BY Racha Mourtada | September 22 2017

Le Tour du Mont Blanc

Racha Mourtada

Racha Mourtada

“It was a journey of paradoxes, long lean corridors of forest enclosed by canopies of dense green that let in the splintered light; and wide-open mountain ranges for miles, swathed in swirls of cloud, dipping into valleys that cradled patches of sunlight.”

The Tour du Mont Blanc was a sensory assault, in the best and worst way. At its most awe-inspiring, powdery snow laced the mountains, grass bouncy with rain cushioned our tired feet, lovely Italian ladies gave us sprigs of Edelweiss for good luck, and tiny sweet bunches of blueberries found their way unquestioningly into our mouths (we found out later which ones make you sick; no harm done). It was a journey of paradoxes, long lean corridors of forest enclosed by canopies of dense green that let in the splintered light; and wide-open mountain ranges for miles, swathed in swirls of cloud, dipping into valleys that cradled patches of sunlight. You would start the day in a t-shirt, knee-high in blossoms and nettles, only to end it with two buffs and a snow cap wrapped around your head, your windbreaker flapping around you, and moisture creeping into your socks, making you question the validity of the term ‘waterproof’.

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