Tarentaise Hideout
Last year, between two covid lockdowns, I had the opportunity to share a short trip with Thibaud Duchosal, Patrick Vuagnat, and Laurent Jamet. Our little getaway was the subject of an article in the first French issue of Backcountry Magazine.
Here is a little overview of this trip to the Tarentaise valley. A text signed by Pat Vuagnat.
It's been a year since the pace of our lives changed. The soft purr of our routines is hoarse. Our governors have ruled, society has adjusted, viruses have evolved, the time has steadfastly passed. We adapt, as always. More or less well, as we can. The windows of our luminescent screens were confined to displaying a dreary stream of agonizing data and numbers. A deadly spectacle parachuted into our cortices, to make those dizzy, paralyzed. Somewhere in Savoy, on a stone facade, a single window, like a monocle circled in wood. Through the tiles, the picture is quite different, it is wintry and it has everything to make us happy!
Our bags are heavy, soon their thongs will tear some grunts from us and stiffen our necks. With a tripod, a fondue pot, a climbing potato fillet, the modest caravan takes on the air of mining exploration. Not sure we were going to find the white gold, sure good times. The last weather episodes did not spare the Savoie. We just have enough to slide our skins along the first hundred meters of vertical drop. The thread of the snow cuts a dotted line in the forest. The breath becomes short, the chatter rarer, everyone becomes aware of their pulse and settles into a rhythm. After having used these last lights, the day gives way to a dark night, which can hardly be illuminated by a moon that drinks the water from the nebulosities. In single file, the convoy slips towards its El Dorado. We exfiltrate the last lights and sounds of the valley to create new landmarks. The cover of the night isolates us from the rest of the world. Far from being a mother of anguish, on the contrary, there is something comforting and restful about her. At night all the gray skies turn black, and who knows, maybe tomorrow morning they will be tinged with blue.
Patrick Vuagnat
“A testimony of the passage of time, of bad weather, of the time that is wasted by the times. And time that stops when you take the time.”
