My legs manage on their own as I run down the familiar trails from my home in Saint-Gervais-les-Bains towards Les Contamines.
The weight on my back—a mere five kilograms, or about 11 pounds—is soon to be the envy of many a hiker, burdened with towering packs stuffed with every imaginable necessity. In stark contrast, my essentials:
Running clothes and leggings to sleep in
A thin rain jacket and gloves
Basic toiletries and electronics
Snacks and water flasks
A notebook and pens
My trail companion Quentin’s bag is a mirror of mine, without the pen and paper but with a snug compartment for his camera.
Through the entry to the Contamines park and along the Roman road that was built here some 2,000 years ago, my brain is still focused on this morning’s work. Did I dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s before leaving for five days?
23 kilometers (14.3 miles), +1,650 meters (+5,413 feet), Saint-Gervais-les-Bains to Refuge de la Croix de Bonhomme
It’d been 18 months since we arrived in the region, and we’d yet to undertake this most famous of hikes: the Tour du Mont Blanc, or TMB, a circular, 160-kilometer (100-mile) route around the highest peak in the Alps, legendary for its late-summer ultramarathon, the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, or UTMB. But why do things the easy way? Instead, we’d decided to do this itinerary in early June, as a good way to get in shape for the summer season. And why not make it even more fun? Our goal: to taste local beers along the way and delve into mountain hospitality.
Rich, thick grass surrounds the Refuge de la Balme, but as we begin to approach the mountain pass known as Col de la Croix du Bonhomme, snow takes the place of our path. Pierre, a friend and aspiring hiking guide, moves into the lead. He’s sure-footed, and I’m happy that he’ll trot along with us for the first two days. At the pass, a few hikers have wedged themselves into the tiny cabin that serves as shelter for this very reason: The weather is wretched. I’ve pulled my thin gloves onto my hands, but they don’t reduce the bite of the hail that’s pinging off my body.
A short descent, and into the night’s refuge we flee. In French, a mountain hut is called a refuge; in Italian, the word is almost the same, albeit with a spaghetti-shaped accent: rifugio. I’ve stayed in refuges that were on the left side of rustic, and in one that offered Wi-Fi and a five-course dinner menu. What I look for, though, is pretty simple, since I’m usually coming in after having done some type of exhausting sport: a place to sleep without being cold, enough food not to feel hungry, and a feeling of comradery with the keepers.
“We try to do as much with local ingredients and producers as we can. Our bread, fruits, veggies, and beer are all local.”
The Refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme is famous for all three. This is the beginning of the season, and everyone is in good spirits. The staff looks at our bags and assumes we’re serious runners, come to the area early to do a reconnaissance for the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, among the most famous trail races in the world. I’m flattered but quickly explain the real purpose of our tour to Noe Pennetier, the guardian, who looks skeptical.
“So you’re running around Mont Blanc to drink beer?” he asks.
“That’s about right. Local beers. I’m looking for special beers that speak to mountain culture.”
He loves it and calls another member of the staff over to chat about the journey. “We try to do as much with local ingredients and producers as we can. Our bread, fruits, veggies, and beer are all local. Both of these are inspired by refuge keepers.” He’s got a white and a blonde for me to try: La Tresse de la Gardienne from Brasserie de l’Antidote, and an Alpine pale ale, la Barbe du Gardien, from another nearby brewery, called Les Mousses du Dahu. La Tresse has the lightness I tend to go for in a white beer, without any overpowering citrus notes. A dusty blonde color, the lightly hoppy Barbe du Gardien is only served in mountain refuges, which somehow adds to the feeling that this evening niched away in the mountains is special and fleeting.
As the sun sets over the Beaufortain range behind us, we clink our three glasses together. The first step of the (Beer) Tour du Mont Blanc has gone off without a hitch.
35.7 kilometers (22.2 miles), +1,619 meters (+5,311 feet), Refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme to Hotel Del Viale
The lingering snow is packed tight and we slip and slide down. “Lean into the slope,” I tell my upper body, not always successfully. As I land with a thud, the ice adds a new rip to my shorts.
On a path that snakes up the mountain, our main objective of the morning is the Col de la Seigne. At the pass, glaciers begin. From this side of Mont Blanc—or Monte Bianco, since we’re now in Italy—the walls of rock and ice seem sharp, unfriendly, and unscalable. Later we’ll see one of the most dangerous rock faces in mountaineering—les Grandes Jorasses, a wall of rock and ice that should be unclimbable. And yet humans have somehow found a way up.
Though it’s still early June, the trails are busy with groups of hikers. For some, this pass is their version of les Grandes Jorasses. Sweating and puffing, we pass groups whose eyes will soon illuminate with the sight of the glaciers, just like ours.
The green, gooey purée I made from sweet potatoes and spirulina turns out to be a filling lunch. But at Elisabetta Rifugio, we stop for a beer. On the recently renovated metal deck, a dozen hikers are soaking up the sun. Inside, we spot a mini-fridge with cans of Saint Bernard beer. The logo shows a trail runner and a mountain. We don’t think twice about grabbing one of these session IPAs to drink alongside our first cappuccinos of the Italian part of this trip. A little bitter but with unmissable citrus and fruity (but not sweet) notes, for us it’s just as nice as the rich alpine grass must be for the cows.
The road below is dotted with hikers who’ve had their fill of the trails today. They’re on a straight, long road that descends almost directly to Courmayeur. But down there they’re missing my favorite view of Mont Blanc, perched right across from us. Below the snowy peak, the tongues of glaciers and the spines of ridges drop down to the valley floor, stopping only at the intimidating swaths of rock fields.
I feel in my element. In the prairies, I am above the straight, untechnical road, but still below the interminable scrambling needed to cross the rock fields. I’m no fearless mountaineer, but I’m not exactly a beginner either. I’m in the spot where trail runners usually find themselves. And yet, when we reach the next hut, I don’t quite feel like I completely fit the trail-runner culture either. A pack of six trail runners catches up with us. All are dressed the same, with logos splashed all over their clothes, knee socks, and light bags, and a way of running in sync that borders on militaristic. The competitive side of this sport has yet to tease me in.
Down, down, down, we begin the descent to Courmayeur. The Italians don’t bother with long switchbacks: The turns seem to be the shortest length they could cut the trail without it becoming totally vertical. My toenails are starting to whine when, just past five, we reach town.
Narrow streets with large, flat stones—this is typical of the Aosta valley. Trotting up to Hotel Del Viale, we find the manager in a back room. I wonder what he must think of us, covered in a layer of dust and smelling far less than fresh.
Quentin, Pierre, and I jump into a rotation to get ready in double time: We grab showers, wash some clothes in the sink, and then go back out for dinner. It feels like we’re going out on the town, and yet we’re simply clean, wearing the leggings that double as our pajamas, with fleeces buttoned up over our naked torsos. All our other clothes are drying on the windowsill.
Sitting around a too-small table some 45 minutes later, with a pair of runners we’d crossed earlier on the trail, we’re waiting for the best pizza in Courmayeur. Or, at least, the best pizza in Courmayeur from a restaurant that opens before 7 p.m. With more than a half-marathon gnawing at our stomachs, waiting until most restaurants open is not on the table. The only thing we want on the table is a pizza.
L’angolo di Mel, or Mel’s Corner, is exactly what we were looking for: no-frills pizza from a stone oven, with quick and direct service, and cold beers. In one shot we order our pies plus a white, a doppelbock, and a few pale ales from local brewer Bierra Courmayeur. With names like Aiguille Blanche (the White Needle), or Les Dames Anglaises (the English Women), the beers reference famous corners of the Mont Blanc range. An impromptu tasting begins. Though I’m usually wary of anything heavy or over 5% ABV, Les Dames Anglaises surprises me with its approachability, its delicate fruitiness, and its maltiness. If there is a beer perfect for eating Italian pizza with a homemade red sauce and not too much cheese, this is it.
26 kilometers (16 miles), +1,900 meters (+6,233 feet), Courmayeur to Alpage de la Peule
“See you at home!” These words echo behind Pierre as he takes off the next morning before 7 a.m. He’s going to run our next two days of the tour in one, then catch the train back to Saint Gervais. Pierre is a formidable competitor in trail races. The first two days were a mere warm-up for him, whereas Quentin and I are already starting to feel the fatigue.
I know there is always someone faster than me, and I know that I’m faster than a lot of people. But I secretly wish I could just push through the pain or the hesitation, or whatever it is that makes me not as fast as Pierre.
Maybe it’s not fear of pain or hesitation that makes me slower than Pierre. Maybe it’s just an inability to rush when I’d rather linger. Why run 10 hours in a day when I can hang around in Courmayeur, eating more cornettos, an Italian, cream-filled version of the croissant? Thankful for the sugar rush, we begin the steep climb out of Courmayeur into the Val Ferret. A long narrow valley, it’s quiet and verdant—my favorite valley for winter back-country skiing, and now also for summer trail running.
On all sides, we’re surrounded by mountains, but only because the Grand col Ferret is so high above us. Snowy switchbacks finally lead us to a windy view back over the valley. The replies to my “Bonjour!” are heavily accented. Group after group, these are Americans we’re meeting. How strange to pass two dozen of my countrymen here! The Tour du Mont Blanc has become a bucket-list adventure for many in the States. Is this the trap of the expat? If you stay away long enough, you’ll lose touch with what inspires dreams and imagination in your people.
A rolling descent from the pass means the last five kilometers (about three miles) disappear in a half hour. By 3:30 p.m. we’re at the Gîte Alpage de la Peule, nearly the first hikers to arrive for the night. On a trail as frequented as the TMB, reserving the overnight stays has become obligatory. It takes away some of the spontaneity that traveling with a tent gives. In my head, I am sure I could happily run another 10 kilometers. But maybe it’s for the best that we’re a bit bored—isn’t that the root of feeling disconnected? That feeling we’re chasing when we come out into nature? Learning to appreciate being bored is a meditation exercise. Staring at the little road below the refuge, my gaze wanders left, right, backward, and forward over the flanks and hollows of the mountain. And not a single full sentence crosses my mind. How boring!
“At night after a long run, you have to recuperate the calories burned that day and try to get ahead for tomorrow.”
Quentin arrives with pints of blonde ale from the same Swiss brewery as yesterday: Les Bières du Grand Saint Bernard. The beer is cold, and in the glaring sun it goes down way too fast. Quentin skips up to the bar to order us two more, half-pints this time. A blonde with nearly zero hoppy flavor, there’s a softness of young florals and honey, like the wildflowers in the mountains in early summer.
A little tipsy, I swallow my dinner down in six bites, which is disappointing. I should be rejoicing that dessert is a bowl of fruit—not something you often get in mountain huts—but instead, I’m bemoaning that it’s not a big slice of cake. It’s the third night of the journey, and I’m starting to feel my calorie deficiency. Before coming out here, I asked my friend Alix Noblat for advice. A nutrition coach and aide extraordinaire to the ultra-trail champion Mathieu Blanchard, she offered some precious advice: “At night after a long run, you have to recuperate the calories burned that day and try to get ahead for tomorrow.”
What would I do without someone like her to enable me? An extra Clif bar later, I brush my teeth and jump into bed.
37.5 kilometers (22 miles), +1,570 meters (+5,150 feet), Alpage de la Peule to Trient
It’s Saturday morning, but that means nothing, really. At the first rays of sunlight we’re awake and silently squishing all our gear back into the packs. Breakfast includes fresh milk from the cows outside, a glaring benefit to staying at a working farm, and we even get a bit of cheese.
Last night’s chill still lingers in the air as we run down to La Fouly. Here it’s time to wait for Cécile and Elvire. Our two friends who live in Switzerland were also up before dawn to catch the train before hitchhiking to this meeting point. Trail runners, they’re happy to join us for two days as part of their own training program. By nine we’re all on the road together. The girls are fresh and chattering about their summer running plans.
Their enthusiasm cheers up my tired legs, and I turn off my brain until we reach Champex, at a small lake situated between two passes. The surrounding village is sweet but not wild, in a very Swiss way. There is a running joke in the region that you can always tell when you’re on the Swiss side of the mountain range, because of how tightly and neatly their wood is stacked outside the chalets. All the lawns indeed seem trimmed with scissors, and there isn’t a single space between logs that’s big enough for a wood beetle to make its home.
Cécile is still new to trail running, but she is already faster than me, I think. “It’s not a competition,” I remind myself. In fact, this propensity to compare myself to other runners is part of why I don’t compete in trail races. I want to enjoy the run, and not push myself to the limit just to be faster than someone else. If I had a nobler reason or something to prove, maybe, but I don’t.
A small hut after midday does not offer lodging, but it does serve l’Echapée, a beer from Martigny, the Swiss city far below us. It’s a good thing we like it, because the waitress misunderstands my order and we end up with full pints, plus a bottle of a white ale from the La Valaisanne brewery. Certainly more than we were hoping for, but the view over the Valais region, notoriously independent and proud of its Alpine values, is inviting enough for us to stay and sip slowly. The white beer that we share is possibly one beer too many, despite its lightness, and sits heavy on our stomachs.
Our pause has given other hikers that we’d doubled a chance to catch up. Back on the trail we dutifully overtake them. We’re greeted by comments like, “These girls are faster than us even when they’re drinking the day away!”
Words like that snap me out of my jealousy of Cécile. There will always be someone faster, and someone slower, so why not enjoy the day? Even if 25 kilometers and a pint of beer on just a sandwich have left my legs as wobbly as spaghetti.
Well before sunset, we’re in Trient in a whitewashed hotel, waiting on our fondue. If last night’s dinner left me hungry, tonight I stuff myself full of bread and cheese. Would Alix be proud of my nutrition choices?
37.5 kilometers (23.3 miles), +2,740 meters (+8,990 feet), Trient to Les Houches
A shiny-headed British runner named Andrew, who we’ve been leap-frogging along the route since Italy, has stayed in our hotel too. He has a different approach to trail nutrition: “I drink a pint and then eat a burger every day for lunch when I’m running these trips. Hasn’t failed me yet!”
He loves the nature of our journey and has the same relaxed attitude about running as we do. His relaxation is earned, though: “Sure, the Ultra Tour du Mont Blanc is great, but this year I’m running the Swiss Peaks.”
Of course, running the TMB seems like something for lightweights when you’re training for a 360-kilometer (223-mile) ultra-trail race like the Swiss Peaks Trail.
Back in France in less than an hour, we reach Col de Balme. France welcomes us with easy descent in the high pastures before making us scramble down to the Col des Montets. This is by far the biggest scam of the trip, because right after the descent, we immediately have to climb back up toward la Tête aux Vents.
“I drink a pint and then eat a burger every day for lunch when I’m running these trips.”
This is a detour from the classic tour route and a seemingly evil decision by Quentin. After four days and 100 kilometers (62 miles), he’s decided we should climb nearly straight up. “It’s so good up there in the Aiguilles Rouges, you’ll see!” is his promise, but on the fourth ladder of the climb he admits he’s never been before. “I can’t wait to see the top, this is my dream!” I’m happy to indulge his dream, then. And the scenery isn’t bad. Next to us are red and yellow rocks, dotted with climbers, and across the valley sprawls the whole Mont Blanc range.
At the top we picnic and weigh a big decision: Will we run all the way to Les Houches via le Brevant, or cut down to the valley? For the past two days, people have been warning us that the Brevant section of the trail is too snowed over to cross. But these are the same people on their first-ever long-distance hikes, and some of them even had jeans on. It’s not armchair advice, but it doesn’t feel far off.
We need to look for ourselves. Cécile and Elvire decide to forgo the snowy path, and follow a trail back down to the valley to catch their train home. En route, they send us a text that they passed Andrew enjoying a huge beer and a burger at a restaurant close to Plan Praz.
Near the Brevant passage, Quentin and I finally feel like we are exploring. Our way of navigating reads like instructions on a treasure map: “After weaving between the rock walls and the snowy slopes, begin to climb down knifelike stones to Les Houches.”
And yet, just getting this far gives us such a sense of achievement that I call ahead to Quentin, “What if we just finish tonight and run the last 20 kilometers back to Saint Gervais?” He shouts back something that sounds like “Hell yeah!”
But that is before three kilometers of stony switchbacks. Once we reach the auberge we’d booked for the night, neither of us feels up for another 20 kilometers. Thirty-eight turned out to be enough.
Les Houches is the beginning and end of the TMB for many people, and here we meet the widest mix of nationalities to date. We bunk with a Chinese girl who giggles when I try to make conversation. Our last beers on the road—tiny Heinekens, the only option—we drink with a pair of Kazakhs. Though I was not too enthusiastic when we first opened them, the little beers bring back memories of having a drink with friends alongside the canal in Paris, or on the beach in Barcelona. Surrounded by the infectious excitement of hikers from around the world, both starting and finishing their tours, we’re not going to turn our noses up now.
19.7 kilometers (12.2 miles), +970 meters (+3,182 feet) to Saint-Gervais-les-Bains
The joy of running a loop that leads home is that you can spend the whole way imagining the meal you’re going to enjoy. Running for six days leads to fantasizing about food for large swaths of the day. Imagining my veggie burger is only interrupted by the joy of reaching the flowering village of Bionassay, the last village before home.
At noon on the dot, we reach our adopted hometown of Saint Gervais, at the opening time of l’Eterele, our local pizza joint. Two bottles of ice-cold Marmotte beer later, we begin the final climb home. The brewers, David and Cedric, distribute their beers within only a 30-kilometer (18-mile) radius, and as we climb home we pass their workshop with a wave.
Only when we reach the back door of our chalet do we feel it: We’ve run the (Beer) Tour du Mont Blanc, and our legs and stomachs have taken great care of us. Over the course of the tour, we’ve outrun the mental weight of our jobs, outrun the fear of the elements or not having “enough” gear, outrun the need to compare ourselves to or compete with others, and confirmed our suspicion that you should always stop for a beer, and always check the trail out yourself.
Words by Ashley ParsonsPhotos by Quentin Boehm
