HexaTrek Tales Part 7: The Northern Alps, Stage Two, and A Completed Flip

I stood on the spine of a mountain, looking down toward Lac Léman. The lake that sits between France and Switzerland. The lake that separates Stage One from Stage Two of the HexaTrek. The lake that means I have officially traversed the Alps and completed the flip portion of my hike.

Two and a half months ago, I sat by its shore, looking up at the very mountains I was now surrounded by. Back then, they were coated in snow, allure, and uncertainty. And now? The snow and uncertainty have all but melted away. The allure still remains though. I think it always will. 

That’s it. Stage Two is complete. The Alps are complete. I’ve now walked over 2000 kilometers through Stages One, Two, Three, and Four of the HexaTrek (though, confusingly, not in that order).

Coming down from the mountains, with Lac Léman in the distance.

Flipping is a surprisingly powerful experience. 

Many thru-hikers will avoid jumbling up their hike, preferring instead to hike straight from start to the finish. In a perfect world, I’d probably choose that option too. Alas, our perfect worlds get disrupted by snow and wildfires, commitments and the postal service, anything and everything. On the PCT last year, I technically flipped or jumped around a total of six times. That brought a whole range of logistical and timing obstacles. That being said, some of my most powerful experiences on thru-hikes have resulted from flipping around. 

That includes my HexaTrek flip. To recap — after Stage One, I still felt uneasy about the snow in the Alps. As a result, I jumped to the end of Stage Four and started walking the opposite direction; completing Stages Four then Three then Two.

The cows don’t care about my flipping logistics.

For me, there’s something indescribable about connecting the footsteps of a flip. About walking into a place I’d been in, weeks or months before, and recalling who I was at that point in time. To put it simply, it’s a surreal sense of walking toward my past self. 

Walking down from the Alps toward Lac Léman, I imagined a figure across the lake; the me of two and a half months ago. Back then, I’d just finished Stage One and my tent was broken, my sleeping pad was broken, about five other items of gear were broken, and my ability to handle one more tick crawling up my leg was broken. I thought, if I was lucky enough, maybe I’d see a little bit of the Alps. Maybe the snow would melt and I’d walk another 380 kilometers through Stage Two. Maybe maybe maybe.  

I wonder what that figure across the lake would have thought if she knew what lay ahead. Not another 380 kilometers, but another 1400 kilometers. Of solitude, storms, berries, beauty, awe, tears, protection dogs, and connections. Through the gorges, rivers, and heat of Stage Four, the dominating mountains and elevation of Stage Three, and the incredible generosity (and less incredible weather forecasts) of Stage Two. 

Past me would have been pretty excited to see these mountains (present me is, too).

As I walked toward that lake, I wondered what lay ahead of me now. What was it that I didn’t know that future me did; the places I’d go, the people I’d meet, the things I’d laugh about, the struggles I’d endure. These questions, of course, are not unique to a thru-hike. We know nothing about what will happen next, and then we spend all of our minutes finding out. 

So how were the Northern Alps and Stage Two of the HexaTrek?

In comparison to the Southern Alps, the Northern Alps felt less remote, less rugged, and more populated. The mountains were still beautiful (when not covered by clouds), my foot was sore, and I spent a week trying to outwalk storms and rain.

A moment for Mont Gardy, my new favorite mountain in the world.

But when I think of Stage Two, what I really think of are the connections I formed with people. Having been mostly in my own company for some months, even simple and fleeting interactions can feel very nourishing. 

Trail in this section was more populated than any other stage of the HexaTrek. At times, this was overwhelming (the section overlapping with the Tour de Mont Blanc was especially so). It also, however, brought more opportunities to cross paths with people. 

What did these connections look like? 

They ranged from five minute exchanges to sharing a meal to strangers inviting me into their homes. 

There was the passing conversation with the joyful Icelandic woman who’d hiked the PCT last year (I invited her to hike the Pyrenees with me after our 10-minute conversation; she sadly declined). 

There was Neil, the GR5-hiking Englishman in his 60s who I crossed on a beautiful ridge line. I felt a deep kinship with that man as we talked about our love of walking and the nature around us. Before we parted, we shook on our deal to let each other know how we fared with our respective adventures. 

Neil, a kindred spirit hiking the GR5.

There was a French couple on a day hike who asked me about a nearby lake. We stared at Mont Blanc together and talked about its geography. 

There was Nicole, the American AT hiker who I had dinner with and who reminded me how at-home I feel with other thru-hikers. 

There was Kim, a beautiful Tour de Mont Blanc-er who radiated kindness despite being plagued by foot pain early in her hike. 

There was the quietly-spoken German woman I met outside a refuge. She’d been living in Japan for the past 30 years and we spoke about her passion for Chinese-style painting and the places our hearts lived. 

There was the 90-year-old French woman who started talking to me in a cafe, and was overjoyed to tell me the English words she remembered from school. 

There was Graham and Dany, a lovely couple who invited me into their stunning home just outside of Chamonix for two nights. We ate vegetables from their garden, drank tea on the deck, and stared at the clouds brewing in the sky. 

Cups of tea with Graham and Dany.

And, of course, Yvonne and Malcolm — a couple I spoke to for ten minutes in a village months ago. We’d been messaging when they realized what town I was passing. It turned out they had a chalet an hour’s walk from there. They gave me the address, told me where the key was, and told me to make myself at home. Incredible. 

Rain was falling but I was inside, with a cup of tea and running a bath, in a chalet all to myself. A surprising and delightful turn of events thanks to the generosity of Yvonne and Malcolm.

What a privilege it is to share a moment with someone; an insight or an act of kindness, a story or a laugh. What a privilege it is to be invited into someone’s world for an instant and tie a little thread with a stranger who you’ll likely never cross paths with again. It is one of my utmost joys on this journey.

The people are teaching me more than just French. 

I speak okay French now. It’s far from perfect, but it’s good enough that I can communicate what I want and usually understand what others want to communicate. I can do what is perhaps most important to me in a language (beyond just surviving) — connect.

The other afternoon, I realized that my French is a jumble of every person who’s ever spoken to me. There’s a solid foundation there from a little green owl (cheers DuoLingo), but it’s really my interactions that have built this capacity. There are the words in passing that I’ve tucked away, the pronunciations that I’ve committed to memory, the sayings or intonations that I’ve parroted, the ‘Umm’s and ‘Ahh’s that I’ve learnt to say in a French way. 

Everything I say is filled with a thousand people. So too, is everything I do. I’ve been thinking that I’m not just building my language skills when I interact with people, I’m building me. Every person I cross paths with is influencing me in a myriad of ways. I honestly think there’s something to learn from every single one of them. 

Maybe it’s how they tell a story or the way they listen in a conversation. Maybe it’s how they know the names of the plants or the history of a town. Maybe it’s how they’re kind even when having a bad day, or how they ask you a question when they could look it up on their phone. Maybe it’s a few words of wisdom or a recommendation of a place to visit. Maybe they’re an inspiration for how you want to be when you’re older, or in a relationship, or have children. Maybe, occasionally, they’re an inspiration for how you don’t want to be.

Whatever it is, my interactions aren’t just reflected in the words I speak, they’re reflected in all of me. I think I can be more or less conscious of this, and more or less intentional with what I pick up and learn from others. Maybe this doesn’t make much sense, or maybe it sounds extremely obvious and cliché. Either way, it’s felt like an important thought I’ve had recently while walking.

The Alps are finished, what’s next?

You’d be right in assuming I’m still on the, ‘I’m not committed to finishing this thing’ train. 

Stage Five and Six of the HexaTrek, the only stages remaining, are the Pyrenees (East and West, respectively). I’ve been on quite the journey with whether to begin Stage Five.

For a period of time, I banned myself from thinking about the Pyrenees. I told myself I could only start considering whether to do them when they were less than 300 kilometers away. An arbitrary figure yes, but it was a useful one. 

Before this, I’d noticed my mind attaching to the idea of finishing this hike. That’s an attachment I’ve be actively trying to avoid since the idea of the HexaTrek popped into my head. I didn’t want to get sucked into daydreams of reaching the Atlantic Ocean before I’d even stepped down from the Alps. When the time came to decide about the Pyrenees, I only wanted to be thinking of two things: whether I felt able to go into those mountains, and whether I wanted to. 

I didn’t want my mind in the Pyrenees while my body was in the Alps.

And when the ban lifted? Perhaps some excerpts from my journal tell the story best:

20th August, 2024. “Still very uncertain about the Pyrenees. Maybe 30% likely to start.” 

25th August, 2024. ”Pyrenees percentage is creeping up – maybe 40% likely now.”

28th August, 2024. “Pyrenees percentage is at 50/50. Could be really beautiful.”

29th August, 2024. ”And, over the space of a night, I felt the percentage tick over halfway. The question shifted from desire to logistics, from ‘Do I want to do this?’ to, ‘How will I do this?’”

31st August, 2024. ”I remember chatting to a group of French day hikers a couple months ago. One woman gave me her number. She said that when I pass through the Pyrenees I’d be welcome to stay at her place. I remember wondering whether to tell her how unlikely that was. With my day-by-day and stage-by-stage mindset, I didn’t think I’d make it to those mountains. I’m glad I didn’t — I might just message saying I’ll be around there quite soon.”

Hellllloo to the Pyrenees.