Page 37 - 2021 AMA Summer

but as the smoke from the fire died down so the midges attacked in squadrons. The midge bite is unpleasant and the area then itches like mad. We were being bitten and the little horrors flew straight through the mosquito net of which I had been so proud. We moved outside but it was no better. Finally, someone kindly let us share their tent and at last, we were out of harm’s way and could sleep.
Alpine huts have generally left me with happy memories. The simple pleasure of entering the winter room of an unguarded hut where there is a stove and dry wood, and in no time the fire is lit, and a brew of tea is made. Arriving once at the refuge Fond des Fours above Val d’Isere we found the place well under snow and after a long day skiing over Mean Martin we had to call on all reserves of energy to dig down to the door and gain access.
A group of four friends set out rather early on the Tour du Mont Blanc on foot in May and when we reached the great Elisabetta Soldini hut the guardian and staff were just moving in for the summer season. They told us it was officially closed but we were welcome to stay the night. I tentatively asked about a meal and the nice young female chef, who had walked up most of the way from Courmayeur, said she could give us a crust. We were the only people in the dining room at the appointed time, and bless her, she had prepared an excellent four-course supper.
One stay near Briancon was at a chalet offering B&B run by two vegetarian women. The group of guys with me were ardent carnivores but gracefully dined on a veggie curry that was unanimously voted a triumph of the culinary art. In the morning we left in our support minibus which was putting us back on route and as we waved a cheery goodbye the driver managed to drive over and across their garden furniture which rather spoilt our graceful departure.
Our arrival at the Trient hut was easy one year. The main part was open but unusually the guardian was away, but he had left a note inviting guests to help themselves to drinks from the cellar and to leave cash in an honesty box. It was with glee that we went down the ladder to fetch ice cold beers that sunny May day before lying out on the veranda.
Very early one morning a German party at the Argentiere hut rose before dawn to tackle the long climb up the Chardonnet glacier. As one stout member of the party came down the small ladder from the upper bunk he managed to stand on my hand – though we were in France and my brain was in French gear – I found that some suitable German expletives came very quickly to my lips.
Another year at the same hut I went out late, as the sun was setting, for a wash and shave. Old habits die hard and I always manage to shave in the hills either with a small battery razor or with a standard bladed razor. While shaving I had a habit of hanging up a small device which was a thermometer on one side and on the reverse was a good mirror. It was jolly cold outside the hut so, as soon as I could, I packed up my stuff and dashed into the warmth of the hut. The next night I realised, with regret, that I had left my mirror behind and thought no more of it. A couple of months later back at home a good friend called and asked if I was missing a mirror? John Elis Roberts, a guide, had found my mirror a few days later where I left it and fortunately it had my name on it. We were soon reunited and I have it to this day.
A ski tour of the Vanoise in spring saw us arriving at the deserted Refuge de la Dent Parrachée. We were the first to arrive and thought we had the place to ourselves, but before long the guardian arrived, an amiable young man who had walked up from the valley to prepare a meal for a French party who arrived as the sun set. After we had cooked our supper the guardian went out and soon reappeared with a frozen bottle of génépi – a digestif flavoured with the yellow flower of the alpine wormwood, which is related to absinthe. In the quieter months, he collects the flowers and makes the liquor which he hides in the snow beneath the hut. He kindly shared it with his grateful guests.
Arriving at a wooden hut on the border between Norway and Finland we found a large metal pot of reindeer stew which had arranged to be dropped off for us by a Sami (the native tribe) on a skidoo. It was frozen solid and took ages to thaw and reheat, and when we could make out the contents it had all the appearance of
being a casserole of reindeer testicles! Hungry as we were, we ate it with relish.
Walking with my wife across part of the Pyrenees on the GR10 we stayed at a particularly pleasant hut, where after settling in I bought a token for the hot shower. I then went along to the shower wearing the minimum and hut shoes and found two teenage French girls in front of me. One was in the shower and she soon appeared and the second went in. The jeton gives a time-limited shower so I knew my wait would not be too long. I was beginning to feel chilly. Hooray, the shower finally cut out and I thought “any minute now” but no, hair drying and beau- tification was going on and after about a further five minutes others in the queue were encouraging the occupant to get a move on in French, German and Italian! The moral of the story is not to follow any young girls in a queue for the showers.
On a recent hike along the summer high route from Chamonix to Zermatt, we had a particularly gruelling day to reach the Cabane de Parafleuri. Before our arrival, I had called to say we were a day ahead of our programme but could we stay anyway – please? The guardienne was very brisk and stern and replied that the hut was full and that we would have to go to a hotel about 8km further on. I really did not fancy that so on arrival at the hut I found the guardienne’s father and told him in my best French that I was “completement crevé”. I think he took one look at me and kindly allocated us spaces in a rather full dortoir. This was my wife’s first experience of being a sardine in a bed full of strapping young Italian men.
Reindeer stew anyone?
ARMY MOUNTAINEER / 37