The bus from Geneva was delayed by forty or fifty minutes before departure, which made me rather anxious, but I arrived safely in Chamonix a little after seven in the evening. I vaguely remembered crossing a mountain pass long ago, yet this time there seemed to be no particularly steep ascent as we entered the town of Chamonix. Could it really have been this close — only a little over an hour away? My memories had become hazy with time. As the bus entered the Chamonix valley, familiar names such as Les Houches and Bossons began to appear, stirring old memories. The bus arrived at Chamonix Sud, near the station of the Aiguille du Midi cable car. Since Hôtel Mont-Blanc was across the river, I had to walk a few hundred meters, but I enjoyed strolling through the streets as I made my way there.
The next morning, I met my guide in the hotel lobby. I had arranged everything beforehand through a Japanese-run tour company in Chamonix, so I felt reassured. A man named Mr. Kanda appeared together with the guide. In our earlier e-mail exchanges, he had said that although I had once done rock climbing, the long blank period in between meant that perhaps I should limit myself to hiking. While I understood his point, I had secretly hoped that since I had come all this long way, perhaps a guide might still take me on an easy mixed route. So I pressed my case a little, and somehow they agreed. However, I was firmly reminded that they would first assess my ability on rock and glacier terrain — perhaps sizing up the client, one might say — and that guide fees would still apply even if bad weather or my lack of ability prevented us from climbing.
The guide was a man named Gigi, a kindly-looking fellow in his fifties.
Without delay, he took me to the Gaillands climbing crag. It must have been more than forty years ago. Vague memories came back to me — the lively atmosphere of the guide festival and so on. The harness I wore again after several decades felt painfully tight beneath my stomach.
Still, as one would expect of a professional guide, Gigi instructed me patiently and thoroughly, step by step. (Of course, if a guide failed to give proper instruction and a client had an accident, it would be disastrous, so perhaps this was only natural.)
Gigi climbed in mountaineering boots, while lending me a pair of climbing shoes. We began with an easy route. But as soon as I started climbing, the old sensations returned, and I found myself climbing smoothly again.
Gradually the difficulty increased. In the end, we climbed several pitches and descended by rappel. With an encouraging “Good!” from Gigi, the first day came to an end.
In the afternoon, he suggested perhaps taking a siesta, but since I had come all the way to Chamonix, I rode the Brévent cable car to the top and then walked partway back down. As I walked, I recalled staying long ago at a cheap hostel called Ski Station somewhere near Brévent. I searched for it, and to my delight found that it was still there, just beside the cable car station, bringing back a flood of nostalgia.
Afterward, I wandered through the town and eventually reached the Chamonix cemetery, where guides from long ago now rest.
The person I especially wished to visit was Edward Whymper. It is said that in his old age he returned once more to Chamonix and died in a hotel there. The cemetery lies near the Montenvers station. Though the area outside was crowded with tourists, there was no one in the cemetery itself. His grave stood near the entrance, adorned with a beautiful flower bed.
The first day had begun rather well — but what would the next day bring?
English version presented with AI assistance
(Originally written in Japanese)
japanese version:
Hôtel Mont-Blanc
Mont Blanc can be seen from the balcony.
Ideally located in the center of town, adjacent to the Tourist Office.
Balmat and Saussure pointing toward Mont Blanc
Saint-Michel Church and Brévent
The Gaillands climbing crag
The Valley of Chamonix-Mont-Blanc
Chamonix Cemetery Whymper’s grave