
Since the age of about 9 or 10, maybe earlier, I have been fairly
obsessed with the mountains, with skiing and with climbing and mountaineering and with adventure of any sort. We had a book when I was growing up called "On Ice and Snow and Rock" by Gaston
Rebuffat.
I'm pretty sure my father brought it back with him from
Chamonix. It had many full color pictures of Gaston climbing the
beautiful granite spires that rip up through the
brilliant glaciers around Mont
Blanc. For anyone who has seen this book you know how great these pictures are. The images stick with me more than those of my other
children's books. At night my father would pour a cup of Cognac, light the
lantern and read aloud from Annapurna in which Gaston performed such human acts of heroism while so out of his home alpine element. His
knickers and wool sweater seemed so
impossible and out of place in this high
Himalayan darkness which I already understood was another world. Jill and I are leaving for
Chamonix in 9 days.
The book wasn't the only thing my father brought back from chamonix. He brought back a bunch of great stories, a bunch of great color slides, some cool glacier glasses with beads sewn on the side by the hand of some hot french chick. He brought back two ice axes....(if anyone knows where they might be, please bring them back to the ridge) and I'm pretty sure that he came back with a bunch of memories that I wish he would write down or tell to me as a story.