch. Perfect moment before Adam and Manny arrived and we all celebrated properly.

Descent was my strong suit, good at going down, unlike most of the group. Eggsy got stroppy with Gigi about filming on the ridge and wanting to collect the hundreds of abandoned walking poles scattered about like some Liverpudlian entrepreneur.

Nine hours total, well under the eleven to fourteen hour estimate. Still no idea why everything had to be a race.

Celebratory pasta at the refuge (£30 for three drinks, highway robbery), then exhausted collapse into bed.

Day 7: The Victory Lap

Final descent through the morning exodus of summit-bound climbers. Spotted the coolest guide on the mountain: chain-smoking, weathered face, wearing jeans and a climbing harness like some alpine James Dean.

Another couloir crossing, breakfast with at Refuge Rousse, then the hot slog down to the train. Missed the scheduled service and had to walk the track in blazing heat.

Guides revealed that entire groups only summit 40% of the time, apparently we were the exception, not the rule. Also, they never thought I was a problem, which would've been nice to know during my days of anxious self-doubt.

Victory beers, decent quiche, then back to Chamonix for the traditional post-climb debauchery. The lads discovered the brewery recommended by Eggsy's impromptu girlfriend, which led to an Irish pub, bathroom cocaine sharing (stay classy, lads), and me sensibly sneaking off to bed.

Day 8: Thunder and Reflection

Woke to the most spectacular European thunderstorm I've ever seen, finally broke the heat. Packed up, bought souvenirs, caught my flights home.

Louise picked me up from Edinburgh, having also dropped me off, so she basically deserves all the credit for this achievement.

What I learned: Might step back from expensive guided mountain adventures. It was exactly what I feared, a bunch of lads focused purely on summit-and-done rather than enjoying the journey. Still a good trip, but I think I'll stick to weird adventures like Tajikistan where I have more control over the experience.

The mountain was spectacular. The company was... educational. The altitude sickness was character-building. The Swiss refuge manager can get to fuck.

Mont Blanc: conquered. Dignity: mostly intact. Liver: surprisingly functional.