Mt. St. Victoire
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Mt. St. Victoire
Mt. St. Victoire was always a looming presence that year I lived in Aix-en Provence, Junior Year Abroad, 1969-1970; the year of the invasion of Cambodia, a year after the General Strike in France, workers and students uniting,; also the year I grew into the writer and later teacher I would become, and my best friend, Ken, grew into an artist and later teacher and curator. We were 20, the world and us on the cusp of so much, and the mountain beckoned.
That morning, I packed my khaki backpack with a change of clothes, a few apples, two oranges, salami and cheese, some cookies and water. My sleeping bag was tied on top with a bungee cord. Ken’s backpack was similarly filled with what he would need on an overnight on the iconic mountain. We had picnicked with our group of international artist friends down below amidst the wildflowers many times, Catou, bringing tasty dishes made from leftover olives, rice, tuna, red pepper and scallions, dressed in a way I could never imitate. But that morning it was just Ken and me and the mountain. We were ready and met at the bus stop that whisked us to the trailheads.
Both in good shape, except for smoking Gauloise cigarettes, a habit we fortunately stopped, we began on the intermediate trail, not aware there were any other tails to the summit. In the sun, the limestone shaded from celadon and malachite green, to eggshell-white and silvery gray, constantly changing colors like a chameleon from the sun and shade. The trail was wide when we started and began to narrow about an hour later as we climbed higher and higher. At that point we stopped talking and concentrated on our feet, making sure we didn’t slip on the rocky, dry soil. The sun shone but not too brightly, the perfect temperature for a climb into Cezanne’s heart, our figures miniscule under the shadow of such royal rock. No wildflowers dotted the landscape, and we were exposed to the elements. I remembered a few years before summiting Mt. Washington and how the lush and humid summer landscape suddenly made way to Tuckerman’s Ravine; we left the tree line and I always wondered about the last tree before rock started, how nature could be so abrupt.
Ken offered to be in the back, in case I slipped or fell. I don’t think we thought about much that day—whether or not our sneakers had good treads or even how much water we needed with us. But we trudged confidently up the trail, now getting so narrow I placed my feet in impressions in the dirt made by previous hikers, so I wouldn’t veer too far to the left which was a huge cliff that dropped thousands of feet. If we fell to the left, we would surely die. We were both quiet, perhaps silently wondering what we had gotten into. The straps of my backpack cut into my shoulders, and I moved it so it was better centered.
Suddenly the path narrowed to almost nothingness, the huge cliff on the left and a steep wall in front of us. The wall glistened in the sun and hanging down was a chain. “What the hell!?” Ken said.
“I can’t believe this,” I said, scared of the wall, the chain and of the cliff below.
“Let me go up and see what’s above.” For a minute I wanted to say, “No, don’t go. Don’t leave me,” but he scurried up fast. “We’re almost at the summit he said! I’ll come down and bring our packs up.” He scurried down again, arms expertly monkeying down the chain. Later I learned that he was the best in his high school class at doing “the ropes.” I watched in awe.
Ken came down, went up with his pack, came down and went up with my pack, while I stayed put, trying to imagine myself as a monkey, easily going up the sheer wall. For a few minutes we both believed that this would be easy. I would pull up my whole body weight, something I had never done or even attempted. I was a tennis player, a basketball player, a dancer and a swimmer. Surely my arms would pull me up a chain. Easy peasy. Ken was on top and must have seen the scared look on my face. “I’ll come down,” he said and that probably saved my life. With him behind me on the small slab of rocky ground, I courageously clutched the chain and tried with all my might to pull myself up. “You’re doing it!” Ken said, the ultimate cheerleader, “You’re doing it!” I was half way up, my arms straining to the max, the chains painfully digging into my hands when I suddenly and completely knew I couldn’t go any further. When I think back to that moment—perhaps if someone was behind me trying to kill me, or I was escaping the Nazis maybe an adrenaline surge would have propelled me further. Did I give up? My hands slipped and I fell with all my body weight toward Ken. If he hadn’t acted so fast, we would have both fallen to our deaths off the cliff below. As I came rushing down, falling towards him, he pushed me into the wall, saving us both. We sat cross legged clutching each other as tears streamed down my face.
A few minutes later, still sitting down, a few men, German hikers from their accents, came to the wall and chain and quickly pulled themselves up. “Just about 30 minutes more to the summit” they said to us, maybe wondering why we were sitting there looking stunned. For a minute I wanted to try again, but I knew I couldn’t make it. They had no idea why we were sitting there and they might have been very nice people, but at that moment, I couldn’t stand their bronzed, muscled arms that pulled them toward the summit with what seemed like arrogance. My pale arms felt doughy and weak as if I were 80 years old, as if I might have trouble lifting a pen to write my last will and testament. How did they get to be so fit? I wanted to summit so badly.
“Let’s find the beginner’s trail,” Ken said. “I’m sure there’s one. Not everyone is going up a chain!” He never made me feel bad that I couldn’t do the chain. I was forever grateful for that.
Determined to make it to the top, we walked all the way down quite fast as we didn’t want to summit in the dark. We found the other trail. So exhausted, I had to mentally think, “I’m putting one foot in front of the next,”as we hiked all the way up to the top, at least a couple more hours of climbing. It was almost dark when we got there and stars were beginning to glisten and explode in the Mediterranean sky, l’heure bleu, the hour of blue twilight.
A huge wooden platform was scattered with sleeping bags, some with sleeping hikers. Other people milled in groups under the stars. We found two spaces and spread out our bags, ate salami, cheese and fruit, peed like others behind some rocks and went to sleep. I was glad to have all my clothes on in the chilly night. I’m not sure I had ever felt so exhausted, so comforted by the stars and so happy that Ken and I were both alive.