Last December, I started to plan an ambitious journey: going from Chamonix to Zermatt by foot, on my own. It’s been a long time since I wanted to do a solo multi-days hike, and I loved the idea of joining those two iconic valleys.

Some may say it was ambitious, even a little crazy, to plan such a walk when you have so little experience – yes, I love to hike, but I’m more like an occasional hiker than a seasoned trekker. Maybe I love challenging myself more than I think.

I trained, and I set off on a bright summer day, under a suffocating, ravenous sun. It took me 12 days to reach Zermatt. I’ve walked for 130km, which is a little less than the usual route. But I had to adjust my itinerary in order to preserve my body and handle my tiredness. The thing is: it was way more harder than expected. Though I studied the route, the steps, the kilometers, the elevation, I got caught by the hardness of the paths, incredibly steep and technical. Carrying a 12kg backpack also adds up to the effort. Not to mention the first three days, which were terribly hot, making the walk very demanding for your heart, breath and body. 

And yet, there I was. Thrust along endless tracks, offering neither shade or respite, I surprised myself by holding on. There I was, wincing, huffing, puffing, grumbling, but moving forward. I knew I had no choice but to keep going, because once you’ve started to climb, you have to go down. Yet I didn’t ignore my fatigue or my pain, or my frustration at seeing the hours tick by, knowing I still had some left. I just dealt with it. This made me realize how resilient the body is, how resistant the mind can be. The way it focuses and sharpens around a determination that leaves no room for doubt or renouncement. The way the body stores up suffering, endures it and then releases it. It fascinated me. 

This kind of experience makes you – needs you – paying close attention to your body. Each twinge, each contracture, the feeling of fatigue or a sudden flow of energy. You become aware of subtle variations. You know when your physical shape is aligned with your mental shape, or when it’s not. Then you realize how easily you can adapt. You can walk with a sore body from the previous days, surprisingly feel less pain after a few hours of effort. 

Emotions are fleeting. Joy and awe turn into despair. You’re fed up, then satisfied, nostalgic, relieved, proud. It’s all a jumble. And nothing lasts. 

Each morning, for example, I was anxious not knowing what the day would bring. It was like throwing the dices all over again. How hard the path would be? Would my body resist? Would the weather be favorable? Each completed day was a victory, but there was no guarantee the following one would have the same outcome. 

On day 5, I broke down. It was a grey day in a grey landscape, mineral, austere, caped by an overcast sky. The ground was steep, technical, rocky, dotted with snow patches I had to slide down on my buttocks. The succession of ascents and descents got my mood down. That’s how once arrived at Cabane de Prafleuri, where I was supposed to stop only for a lunch break, I fell apart.
As the rain started to weight the scenery, I sat with a pot of hot tea, tears rolling down my face. I didn’t even know exactly what they were carrying. At some point, the hut keeper came to see me with a slice of chocolate cake. She sat next to me, with a cup of tea as well. She offered me to stay for the night, to lend me her acupressure mat for my aching back, she advised me to lie down and get some rest, to take it easy. It’s hard to say how grateful I am for her incredible kindness at this very moment.

Around the tables, the other trekkers – some I had crossed path with in the previous days – didn’t seem to be as exhausted as I was. That is when I started to think I might have overestimated my capacities. Or underestimated the level of this trek. That is also when I decided, after a few hesitations, to listen to my instinct and to skip the day after, where I was supposed to cross the most difficult pass of the entire route. This renouncement was hard to accept, but I quickly got that it would be thanks to this decision that I would be able to keep going. This perspective helped tempering my resentment. The aim was to go all the way, but not at all cost, and not by losing sight of the fun. 

Because the reason why I wanted to solo hike was not only to test my resistance, but also to witness beauty in a raw, intense way. So, most of the time, I chose to not listen to music, but only to the sounds of nature around. Birds chirps, cow bells, wind, marmot whistle, water stream. My own breath. It helps to immerse into the effort, but also to what surrounds you. 

Every time you look up, you are fully there, aware of the shivers of the light through the branches, the morning dew twinkling on the leaves, the clouds passing, the blurred mountains in the distance, the steepness of the hill hurtling down the valley. The flowers. The infinite shades of green coloring the forest. Crossing villages, I silently marveled at the bursting red of the geraniums, at the idyllic small chalets scattered along the alpine pastures. I observed the plump crescent moon, hanging in the velvety sky of a soft lilac blue, after the sun went down.
I felt I was witnessing a life that eluded our gauche human clumsiness. A light, subtle life you can guess in the dialogue between the vibrating air and the rays of sunlight that rustle the undergrowth. A life that can be felt, more than described.

As the Haute-Route is far from being busy, I’ve seen very, very little people on the tracks. It was humbling to be the only human soul in the middle of those wild, vast mountains, but also, I must admit, a little frightening sometimes. I’m not used to this kind of solitude. You feel small, fragile, vulnerable. Far from everything and everyone. A hundred times I found myself looking, hoping for another human being popping into the scenery. I didn’t even need them to talk to me. I just wanted to know someone else was there, somewhere. 

Maybe I prefer my solitude when I’m among others. That I need to feel presences around me. Maybe the solitude I like is just an artefact, and the real solitude that takes you out of the world frightens me. Yet, I find it deeply attractive and desirable. I approached it, and it jostled me, forcing me to think, to consider it differently. I think it even gave me the urge to come back to it. But not now.

Despite what I just said, I’ve managed to meet some fellow hikers along the way. I think we were ten or so walking the Haute-Route at the same time. First there was Philippe, whom we met on the first evening in Balme, then in Le Châble, at Cabane de Louvie, in Prafleuri, and on a path between Arolla and Les Haudères. Then there was Sebastian, whom we met at a fountain, then by chance the next day in a hut with his friend Callum. We found ourselves following each other for five days, sometimes walking together, and spending our evenings camping, shopping, drinking coffee and cooking the three of us. It reminded me the vibes of the solo travel, this genuine fellowship that builds up naturally.
There was also Vincent, who, like me, was staying in the Prafleuri winter hut, and who followed the same stages right up to the day before the arrival. And then there was Frédérique from Quebec, Warwick from Australia and Robert from the USA.

It was so nice and comforting to see those familiar faces all over again, sometimes unexpectedly. It turned this solo and introspective journey into somehow a shared experience. We were going through the same steps, enduring the same difficulties, talking sometimes about our joys and our pains. Their existence gave substance to this journey. They were the surprise I wasn’t expecting.

A day before arriving at Zermatt, as I was climbing my last stretch to Europahütte, I felt suddenly emotional thinking I’ve made it. I came all the way from Chamonix, crossing passes and valleys, waking up every morning with a smile and a taste of challenge, despite the bad nights of sleep. Yes, I took the bus sometimes, but still. 7990 meters of elevation up, 9270 meters of elevation down. My knees were swollen, my calves hard as wood, my shoulders inflamed by the friction of the straps. I even cut my foot on one of my tent pegs. But I made it to the end.

For the first few days, I asked myself over and over again why I’d done this. What was I trying to prove to myself? Where did I want to belong? Who did I want or need to impress? As I progressed, however, the question became less prominent, until it was completely diluted. Moments replaced reasons, the need for explanation. I walked for hours wrapped in nostalgia thinking this parenthesis was coming to an end. That all I would be left with was this intangible that I humbly try to transcribe, but which can only truly exist between my heart and my mind.

I ended this journey the best way possible, staying at CERVO hotel. The 24 hours I spent there were the most relaxing. Everything was delightful, quiet. A soft breeze waving the curtain of the room, as music was playing in the background. The long, hot shower I indulged myself with. The afternoon by the pool, the smell of the Bhutanese bath, my body dwelling into the steam of the hammam. Dinner in the blue hour, savoring a well-deserved glass of wine. The delicious breakfast in the cosy morning light flowing through the windows of the Bazaar – the very moment of the day that I wish would never end. 
Everyone was smiling, caring, making each second feel special. This hotel has something magical. The moments you create there are precious, timeless. They stay with you forever.

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In my earplugs