Day Eight: Tripping the Alp Bovine

Morning in Hôtel du Glacier, Champex-Lac. The buffet breakfast was awesome, not least because I got chocolate in my coffee. For once there was no Muesli – but they did have dried fruits and nuts, which was actually better!

Though there wasn't a cloud visible in the sky, the forecast for the day wasn't good. And, even worse, in the hotel restaurant, we talked to a nice young Japanese man who had just been turned back from the Fenêtre d'Arpette. Basically, it was too early in the season for such a dicy, glorious, adventuresome variante. I bowed to the inevitable – albeit with some vigorous ribbing of Mark about it, details tragically not preserved. But the Alp Bovine route it was.

Leaving town, we almost immediately came upon a helicopter being rigged up with a sling-load to resupply a remote refuge. The wait for it to take flight was a little longer than we might have chosen, but it was worth it.

Then we got up and got moving again. For some reason, we talked smart phones, and upgrades, and calling plans.

The conversation through this stretch was so good I evidently didn't look up at the scenery for an hour.

We talked income generation, and startups, and passive revenue, and IPv6, and web dream-teams. Plus Tim's StoryPair project – not to mention the robotic library Mark's university is building; and the virtual browsing application he himself is doing, since you can't walk around and browse anymore (only the robot, which retrieves books, can).

The going was pretty easy and stress-free today.

I nominate the following for best quip of the trip (in a tough field):

We took an awesome break in the shade of the forest. I ate an apple and some trail mix; Tim busted out with this cool app for his iPhone that took photos and overlaid them with accurate geo-cords; and I changed my memory card out. I was back to having 4,000 frames, which I figured ought to stretch even to naked Swiss girls on ibexes.

We finally emerged from the treeline out onto a “lovely, flowery, streamy, grassy mountainside, with views back down into the valley.” Maybe Alp Bovine wasn't so terrible, despite being somewhat lacking in drama. According to the guidebook,

A few clouds floated in, taking over for the trees in keeping much of the sun off. Tim reported that we were at 1970 metres, facing NE.

We passed some French people sprawled out on the hill (last photo above). I said, "C'est magnifique." A French dude responded, "Panoramique!" So I took his advice and shot one. We then stopped at the remote, ridge-side Alpage de Bovine for CHF3.50 soft drinks and free cowbell serenading. This was, we worked out, the northernmost point on the whole tour.

We sat there in the shade talking human violence – Pinker, and Ehrenreich – and then got moving again. South.

I stopped to chat with a couple of lovely kids from Bristol, after which it took me 20 minutes to catch the others up.

We stopped on some rocks, beneath a copse of trees. Mark napped while Tim wandered off to do some bouldering.

Didn't work. I had to try harder.

While we were all feeling pretty happy and dreamy, I was also anticipating tomorrow's return to the stark Alpine drama of yore.

We set off again, for the day's final leg. It involved an 1,100 metre descent into Trient – and Mark pointed out that, had we done the Fenêtre d'Arpette, we would have had a mile to descend today.

While we descended, Mark told some great story about being offered a local beer, in Pennsylvania, called Golden Avalanche. His response to the bartender had been: "Now, I've heard of golden showers. And I don't want anything to do with a golden avalanche." We laughed until we ached, and decided we were too afraid to Google it.

We got our first view of tiny little Trient. ↑ And saw our first sheep of the trip! → They had little tinkly bells around their necks.

Trient turned out to be dead, tiny, and charmless. Its major virtue was that of being at the end of both of today's possible route variantes – so booking us in here allowed more flexibility. And booked in here we were.

The hotel-cum-hostelry, Relais du Mont Blanc – which took some finding, despite being the only place in town – was a little down-market, but also cute and welcoming. It definitely grew on us as we explored the common areas, particularly the sun- and wind-swept patio. Our table umbrella blew away, and I had to go chasing it across the property.

As usual, being in so early was a bit of a mixed blessing – it was a while until drinking time, and longer until dinner. While Mark and Tim chillaxed, I recce'd the bar, conservatory, patio, and shop – which was tiny but surprisingly well-stocked. (Probably due to it being, again, the only establishment – of any sort – in town.) I bought a postcard and stamps, two nectarines, and returned with all the info from my recce – not least that both the bar, and the shop, had cold 25 bière.

We lay around in the room for a few minutes, me filling out postcards, until I got restless again. While Mark napped and Tim played with his phone, I went back down again, hit the bar, and picked up a Marie Claire en Francais. As usual, with content of this sort, all of the headlines, and most of the text, were pretty intelligible, even if the photos weren't already sufficient. I also enjoyed the vibe and chatter of a dozen other sitters in the bar; it was hostel-like – in a good, buzzy, social way. I scribbled this, waiting for drinking time to come around.

At dinner, which was communal and lively, we were seated between "Les Français" and the six trail runners who had passed us that day. They were doing the whole route in 4 days (to our 10). Dinner was proper – veg soup with big baskets of bread, salad, a main with rice, ice cream, and coffee. It was hard to complain.

After the meal, we talked at some length with one of the trail runners, pictured above. He was 43, with 3 kids (16, 14, and 12) and, again, was running this 180km mountain route in 4 days. Definitely gives you hope for middle age.