Crossing the Alps Part 3 | Behind the Adventure

Behind the Adventure

When you hear about a seven-week ski traverse of the Alps, your imagination might leap to grand peaks, pristine powder, and heart-pounding descents. And sure, there was plenty of that. But what often goes untold is the effort it takes to bring such a journey to life—the philosophy, the planning, and the people who make it possible. It’s not just about the adventure; it’s about the lessons learned, the moments of connection, and the mindset that underpins every decision.

This trip wasn’t just a point-to-point traverse; it was a way of living in the mountains for two months. Here's a glimpse behind the scenes—into our outdoor philosophy, the values we aimed to follow and share through our story, the logistics behind it all, our true highlight, and how it felt to slot back into our “normal” lives afterward.

Friluftsliv: The philosophy that shaped our trip

Before heading to Svalbard to take a course in Arctic Nature Guiding, I—like most (if not all) French people living in the Alps—had never heard of the Norwegian concept of friluftsliv. My first exposure to it came through both studying its philosophy and experiencing it in practice. It was there, amidst the Arctic’s vast, raw landscapes, that I came to understand this Norwegian way of living simply in nature. It’s not about chasing summits or logging miles; it’s about slowing down and embracing the rhythm of the natural world, however harsh it may be.

Arne Næss, a pioneer of this way of thinking, described it beautifully: “The smaller we come to feel ourselves compared to the mountain, the nearer we come to participating in its greatness.” This perspective deeply resonated with me—particularly as someone raised in a high-achieving alpine village. In my hometown, where each hamlet seemed to have its own Olympian or elite athlete, conversations often revolved around vertical meters climbed and peak performance. This culture of excellence extended beyond sports to the competitive world of academia, shaping much of my identity and values. Yet it was through the lens of friluftsliv that I began to see the mountains differently.

Discovering friluftsliv during my studies and outdoor experiences in Svalbard was transformative. For the first time, I found words to describe the contentment I felt in small, humble moments—setting up camp during a storm, boiling water for tea with frozen fingers, or simply sitting still to absorb the immensity of my surroundings. These simple acts, far removed from metrics of achievement, brought a profound sense of happiness and fulfillment. Friluftsliv emphasized the joy of being present in nature, finding balance, and letting go of the need to quantify success.

Self-reliance and low-impact adventuring

Using Public Transport

Getting to and from the mountains by public transport wasn’t just a practical decision—it aligned with our commitment to low-impact travel.

Like many other mountain enthusiasts planning a long trip, we found ourselves caught between a deep love for these landscapes and the uncomfortable truth that driving (or worse, flying) in, spending weeks moving a car every couple of days, and relying on ski resorts to access deeper terrain would contribute to the destruction of the very thing we came to experience.

There’s a broader conversation to be had about how much we focus on the individual environmental “footprint” while often overlooking the systemic causes of global warming. Still, we wanted to take a different approach—to show that a project of this scale is possible without relying on energy- and emission-intensive infrastructure. That intention shaped the way we planned and executed the trip from the very beginning.

Initially, we aimed to avoid transport infrastructure altogether and move entirely under our own power. But we quickly realized that crossing valley floors—often snowless and green—wasn’t feasible. Carrying ski boots and skis on our backs for day-long hikes would’ve broken us; our packs were already straining under the weight. So we adjusted. We decided it was okay to use public transport when necessary, choosing it as a compromise that still aligned with our values.

The Swiss Alps excel in this regard, with an extensive and efficient network of trains and buses that make even remote valleys accessible. It’s a privilege to ski tour from one valley to the next and, within minutes, board a train that traverses the mountains to take you back. This level of accessibility makes a car-free lifestyle entirely feasible in Switzerland, even for outdoor enthusiasts seeking adventures in remote locations.

I can’t help but wish that such infrastructure were more widespread across the rest of the Alps. The ability to rely on public transport not only simplifies logistics but also fosters a more sustainable connection with these extraordinary landscapes.

Self-Reliance

We aimed to be as self-reliant as possible, which meant sleeping in a tent—even in frigid conditions. This choice reduced our dependence on energy-intensive infrastructure and allowed us to fully immerse ourselves in the raw beauty of the wilderness. To be clear, this wasn’t the primary reason we chose to use tents, but it was a welcome added benefit. Respect for nature was central to our approach. We adhered strictly to Leave No Trace principles, ensuring we left nothing behind and made every effort to respect wilderness zones designated by the Swiss government.

This approach wasn’t easy, but it reflected our commitment to radical ecology. The challenges were numerous—enduring freezing nights, managing heavy packs, and foregoing the comforts of huts or hotels. Yet these difficulties were outweighed by the deep satisfaction of engaging with the Alps on their terms, rather than bending the environment to meet ours. The Alps shaped us in many ways, and while we were humbled by their majesty, we took pride in treading lightly. We left behind only ski tracks and carried forward memories and lessons that will endure far beyond the adventure itself.

Route Planning

No single itinerary could accommodate the dynamic reality of the Alps in winter. Weather conditions shifted daily—sometimes hourly—and dictated our path as much as the map did. To plan, we split the route into sections, analyzing maps (R.I.P. FATMAP) for hours and plotting plans A—and often B. For some stretches, it felt like we ended up taking plan Z, as conditions forced constant adaptations.

Certain segments—like the infamous Vereinapass—pushed us to our limits and required unplanned detours. Others, like the technical day over the Tällistock, tested our decision-making and trust in each other’s skills. Navigating such varied terrain meant constantly balancing risk and reward, choosing whether to push through or wait for better conditions.

At every step, our conservative approach and willingness to step back proved that journeys like this are not only possible but can be undertaken with minimal exposure to unnecessary risk. This mindset allowed the trip to unfold organically, rather than being forced into rigid plans. There was no autopilot; every decision was deliberate, every step earned.

Finding Places to Stay

We relied on platforms like Couchsurfing and Warmshowers to secure accommodations, but these came with their own challenges. Uncertainty about our exact arrival times meant we could only plan for the first three weeks. Beyond that, we had to embrace spontaneity—often resorting to knocking on strangers’ doors. While this approach introduced a degree of unpredictability, it also revealed unexpected kindness. Local hosts generously opened their homes to two weary skiers navigating the Alps.

Pro tip: People tend to be more generous when they open the door to find a massive backpack sticking out above your shoulders. Plus, it gets easier as you progress further into the journey—the greater the achievement, the more inclined people seem to be to admire and support your efforts.

Money Matters

Early support from Dynafit and Alpenheat helped ease some logistical—and especially financial—burdens. Their belief in our project from the start gave us the confidence to focus on the journey itself. Still, the project required significant personal investment and frugality. Our diet largely consisted of couscous, instant soup, and sunflower oil—practical, affordable, lightweight, and unfreezable staples that sustained us through long days.

The absurdly high cost of hotels in Switzerland—where a single night could represent 5% of the trip’s total cost (gear included)—made them out of the question. This further reinforced our commitment to camping and staying with locals whenever possible.

Ultimately, the logistics behind this trip weren’t just a backdrop to the adventure; they were an integral part of it. Every decision—what to pack, where to go, when to stop—was a reminder of how deeply preparation and spontaneity are intertwined in journeys like this. In the end, the unseen work of planning and adapting became just as much a part of the story as the skiing itself.

Reflections from the Trail

Standing on the Col de Chardonnet on our final day, with Chamonix in sight, we felt a profound mix of emotions. Joy, pride, and relief mingled with a quiet sadness that this chapter was closing. Over the weeks, we had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the trail—the early starts, the sore muscles, and the sheer unpredictability of each day. The simplicity of life on the move, dictated by the mountains and the weather, had become a part of us. It was hard to imagine returning to a world where schedules and conveniences controlled the flow.

This wasn’t just a ski traverse. It was a way of living, of connecting with nature and each other in a way that felt raw and real. Every sunrise over the Alps felt earned, and every descent carried the weight of effort and care. The challenges we faced—whiteouts, cold nights, and heavy packs—morphed into milestones that enriched the journey. Looking back, it’s not the miles or the peaks that stand out most, but the laughter, the warmth of strangers, and the quiet moments of awe shared between the two of us.

Some of the most vivid memories are tied to these human connections. The hospitality of the locals, like the raclette dinner shared with newfound friends in Arolla, turned cold nights into warm experiences. Watching the sun rise from the Bivouac Igloo des Pantalons Blancs, with the golden light stretching across an endless expanse of peaks, was a reminder of how small and fortunate we were to be part of this world. These were moments that transcended skiing; they were moments of belonging.

In the end, we didn’t just cross the Alps. We learned to live in them, to embrace their rhythm, and to carry their lessons forward. The kilometers and vertical meters skied were secondary to the stories lived and shared—stories that will continue to inspire us and, hopefully, others. Maybe that’s the true legacy of this journey: discovering how the raw beauty of the natural world can transform and teach us, leaving us not just with memories, but with a deeper understanding of what it means to truly live.