Silence of the snow

“The silence of the snow”- As Orhan Pamuk initiated his novel, I also tried to enunciate my thoughts with some dramatic description of the snowfield of Chamonix. I could have started to paint my canvas with phrases like “out of the silence” or “fragrance of snow” or anything else. Yet I thought, probably because I am highly influenced by Pamuk’s writing style, to make the first scratch on the paper with “The silence of the snow.”

After the night-long flight from New York to Paris and another long night bus from Paris to Chamonix via Lyon, when I was utterly tired and exhausted, the only memory I still carried was the silence. Well, the snow was already there.

On some cold morning of the last winter, I took my final bus from Lyon towards the destination. The mystic veil that covered the city of Lyon was melting as the day embarked slowly. Nature had already crafted the route with its spectacular architecture of Alpine folds. Being a Geologist, I could not suppress my heart-warming excitement looking at the cold yet ductile images of mountains outside my bus window. Somehow, the day was bright. It was bright enough for the ices to become water, and my bus was passing through those slurry ice corridors. This path was just a glimpse, a promise of the future.

The valley Chamonix-Mont Blanc is historically famous as it is the hub for Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix, the world’s largest and oldest travel guide association. It also boasts of being located on the flank of Mont-Blanc massif. Mer de Glace, one of the largest glaciers of the northern part of the massif, opens up a spectacular view from the valley. Its first account was documented in the mid-eighteenth century by two British named William Windham and Richard Pocock. Tourist influx increased since the late 19th century, and since then, it developed the infrastructural facilities for the locals. In 1924, Chamonix hosted the winter Olympic game.

And there I was, in the middle of the history and vivid landscape. The sun, who was suffering from an existential crisis on a cold winter day, was already bleak in the afternoon. In that afternoon, I was stopped at the bus stand of Chamonix. From the bus station, I had to walk towards the tourist information centre, which provided the necessary information regarding the Chamonix valley. My camping ground was a few kilometers away from the tourist office. I took the valley bus that spiraled around the mountain slope and dropped me at the Les Bossons. There I saw no people, no traffic. Sporadic cottages were the only traces of human existence. I got to know that camping ground people will come only after 5 pm. I had around two hours to look at the Bossons glacier just in front of my eyes. I assumed I had to pitch the tent under the glacier.

Official formalities were over before the sunsets. Along with camping, I was allowed to take any public transport for free inside the valley. As I came out of the office, I noticed a mild tint of purple had brushed over the sky. Gradually the sky turned murky. European mountain villages are quite different than what I had seen in India. After sunset, the Indian mountains become dark. A dim lamp somewhere in the lonely street used to be the only light source other than the celestial bodies. Here in Chamonix, there was pretty much light. All those cottages I had mentioned earlier were glittering. Human marked their presence again in the valley.

That night was cloudy. The moon was blurred against the fog that rose up along the glacier. I did not see any other human being except the landlady of the camping ground. Probably there was no one, or there was that I did not pay that much attention. Pine trees stood still as the wind was stagnant. The slumber sky and the mountains underneath it were preparing to dress up in white. Winter was saturating. Life inside the tent was uncertain.

The night passed away. The overcast sky of the next morning did not allow the sun to show its face. The hidden light was diffused along the vales and glaciers. The mild glow was everywhere my eyes took me. I thought to take a ride on the heritage train of Chamonix to Mer de Glace. From Glacier des Bossons, my campsite, I took the free valley bus to reach Place Mont Blanc. Light snowfall began while I was on the way. They were mostly in the form of flakes. From Place Mont Blanc I had to walk a small distance to reach the train station.

The crimson train was waiting at the station, waiting for its fellow passengers. It slowly wheeled along the rail uphill. Sometimes my view was covered by the alpines; sometimes, I had a glimpse of the snow-covered village through the branches of pines. Moaning of the engine was the only sound. Or probably I was mistaken for a while. There was the sound of the wind, the sound of snowflakes. Some vagabond birds were probably sending signals to their fellows. Beyond everything, there was a sound of silence.

It took less than an hour to reach the destination. I had seen glaciers in the Himalayas. I had seen Yamdar Glacier, Alkapuri Glacier, and several others which never had a name. I had admired their gigantic nature. But witnessing Mer de Glace from such a distance was something else. I forgot how long I was staring at her. The mighty big one, wearing a white gown with a bit touch of teal. The flux of mist and clouds roamed around, and she was playing the eternal hide and seek with her visitors. Hours melted away.

Snowflakes became fluffy, feathery. They were loosely falling on my face, were kissing my eyes, and were disappearing. The subtle sound of the train engine took me to reality. My train had arrived to take me down again. I came down to the valley. Dusk came into the valley. With each step I took on the snow, my fragile impressions were left behind. I waited near the station while all the passengers went away. I was spending some time with snow. It was like the music of Arvo Pärt, the music that came out of silence.

Again I was near the station. The station from where I started my journey. In the morning, the glow of the watery sun kept the place lively. In the evening, there were reflections of artificial lights from the lamp post and the local shops. I walked down the snowy roads. I was quite late to return to my tent. The tent was already bent by the weight of heavy snowfall. I cleaned and entered the tent. Another night just passed away.

Sometimes you woke up from a dream. After a nice warm sleep, I woke up into a dream. The morning, which was yet to be called a morning, was drenched with fog as there was no trace of the sun. The glacier that was visible for the last two days was behind the cloud. A soft halo of snow was all around.

I thought to walk the whole day. Thought to walk along the frozen lake near La Praz. I hiked along the snowfield. I walked my most desirable path ever. It was a fairyland out of the mist and the snow. The path took me into an alpine garden, or one can imagine a Garden of Eden. Seldom there were few people, as lonely as me, were walking with their pups in the drunken forest. Seldom, there were couples. I walked till there was a path. A part of the path went towards the mountain; a part is coming from the forest. A slice of the road left alone in the snowfield; another went towards the valley station. From there I took the train.

The train took me to Vallorcine, one end of Rhone-Alps province. Vallorcine was located at a high altitude. So, a significant part of Chamonix valley was visible from the topmost point that I hiked. My route was stopped there as beyond that, technical snow climbing was required. I came down and took the train again. The free valley train could take me to any place within the valley in a reasonable time. Before sunsets, I came to the last point of the valley train, Servoz. Sunset down, and station lights dimmed in. Small cottages behind the station marked their silent presence.

I thought the train journeys were never-ending. In reality, they all came to an end. That was the last night in Chamonix. The next morning I was coming back. And I came back. I came to Geneva; I came to Paris. I took a halt in Tashkent. I came back to India. Only memories were left. I have the memory of snow. I have a memory of a red train in the snow. I have a memory of the silence of the snow.