Chamonix-Mont-Blanc, France

My first impression of the grouchy elderly guide was that I didn’t want to

spend a minute with him, let alone put my life in his hands.

Skiing Chamonix’s “iconic” terrain of challenging slopes and glaciers

required a guide. I’d joined an American ski tour and during the week

heard the other skiers’ breathless account’s of the Vallee Blanche,

a 12 mile, off-piste glacier run. Steep, vast, and a guide was essential.

It sounded too extreme for me, an intermediate, so it took days to decide

to brave it. The hotel reception arranged a guide for the next day.

After breakfast this grouchy, elderly, over-tanned and highly wrinkled

ski instructor arrived. Introduced as Monsieur Bozo, he glared at me

and heatedly argued with the hotel staff. I didn’t understand a word

and assumed he’d refused to guide me, as he turned away and hurriedly left.

“Go! Go!” the hotel receptionist said. “Follow him.” I silently

followed him to the tram building. The tram rose above mind-blowing

views. At the top, we silently sidestepped a terrifying snow ridge with

sheer drops in front and behind. Reaching the base, he signaled to me to stay in

his tracks, then led. We crossed miles of snow, places with hidden

crevasses on the immense Vallee Blanche. Silently we reached the other side.

I was ecstatic that I’d done it. He headed for a rock and gestured for me to sit.

He pulled an orange out of somewhere, peeled it and silently handed me half.

“Merci Bozo,” I said. In slow French, he told me about his daughter. I may

have understood half. In my terrible French I told him about my sons.

He may have understood half. We smiled at each other. “Merci Bozo.”

After more skiing we eventually reached the village. Silently, he headed for a sidewalk

cafe-bar. He ordered something. The waitress brought two huge beers.

Silently he pushed one in front of me. Some locals joined us and chatted with him.

Several came by to shake his hand. I put my arm around his shoulders and kissed

his cheek. I whispered, “I love you, Monsieur Bozo,” He’d brought me down safely

and I’d experienced an amazing day. Back at hotel the manager told me his name

was Monsieur Bozon, he was the most famous skier in the French Alps. His ski

champion son had been killed skiing and the monument on the peak of Le Brevent was

a memorial to him. First impressions can be wrong. Maybe it’s best to hold off

making judgements until you know more.