In the summer of 2023, after a painful breakup, I felt an instinctual pull guiding me to a specific destination. Initially, I had planned a one-month trip, but my incredible friends Joaquin and Laeticia, with their generous hospitality, welcomed me into their beautiful chalet in Les Houches. From there, I embarked on a journey of exploration, taking my time to immerse myself in the valley’s offerings.

Initially, I had ambitious plans to complete the renowned Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB), a multi-day trek that encircles the majestic massif. However, as I packed my minimalist backpack, I realised that while I still possessed the strength and drive, I should prioritise alpine climbing over the long-distance trekking. This shift in focus allowed me to appreciate the beauty of the mountains at a slower pace.

My early days were filled with trail runs and camping trips. I set up a small bivouac at Cornu in the Aiguilles Rouges, where I was treated to breathtaking sunsets that seemed to ignite the entire valley.

As I progressed, I set my sights on more challenging objectives. I took the Aiguille du Midi cable car as the Arcteryx Alpine Academy commenced, and ventured onto the Vallée Blanche. The atmosphere was electric, with climbers, guides and photographers all converging on the valley. It was a community that felt welcoming and inclusive, even for someone traveling alone.

Soon after turning back from the Rochefort Ridge, I shifted my attention toward a nearby objective — the Aiguille d’Entrèves, a beautiful, slender peak sitting elegantly on the Franco-Italian border. I started the scramble alone, weaving up broken rocks and snowy ledges, moving carefully and steadily upward. The day was crisp and clear, the kind of alpine morning where everything feels sharper: the crackle of crampons against ice, the scrape of rock under gloves, the deep blue sky stretching forever overhead.

When I reached the famous crux — the exposed, photogenic spot where the ridge narrows into a perfect little “needle” — I paused. It’s the kind of place where every climber stops to catch their breath, both because of the view and because of the sheer exhilaration of standing there. That’s where I met them: a father and his young teenage son, carefully making their way along the ridge, roped together, sharing quiet words of encouragement. I asked if I could take a photo of them on the needle — wanting to capture the classic moment against the incredible backdrop. They laughed and agreed, and as I snapped a few shots, we started chatting. When the father realised I was climbing alone, he didn’t hesitate.

“Why don’t you join us for the rest of the climb?” he offered warmly.

Something about the simplicity of the invitation — no fuss, no judgment, just the quiet understanding that mountains are better when shared — stayed with me. So I tied into their rope, and together we finished the ridge. We moved carefully over the jagged granite and snow patches, the father leading, the son scrambling eagerly behind, and me in the middle, honoured to be part of their team for a few fleeting hours.

There was a special energy in that climb — not just the movement over beautiful terrain, but the feeling of shared trust, of small encouragements passed along the rope, of a son learning from his father, and of a stranger briefly folded into their story.

The young boy’s enthusiasm was contagious — every small challenge on the route was a victory, every summit block a chance to whoop with joy. When we finally topped out and stood together, catching our breath against the vast skyline, I felt a quiet gratitude rise inside me. Not just for the mountain, not just for the perfect weather — but for the reminder that in the sometimes lonely world of alpine climbing, companionship can appear exactly when you need it most.

Another unforgettable highlight of the summer was climbing the famous Rébuffat-Pierre route on the Aiguille du Midi with Mihnea Prundeanu — a true classic, etched into alpine lore and immortalized by Gaston Rébuffat himself in The Mont Blanc Massif: The Hundred Finest Routes.

We moved light and fast, aiming to catch the best of the morning conditions. The start depended on the season — early on, you'd launch from the gully, but in the dry summer we chose the more direct line: a beautiful 5b pitch straight off the deck.
The granite was crisp, the holds sculpted and inviting, the kind of climbing that makes you forget everything but the simple joy of movement.

The crux pitch — once aided in Rébuffat's time — still carried the scars and memories of countless ascents, festooned with old ropes and slings. It was a strange but reassuring sight: a living history of alpinism woven into the very fabric of the climb.
Mihnea led with steady precision, while I followed, savoring every move, knowing I was tracing a line that generations before me had also followed in awe.

The exposure grew with every pitch, opening up staggering views across the Vallée Blanche and the towering giants beyond. The climbing stayed wonderfully varied — crack systems, delicate slabs, exposed arêtes — each pitch offering something new, something memorable.

Topping out near the upper terraces of the Aiguille du Midi felt surreal: from the quiet intimacy of the climb to the sudden buzz of tourists snapping photos just meters away.
But even surrounded by the crowd, there was a quiet pride in what we'd just shared — a thread of connection stretching back to Rébuffat himself and all those who'd felt the call of this perfect little line on the Midi.

It wasn’t just another route ticked off. It was a small step deeper into the living, breathing story of Chamonix.

One of the unexpected gifts of the summer was reconnecting with Kevin — a Swiss climber I first met months earlier in Grindelwald, after soloing the Wetterhorn.
At the time, he was working in a local climbing shop, and I had wandered in, still buzzing from the climb, asking about ropes and gear. Kevin had generously shared tips about the surrounding peaks, and though it was just a brief encounter, it stuck with me — that easy, unspoken connection between people who live for the mountains.

Fast forward to Chamonix, and by sheer luck, our paths crossed again.
Kevin was now deep into his journey toward becoming a mountain guide, ticking off routes for his application. When he suggested teaming up for some multipitch days, it was an easy yes.

We kicked things off with Cacao Girls, a classic easy multipitch just across the border in Switzerland. The climbing was perfect — technical but never overwhelming, with beautiful granite and endless views spilling out over the Trient Valley. Moving smoothly pitch after pitch, we found that effortless rhythm that only comes when two partners trust each other’s movement, instincts, and pace.
The last few pitches caught the afternoon sun, and we topped out grinning, the world stretched wide and golden around us.

Not long after, we went for something bigger: the Ecandies Traverse — a stunning alpine link-up weaving across jagged ridgelines and slender towers, where the climbing was as much about moving efficiently and reading the terrain as it was about pulling on holds. The atmosphere was wild and exposed, a true high-mountain playground where every step demanded focus but also rewarded you with breathtaking beauty.

Climbing with Kevin felt natural — no ego, no stress, just two people moving through the mountains for the pure love of it. Between pitches, we swapped stories about life, plans, and the long road of becoming a guide. It was a reminder that sometimes the best partnerships aren’t meticulously planned — they just happen, when the mountains put the right people together at the right time.

Those days out with Kevin became some of the defining moments of my summer — days where the climbing was good, sure, but where the companionship was even better.

Another unforgettable adventure came when I decided to trek up to the Refuge du Couvercle, perched above the legendary Mer de Glace. The day began with a long descent onto the glacier itself — a surreal, almost lunar landscape of crevasses and shimmering ice, bearing silent witness to centuries of exploration and, more recently, rapid retreat.

The journey down was a sobering experience in itself. As I made my way toward the glacier, I passed a series of metal stairs bolted into the raw bedrock — each level marked with a date: 1990, 2000, 2010, and so on — each one showing where the surface of the glacier used to be. It was like walking through a timeline of loss, a silent testimony to the accelerating impacts of climate change.
Decade by decade, the ice had vanished, leaving behind nothing but bare, scarred stone. What was once a mighty river of ice that swept down the valley now felt fractured and fragile, fighting to hold on.

Reaching the glacier, I stepped onto the cracked surface with a heavy heart — feeling both awe and a deep sadness. This was the Mer de Glace I had read about in the stories of early mountaineers, but it was also a shadow of its former self, a living monument to everything we stand to lose.

From there, the route up to the Refuge du Couvercle involved weaving across the broken glacier and eventually climbing a series of steep metal ladders bolted into the cliffs — the infamous ladders leading up to the balcony trail.
I accidentally missed the newer, more straightforward route and found myself instead on the old ladders — battered, slanted, and terrifyingly wonky in places, swaying slightly underfoot. Each move demanded full focus and a steady nerve, and by the time I hauled myself onto the balcony trail above, my heart was pounding from more than just the effort.

But the reward made every step worth it. From the Refuge du Couvercle, the view was simply insane: a vast amphitheatre of towering peaks — Les Drus, the Grandes Jorasses, Mont Blanc itself — spread out in every direction, catching the late sun in hues of gold and fire. Standing there, above the wounded glacier, I felt a deep, bittersweet connection to the history of these mountains — a reminder of their enduring beauty, but also of their fragile future.

One morning, after riding the Aiguille du Midi lift and crossing into Italy at the Torino Hut, I set off solo to explore the Glacier du Géant.

I wandered upward in the quiet blue of early morning, heading toward Dent du Géant. As the sun rose, the glacier lit up in gold — a spellbinding moment where time seemed to slow over ice and granite.

Somewhere along the way, I crossed paths with a Spanish guide — warm, easygoing. We swapped cameras and started snapping shots of each other. One of the few images I have of myself from the trip came from that chance meeting — a reminder of how sometimes connection happens without many words.

I kept moving toward the Salle à Manger, the broad snowy plateau where most climbers pause before tackling Dent du Géant itself. I stood there a while, soaking in the grandeur, knowing not to push beyond solo.

Instead, I tiptoed out onto the first section of the Rochefort Ridge — that iconic, corniced blade of snow. For a few minutes, I moved along its crest, utterly alone in the wind and light, before turning back. The exposure was beautiful. And real.

One perfect morning, I teamed up with my good friend Cristina Podocea to climb Les Lépidoptères — a beautiful, flowing route on the lower flanks of the Aiguille du Peigne.

We started at the foot of a polished granite slab, picking up the line of newer ring bolts just right of some old, black relics. From the first moves, the climbing felt intuitive and joyful — solid granite under our hands, endless blue sky above.
The route weaves its way through impressively rugged terrain but somehow keeps the difficulty at a very friendly 5b, offering just the right mix of movement and exposure without ever feeling overwhelming.

It was pure high mountain bliss: sharp air, the valley stretching far below, and that quiet rhythm you find when you're moving steadily, pitch after pitch, in good company.

Les Lépidoptères can easily be linked with one of the routes higher up on the Peigne for a full alpine day, but even on its own, it delivered a few glorious hours of simple, beautiful climbing — enough to feel immersed in the granite kingdom without the weight of big commitment.

Topping out with Cristina, sharing smiles and snacks, we lingered for a while — not rushing down, just soaking in the atmosphere. It was one of those routes that remind you why you fell in love with the mountains in the first place: not because they're brutal or epic, but because they're beautiful, generous places to simply be.

As the weeks went by, I reconnected with Romanian climbing friends and mentors: Mihnea Prundeanu, Cătălin Pobega, and Cosmin Andron.
All three had long been figures I looked up to — not just for their technical mastery, but for the quiet, confident way they moved through the mountains, balancing ambition with deep respect for the environment around them.

Climbing with true professionals is humbling in ways that few other experiences are. It strips you back to the fundamentals — shows you where your technique needs refining, where your judgment could be sharper, where fear still holds a quiet grip. It pushes you to be better not by force, but by example, inviting you into a higher standard of craft. And it knocks the ego down a few pegs — but always in the best, most constructive way possible.

Our days together took us across some of the valley’s hidden treasures: the flowing, textured limestone of Col de la Colombière, where delicate footwork and subtle movement ruled; the powerful, exposed faces of Lac du Bourget, where endurance and mental resilience were tested pitch after pitch.

Later that summer, another memorable day unfolded when I teamed up with Dana Bratu and Kevin for a multipitch climb called Into the Wild — a classic granite route on Mont Oreb tucked into the Aiguilles Rouges.

We had tossed around ideas that morning. Kevin was leaning toward a slightly different, maybe quieter route. I had my heart set on Into the Wild — something about the name, the line, the clean granite — it just called to me. Dana was happily neutral, ready for anything as long as it involved good climbing and good company. In the end, with a bit of gentle persuasion, we agreed on Into the Wild — and I’m glad we did.

The route itself turned out to be exactly what we needed: pure fun on excellent rock, with solid holds, comfy belays, and a perfect mix of technical sections and more relaxed movement. Though the grade is listed at 6a+, the cruxes are short and well-protected, with easier climbing before and after, allowing you to fully enjoy the exposure without feeling overwhelmed.

It was a busy day on the wall, with several teams ahead and behind us, but somehow the energy stayed positive. We cracked jokes at the belays, swapped leads, shared beta, and moved steadily upward, threading our way between the other parties without much stress.

The setting was pure magic: bright granite slabs, sharp arêtes, distant glaciers shimmering in the sun. Each pitch brought a little more flow, a little more laughter, a little more appreciation for the simple beauty of sharing a day on the rock with good friends.

Topping out, we lounged on the warm stone for a while, swapping snacks and stories as the peaks stretched out in every direction around us.
It wasn’t just about ticking another route — it was about the way days like this weave themselves quietly into your memory, stitched together by movement, friendship, and the mountains.