Patrouille des Glaciers 2022 - race report. (As always, it's long so skip at will or grab a cuppa a settle in.)
I’ve had a little bit of a hard time figuring out how I feel about this PdG.
The race itself was 29km and 2200m of vertical in really challenging snow conditions but of course the race is actually the very last part of the journey.
This winter I ended up being away very much more than I thought I would. My work as the commentator for the new live streaming of the ISMF (International Ski Mountaineering Federation) has been absolutely brilliant. I have learned so much, seen so much more of the skimo season than I normally do and got to know better than before the federation, the elite athletes and all the other people that make the World Cup work.
However, this meant my training was sporadic. Partly due to being away so much, partly due to being tired and not always prioritising it when I was at home. We also started as a team who had, as it turned out, different visions of what was involved in training and how to go about that. This led to quite a few stressful conversations and tests on friendships (which, thankfully, withstood the test).
Fast forward to about a month ago and our reserve was called in to play (the race is entered with 3 racers and a reserve) and we had only one opportunity to skin together as a team before the race. Mini slotted in perfectly, was a similar level of fitness and seemed like fun (I had only met her once before and Ellen hadn’t ever met her!)
Two weeks out and the self doubt started: I haven’t done enough training, I’m never entering this stupid race again, I’m going to let my team down etc etc. and with a week to go, both Ellen and I came down with bronchitis. Cough meds and rest seemed to be the only options the doctor could give so we kept our fingers crossed and got to the meeting point at the barracks in Sion at 1am on Sunday morning.
We had devised a strategy that seemed to suit our health situation (as it turned out Mini also was coming down with the same chest infection!). We were all determined to get to Verbier, but we needed to be sensible. We would start and decide at the first check point whether we felt we could continue.
The new start arrangements for the Arolla to Verbier race are in some ways better but being bussed up the mountain for over an hour at 2am in full gear was a bit nausea inducing and then it was so late that we skidded into the startline with only 20 minutes to go. And I desperately needed a pee. In a onepiece skimo suit. In a revolting portaloo which was a 3 minute walk from the start.
We put our couteaux (crampons for skis) on to help us grip on the steep, icy “wall of death” that is the starting climb of nearly 1000m of vertical. Then it was a quick as 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, go! And the 4am wave from Arolla had started.
The first ten minutes were as lung and heart rate busting as these things always are but I had a very clear view of exactly the average speed we needed to stick to ensure we made our fist cut off after 750m so I obsessively looked at my watch all the way up. We were sensible in our pace and soon fell into a rhythm with me at the front, Ellen in the middle and then Mini.
I felt so strong on that climb, I had music quietly playing on my earphones, a buff over my mouth and nose to keep the cold air out of my lungs (thanks Tracie for the top tip!) and I was so surprised at how good I felt. So much so that I deliberately had to talk myself out of going faster as I knew the lack of training and the bronchitis would soon trump any euphoria-driven blast out the gates!
We made it to the first checkpoint 16 minutes ahead of the cut off and as I turned round with a big smile, I said “Are we going to Verbier?” YES! was the unanimous answer. So we pushed on, smiling as the blue hour approached and hundreds of headtorches dance ahead of us up, up, up towards Pas de Chevre.
After a short skinning section along the side of a steep face (never my favourite), we hit our first transition and bootpack. It was busy so the going was slow but we were happy to be there and not unhappy about getting a small breather. It was steep and the footsteps in the snow were not always full boot depth so I was on the very edge of my vertigo tolerance. I couldn’t really look up or down too much so I just concentrated on the boots in front of me, which unfortunately belonged to someone who was not very comfortable on the climb, not giving me much reassurance but at least something to think about. About half way up the 300 or so steps (I think, but really didn’t count) we had a fixed rope to hold on to which was helpful and very friendly soldiers from the German army encouraging us and giving us a friendly “Morgen!”
At the top of Tsena Refien (2951m), we once again ate and drank as we had been doing all up the first climb, every 30 or so minutes. Anyone who has raced in a team with me will tell you that I take my responsibilities as chef de patrouille very seriously. This does not mean I think I am the best but it does mean that I think about the wellbeing of my team a great deal of the time. I like to know how fast we’re going, how much vertical we’ve gained, how the team is feeling physically and mentally and it also means reminding us all to eat and drink at regular intervals.
My motives are in some ways actually quite selfish. First, thinking about the wellbeing of the team and the stats mostly distracts me from any pain or dark thoughts I may be experiencing. It also has the benefit of making sure I have well-fuelled people around me who are not going to falter and slow us down. I am aware that it can become irritating as a grown person to be told constantly by another to eat, especially as the race goes on and tiredness kicks in, but I never make any apology for it (well, I occasionally make a “sorry not sorry” type apology).
The ski down from Pas de Chevre started in powder but soon became horrific. I took the lead, as agreed, and battered down the first section. I stopped, turned around and to my surprise the girls were nowhere to be seen. Another racer came passed and told me Ellen had fallen and lost a ski so I waited until they came in behind me and seeing a visibly flustered Ellen, slowed down for the next section. To be fair, there wasn’t anything to be done fast as we side slipped and scraped over ice and bumps all the way to just above Pas du Chat.
At this point, the conditions were so bad that we were forced to take off our skis and down climb the last section over very slippery rocks and snow. As we transitioned, my race skis with no brakes started to slide down the slope. They both caught in Ellen’s skis but as she bent down to rescue one, the other took off again and as we all cried in alarm, it thankfully caught on some netting. Phew!
I took a step towards it and promptly sank my right leg into the snow, right up to my crotch! Hoots of laughter until I realised that the snow had immediately set like concrete around my boot and leg and I was completely stuck. For the first time ever, I properly understood what people who have been in avalanches talk about. It was solid. So I dug with my hand. Then I hacked away with my ski until I remembered we all carry avalanche shovels as part of the mandatory kit so I had to break out the by now infamous gifted pink shovel (that’s another story) and dig my own leg out the snow.
Meanwhile Mini, being much lighter and nimbler, had made it safely to my ski and retrieved it, so we put skis on our backpacks and down climbed. On one of the rocks, my left leg shot out from under me and I fell on to my left side. Nothing serious, just a sit down, but jarring nonetheless.
At the bottom of the down climb, the first of the elite teams passed us. It was the Swiss and there were great cheers as they shot past us on foot. Next, as we transitioning to skinning again, the Italians came by. This time I was the first person in the transition zone to notice them and I started hollering “dai, dai” (Italian for COME ON!!) and then more roaring from the amateur racers ensued.
As the day wore on, more and more would pass us and I found it very exciting and motivating to see the people I normally watch on a small screen while commentating, actually up close and roaring past me. I know them all and so sometimes when I called their names in encouragement they looked up and smiled or said hello. This was a great source of entertainment and distraction for me as we took the long, flat, pretty boring skin round Lac des Dix. After a while I stopped telling the girls who they were, because I think my skimo geekery was getting a bit dull.
In between distractions, I noticed I now had an unexplained sore left wrist. I have broken it three times and I wondered if I had done something to it when I slipped on the down climb but the adrenaline had covered it up. Occasionally, it was so painful to push on my left pole I would just pole with my right hand and drag the other one behind me like a bird with a broken wing. It continued in waves like this for the rest of the race.
Around this point, I started to notice I was pulling ahead of Ellen and Mini and was having to force myself to slow down slightly. In the classic way, I would stop and then as soon as they got to me would start again, meaning I was getting more rests, which is not ideal team strategy. The conditions were average to say the least and Mini had a small fall off the skin track, doing the splits and recovering quickly, but making Ellen and I feel less maladroit now we’d all had a slip!
Lac des Dix was over much quicker than any of expected. Ellen and I had been round this course before, both in 2018; me as part of the full PdG from Zermatt and Ellen from Arolla. We both had moments that we remembered with horror and were dreading. The “wall of death” had been one of mine and Lac des Dix was one of Ellen’s. By the time we reached the next check point at La Barma, we had both successfully defeated a couple of large demons and were feeling positive.
It is fair to say that for hot, tired ski mountaineers (by now the sun had hit us and it was getting warm) that the checkpoint at La Barma is a little oasis. There are loos (hallelujah for the female racers) and there are several aid stations. We hit it at 8:15am and dived into the chocolate, sweet tea, bananas, bouillon and the loo.
The last time I made it to La Barma, I remember sitting in the stinking portaloo with my head in my hands just wishing it was all over and not knowing how I was ever going to make it back to Verbier. This time, however, I wrangled myself in and out of my onepiece and perkily popped back to the girls and said with great gusto, “right, shall we go home then?” The look the normally sanguine Ellen gave me will stay with me a long time…
So, after a rather luxurious half an hour at the aid station, we traipsed through the timing checkpoint and started to tackle the last 1,200 metres and 15km to home. That’s a long day out in itself so we were in fact nowhere near home!
The first bit out of La Barma is steep and a shock to the system after the boring but relatively easy skin round the lake. I had made the decision to have a caffeinated jelly sweet alongside my other refreshments because I thought it would give me a boost. I am really very very bad at coping with caffeine but I have never really suffered with it in race conditions. It has always been a good thing. Not so this time. Within minutes my heart rate was through the roof and I had to deploy breathing techniques and mind over matter to stop myself from blowing up. It was also very very hot by now.
After 45 minutes, I felt better and I thought we should eat again. As I turned to suggest this to the girls, I saw that Ellen’s face was scarlet and she looked completely done in. So once we had eaten and had a “mental and physical health check” I offered to put her on the tow. I had never towed anyone before and there is not a huge difference in our fitness levels but I knew it was the right and only thing to do. I also know from being towed myself that the psychological benefits of being attached to a team mate almost outweigh the physical ones and thankfully Ellen agreed straight away.
As I clipped her to me and started off, I wondered what the hell I had done. I had already been starting to really feel the strain of the length and demands of the race and we had a really long way to go and I was really worried I wouldn’t be able to sustain it. My wrist was sore, my feet were beginning to feel blistered, my shoulders were twanging, my right knee had almost seized up and I was so hot.
Quite quickly, though, the most extraordinary thing happened. I found that being needed, being able to help, being someone who could tow a teammate when she needed me, was like I found a gear I had never ever had to use before. I had been checking our times and speed and my heart rate obsessively from the start on my watch, but now I almost doubled up.
I found the pace at which I could go while towing Ellen where she felt the benefit and I could sustain, and I quickly gauged the range of my heart rate at that pace and I stuck to it. Checking with Ellen now and again to see if she was ok, we plodded up the mountain, passing some teams, being passed by others. Mini by this time had a really sore throat and was happy to tuck in behind us both. She was also increasingly being hailed by friends she hadn’t even known were racing and that seemed to keep her perky and motivated.
As we slowly made our way up the hill, over the quiet but pumping music in my headphones, I began to hear the crowd at the top of Rosablanche. It is impossible to not feel moved by the noise made by people who have got up at the crack of dawn and skinned up to well over 3,000m, carrying supplies for racers, fondue kits, bottles of wine, cowbells, trumpets, flags etc etc.
It is the equivalent I imagine for the Tour de France racers when they come up the Col du Tourmalet or Mont Ventoux (although on a much smaller scale). It is also the signal for most people that they will make it, that their race (all being well) will now finish in Verbier and not by being helicoptered off the mountain.
But long before you see the whites of their eyes, there is a long way to skin and then, after we had stopped for another breather and to let Ellen swallow some painkillers for a by now thumping headache, there are nearly 1,200 steps of a very steep bootpack to tackle. It had taken us much less time get to the bootpack than I thought it would, though, so that was encouraging.
The queue going up the bootpack was enormous, the heat was intense and the fast people trying to squeeze past were irritating and scaring me. This particular bootpack is iconic and doing any bootpack changes the muscle groups you’re using so it’s often “fun” but this turned out to be the most anxiety-inducing part of my race. The steps had been hard packed by the Thursday racers, then we had had fresh snow after very cold temperatures so the steps were very slippy in places. And when you fear you’re going to slip on a steep bootpack with hundreds of people behind you, it’s not much fun at all.
Finally, we could hear the full force of the crowd, the trumpeter, the bells (and the racing yodeller, who made us all roar with appreciation half way up). The emotions were real and we all hugged on the summit as strangers congratulated us with heartfelt sincerity. Shortly afterwards, an angel in the form of a lovely girl I have only chatted to on Instagram, called Sofiya, was calling my name and handing us a bottle of coke and the best tasting clementine segments I have ever tasted! She had contacted me the day before and asked if we needed anything and we were so grateful to her for carrying all that stuff up the hill for people she had never met before.
Then a surprise shout from Alessandra Schmid, Swiss skimo racer who was not racing this PdG, who joined us as we were in transition to ski back down the other side. I was so flustered that an elite ski mountaineer would be chatting to me in transition, that I took my bag off with skis still on, I put on the wrong jacket for the downhill and I had to ask her to check me over to see if I was actually ready to ski! It felt funny to be the one racing while she cheered us on – a bit of role reversal!
When I tried to write about the ski down from Rosablanche the last time, all I could remember was burping up the fondue I had been given by some total stranger at the top! This time, I would be grateful not to have remembered. It is really long and although the snow at the top was ok, it quickly became a rock and ice hopping race through narrow channels for descending at speed with increasingly burning thighs, aching knee and sore toes. There is also a lot of skating and poling, which is exhausting at the best of times, more so when you have a down jacket on and you’ve been on the go for over 7 hours! I was chanting to myself “turn, turn, turn” so I wouldn’t stop every few seconds.
Finally, we reached Ellen’s and my mutual demon zone: the final skin and bootpack up to Col de la Chaux. We got back into towing mode and trudged our way round and almost before we knew it, the col was in sight and I shouted, “Is that all you’ve got PdG?” as Ellen and I marvelled at how relatively little distance the last section was compared to the monster we had both been dreading.
One last push up the “small” bootpack, a big team hug, a horrid, slippery down climb and we were rewarded with the most gorgeous skiing we’d had all race! Then on to the pistes and hooning down to LA Chaux, I screamed (look away now if you’re sensitive) “F*ck you, PdG. F*ck you, bronchitis. F*ck you, negative thoughts.”, tucked and shot down to La Chaux, the girls hot on my heels.
And then, mud. No snow only rocks, ice, walking and slow pain spreading all over my body as what should have been a 15 minute skate/ski became over an hour of plodding down the mountain, mostly on foot with some truly shitty skiing in parts. It was an ignominious and painful end to a famous, well raced race.
Family and friends were there to meet us at the bottom of the piste and along the route as we marched/ran the final kilometres through Verbier to the finishline and a glass of champagne.
We had laughed, we had suffered, we had chatted, we had sunk into our own thoughts, we had supported each other and we finished a race that lots of other teams didn’t, all three with chest infections, only having skinned once together as a team.
My heartfelt thanks to my amazing teammates. To Mini for stepping up at the last minute, fit and experienced but never having skimo raced before. She brought good humour, great chat, common sense, consistency and a solid performance throughout. Her position as the backstop both on the way up and in the skiing gave me, and I’m sure Ellen, a really reassuring feeling throughout the race.
And to Ellen, who at one point said "Despite all the complaining, I am really enjoying myself!" But she barely complained at all. She powered through what must have been a very painful second half of the race with stoicism. We could tell she was suffering, but she was the epitome of grit and determination. An incredible example to us and to her 10 year old daughter.
One last thing to mention. When I said at the beginning that I wasn’t sure how I felt about it all, it’s because in all honesty as well as the stressful lead up to the race, I was really shocked to have taken 10 hours to complete the “small” PdG. I was almost a bit embarrassed. This is in no way a reflection on my incredible teammates and it is with full understanding that we were not at full lung capacity in a team that had not trained together, in a year that had the crappest conditions the race has seen for a while and that I had not trained very much but something made the morning after feel rubbish.
My head knew all the facts but my heart felt out of whack. I allowed “other people were so much faster than us” and other nonsense thoughts to take over. However, a long chat with Graham and then writing this all down has reminded me that the time we took to complete this race (10 hours 5 minutes) is only a number.
And that number is not the journey throughout the winter, it is not the experience of years of training and racing that allowed me to make good decisions for me and the team and recognise when I needed a shift in mindset. It’s not the camaraderie, nor the feelings of pride in myself when I felt strong despite the odds. It is not the glorious sight of head torches bobbing up the mountain in the early dawn or the sun coming up after we’d been on the mountain for over two hours already.
It’s not turning round on Rosablanche and having your little remaining breath taken away by the stunning beauty of the views, nor starting to recognise the mountains of the place you have made your home as you get closer to the finishline nor the hundreds of people, strangers, friends and family alike, cheering and clapping and really meaning it when they say congratulations.
And it is definitely not the genuine affection and gratitude I feel for the two women I am proud to call my teammates who, despite our joint coughing and spluttering, finished this bloody hard as nails race with me.
It really is just a number and I’m more than ok with that.
PS I am stiff and sore and tired as I write this and I have once again properly trashed my feet with blisters but anyone who has got this far and is concerned for my very sore wrist may find this amusing: about 10 minutes from the end of the final skin up to Col de la Chaux, I realised exactly why it was so painful. My obsessive watch checking had given me a repetitive strain injury. I kid you not.
Over and out.
