Wintry conditions for a white wedding with the Queen of the Val d'Hérens

Every alpinist has their mountain, the one that holds a very special place in their heart and thoughts.

The Dent Blanche holds that privileged place in my life. She sits enthroned in majesty at the head of the Val d'Hérens, from which every village, every alpine pasture and every summit offers a view of her. And for almost a year now, I had been able to gaze at her every day from my own home.

I wanted this first ascent to be intense and memorable. To mark the conquest of this mythical summit — the first that would take me above the symbolic altitude of 4000 metres — I had begun to consider whether a solo ascent was the right thing to do.

I know my physical and mental limits, and they made me confident about climbing the normal route alone. Fully aware that the commitment and exposure remained considerable, I nonetheless felt that the idea of climbing the Dent Blanche alone was neither unreasonable nor reckless given my abilities.

The weather window on Friday looks fairly favourable: excellent visibility and no risk of storms. The wind, however, will be strong and will not let up all day. A call to the hut warden to find out about conditions on the ground casts a veil of doubt over my plan: you would think it was still winter, and the ridge is completely snowed up. Blast. That reshuffles the cards. Because climbing grade IV in rock shoes, in the sun and on a rope, is quite another thing from tackling the same passages in crampons, with thick gloves, one hand permanently holding an ice axe to clear the holds, and the relentless awareness that falling is strictly forbidden.

After a few discussions with one or two knowledgeable alpinists and some deep personal reflection, I decide to go ahead with the venture all the same. As I said, my relationship with this mountain is a special one, and the conditions (a snowy ridge, a solo outing) come together for a truly special ascent too.

On Thursday, on the approach from Ferpècle to the hut, my emotion grows as the queen of these parts draws closer. I am full of joy and calm. Calm, because I have clearly set myself a limit: at the slightest hesitation, I will not carry on alone. Either I turn back, or I join a rope team.

Friday, 5 a.m.: six rope teams set off into the cold, starry night. I may not be roped up, but that does not mean I am completely alone and isolated, and if the need arises I can close in on a team a few hundred metres ahead or behind. Progress is also made much easier by the presence of a track.

I reach the foot of the great gendarme — at around 4000 m — elated by the surrounding beauty, yet very focused on every one of my moves. Two rope teams have already decided to turn back. I climb the steep couloir on the West flank. It isn't technically difficult, but the conditions (wind and a layer of snow) add a notch to the difficulty.

At the top (4097 m), I catch up with a rope team, who decide to turn back. The tower rising before us (one of the 5 still to climb) is indeed impressive: for its verticality, but above all for the flakes of snow and ice scattered over the holds. I launch into it, extremely vigilant. With gloves, the grip is poorer; climbing in crampons can unsettle anyone who isn't used to it; you constantly have to keep the ice axe handy to tidy up the rock a little; the wind keeps whistling through my helmet... All these things put body and mind severely to the test. At the top of the tower, my arms still shaky and trembling, I realise the full extent of my exposure. Even though getting past this is well within my abilities, I'm not comfortable with the possibility of a fall. The signal is clear: I will not continue alone.

Not far ahead, I spot Steve and Noah, two young Swiss climbers I had met a few hours earlier over a (very) early breakfast. I speed up and draw level with them at the foot of the next tower. They kindly let me clip a prusik onto their rope, and I climb this tower with the same joy and excitement as the previous one, but this time with complete peace of mind.

I climb the last 200 metres of ascent with them, and so, as an impromptu rope team of three, we make our way to the summit (4357 m). It's 10:15. The panorama is splendid, and the weather gives us a view over the whole Alpine arc. But the break is very short, just long enough to wolf down a few carbs and briefly rehydrate bodies pushed to their limits. The gusts of wind literally freeze us to the spot, and we begin the descent.

We know it is more demanding than the way up: apart from a few abseils, almost everything has to be downclimbed — a task made even harder by the snow, which has gradually softened. We are careful and methodical... and above all very patient, since it will take us another seven hours to get back to the hut (3500 m).

It's 18:15, dinner time for the handful of people sleeping there tonight. As for us, we take a moment to catch our breath, eat a bit of sausage and cheese, and carry on down towards the valley. In a little under three hours, we reach Ferpècle.

After 17 hours on the go, exhausted but delighted, I find Alfred waiting for me in the car park, and head home... from where, every day, I will go on gazing at this mountain that is so special in my eyes.