The Sounds of Mont Blanc
Glen Bullock
Morning. Leaving Chamonix. Excited voices in the back of the van.
A stop at the bakery for fresh baguettes.
Gear check. Crampons, ice axes, helmets. And then you’re off
As you begin the climb, your eyes are on the ground in front of you, careful not to trip. So sometimes all you can do is listen.
Boots crunching, poles sticking into the ground. Your breath, already heavy.
Around you, climbers discuss the route, the weather. Frenchmen speaking broken English, and the English unrecognizable French.
The guides say that a French map shows the entire peak of the mountain in French territory, but in Italy there is a straight line through the top.
Eventually, you reach the snow. Nothing but white all around. And it feels like you’re hiking through emptiness. Silence. The mountain has a sort of soft buzzing sound. Sort of like cicadas in the summer.
***
Eventually you arrive at the refuge. A lodge built into the side of the mountain. Hands clapping, bodies hugging, the sound of chatter in the hut after a long day.
Where are you from? Spain. Germany. Switzerland. Canada. France.
People are sitting around at tables, playing cards or clinking beers, waiting for dinner to arrive. It’s a funny thing. Hearing adults playing and socializing like children.
And then there is a slow quieting as people leave the mess hall, off to bed. Because they know they will need to rise before the sun to attempt to summit.
You step outside for a moment, breathe in the cold air and look over the horizon. Does the sunset have a sound?
***
The morning is a blur. People waking, searching for their headlamps, scrambling to put on their warm clothing. There is the sound of caution. Slow and steady steps. You can hear axes slicing through the ice. Crampons digging into the side of the slope. People shouting directions. And for a long time, the loudest sound is that of the voice inside your head. Keep going.
You think back to your school years, seasons spent on the rugby team. Or about the woman you’re going to see when you get back to Paris. The one that works at that wine bar. And you think about your family.
***
Somehow, after hours hiking, you reach the final stretch. The snow flattening in front of you. And you finally look up.
What is the sound clouds make as you’re standing above them?
You’re all sitting around, talking, enjoying a few minutes of rest on the peak, when you see it. Butterflies circling around the summit. Les papillons.
It takes you a moment to register. Nothing but white and snow and clouds in every direction, and here are some butterflies.
You wonder if they ever get close enough to hear the flapping of their wings. Or if always keep their distance, a tiny spec flapping around, circling the top of the white mountain.
Glen Bullock is a writer from Toronto, Canada. Since graduating from Western University in 2017, he has worked at Uber Technologies in both Nairobi and Toronto. Last year, he was selected by the Writers Trust of Canada (est. by Margaret Atwood) as a 2022 Emerging Writer. He is currently working on a novel supported by the Toronto Arts Council.