This post covers section 3 of our clockwise hike of the Tour du Mont Blanc, starting in Trient, Switzerland and ending in Champex-Lac.

Start: Trient, Switzerland

End: Champex-Lac, Switzerland

Mileage: 12.6 mi / 20.3 km

Elevation Gain: 3150 ft / 960 m

Elevation Loss: 3625 ft / 1105 m

Auberge: n/a

View full route on Gaia

In oversimplified terms, the TMB is essentially a cycle of climbing up peaks and down into valleys until you’ve done a full circle around Mont Blanc. The general rule of thumb is that if you’re not hiking up, you’re hiking down, and the term “flat” is near obsolete. On our third day, we covered the northernmost portion of the Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB) through Switzerland. Trient, where our day started, was in the valley so the day began with a quick, steep climb to Forclaz. From there, it was downhill to Champex-Lac where we stayed the night.

We didn’t have much luck throughout the day—with weather, with food, with random situations. But we did eat a vat of spaghetti, drink a bottle of wine, and watch as lightening rippled through the sky from the comfort of a cozy little chalet, so there’s that.

Our day started, as most days do, with breakfast. With its large spread of granola, breads, cheese, yogurt, cereal, and fruit, Auberge Mont-Blanc had one of the best, if not the best, breakfast on the TMB. There was even a bucket—not a jar, not a bowl, but a bucket—of Nutella. Despite not being big breakfast-eaters while hiking, we had a long 12 mile (220 km) day ahead so it was nice to have the options at our disposal. And yes, I slathered Nutella on toast with reckless abandon more than once.

We had an early start to our day, shouldering our packs around 7 am (okay, it’s an early start for us) and began our hike to Champex-Lac. We walked a short distance on a flat road out of Trient before coming to the edge of the forest and immediately began climbing a steep trail. We didn’t dilly-dally here. Instead, we were silent, letting our sleepiness slowly wear off, and kept a steady pace as we climbed. About halfway up, we passed a middle-aged man that was huffing and puffing and who greeted us with an obligatory and breathy “bonjour.” He caught up to us while we took a break at a small plateau and said, “you two are strong young women!” This, unbeknownst to him, became our motto throughout the trip, mostly in mocking tones. Hunched over while hiking up a near vertical hill? “But we are strong young women!” Finishing the last bite of a sandwich even though we’re full? “Look at us, we are strong young women!”

We chatted with him for a few minutes and learned he was from New York—we also learned that Americans are rampant on the TMB, second only maybe to the French. He asked if we planned to hike the Col du Forclaz variant, arguably the most challenging variant on the TMB. We were not, we told him. Not only would it be too much mileage for the day but it should only be tackled in good weather and that’s not what the forecast predicted. Not ones to meddle in other people’s business but also not eager to send someone astray, we gently mentioned the storm predicted in the afternoon, especially at higher elevations. “Eh, I’ll be fine,” he said with complete confidence. We wished him luck and made a mental note to check the news the next day for signs of a New Yorker’s body lost in Alps. And with that, one bold New Yorker and two strong young women parted ways.

We climbed a little further, crossing a small balcony built into the mountainside that overlooked Trient, and eventually walked out of the forest and onto a road in Forclaz where, most conveniently, a small café was open. By this point, we had climbed 830 feet over 1.4 miles so a little snack and another round of coffee was in order. One tasty croissant and fancy cappuccino later, we were back in the forest continuing our hike.

The section from Forclaz to Bovine was pretty uneventful. We did, however, stumble upon a chicken that escaped its pen at one point. Mikki was keen to pick it up and return it to its friends, to which I persuaded her to do no such thing as it wasn’t her chicken to move and who knows, maybe he wanted to be free. (She’s still miffed with me about it to this day.) Other than our would-be chicken fiasco, we mostly hiked through dense forest, emerging at some point into a field where a tree was growing out of a rock and random piles of stones lay in the grass like obscure grave markers. Like I said, uneventful.

Around mile 4, having gained 2500 feet (760 m) of elevation for the day so far, we reached Bovine. Here, the view opened up dramatically. Unfortunately, what wasn’t open was Alpage de Bovine, where we’d hoped to have lunch. Instead, we saw two dozen or so hikers eating packed lunches in the closed auberge’s picnic area. There was allegedly another place to eat in Plan de l'Au, a mile or two ahead, so we opted to leave the masses behind and carry on. Turns out that the restaurant at Plan d’Au was also closed, a consequence of hiking later in the season and shops closing up, and so we split a power bar for lunch while admiring a field of cows. As we continued our hike, the clouds rolled in and we once again found ourselves in the forest.

And so began the day’s endless cycle of nature’s indecision: clouds, no clouds; forest, no forest; moment of sun, moment of sun gone.

During a sunny moment, we hiked through a charming Swiss village on the outskirts of Champex-Lac. We walked along an elusive flat section alongside fields bright green grass punctuated by flower-laden chalets watched over by cows. They were a bit grumpy and doing all sorts of moo-ing which I can only translate as grumbles. Mikki suggested we sing to them—because who doesn’t take it upon themselves to brighten a random Swiss cow’s day? To her credit, they calmed and I like to think my rendition of “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast, the first song that popped in my head, had a hand in it.

A tune or two later, we carried on to Champex-Lac. Here, I discovered that it is not at all the city I thought it would be but rather a glorified village beside a lake with a few roads lined with shops and restaurants. We hadn’t eaten anything except a power bar since that morning so by the time we arrived around 3 pm we were eager for food. Unfortunately, we learned the hard way that most restaurants stop serving food at 2 pm and don’t resume until 6 pm. Drinks? Sure, there’s plenty to go around. But sustenance? No can do. Luckily, we found one place that served food—square crepe things filled with cheese and veggies, specifically—and we were grateful. They were nothing to write home about but it got the job done. Plus, we had local cider in tea cups which was fun.

While eating, nature changed its mind once again and the sunshine fell away and rain fell from the now cloudy sky. We finished up our lunch and scuttled over to the grocery store before the predicated storm rolled in. It was Mikki’s birthday so we’d booked a little chalet outside the city and planned to make a nice dinner and enjoy a quiet evening without the company of forty-odd smelly hikers. The store was packed with large organized hiking groups but we eventually acquired the fixings for spaghetti and grabbed a bottle of wine and snacks for good measure. When we left the store, it was sunny once again so we enjoyed the lakeside view while stuffing our loot into already full packs. We didn’t linger as we hoped to cover the last two miles to the chalet before the next storm began in earnest.

We walked down dirt paths beneath thin trees before emerging at the edge of a small medieval village with steep, narrow walkways. It was built on a hillside and homes were made of wood and stone with wooden ladders for staircases. It was reminiscent of a scene from The Witcher. We finally made it to our little chalet and, after 12.6 miles (20.3 kms), were more than ready for a hot shower and to rest.

Now, remember how I mentioned earlier that we had no luck on this day? That Bovine was closed up, that Plan de l'Au was closed up, that all but one restaurant in Champex-Lac was closed when we arrived? How the views weren’t great and rain came and went the entire day? Well, things did not get any better.

There we were, outside our beloved little chalet, the clouds rolling in swiftly and threatening rain, and we were locked out. There was no keypad to type in a code, only a keyhole, which, we deduced, meant a key was hidden somewhere nearby. I checked my email and booking.com, who I booked it through, for information about entering the chalet but came up empty. There was nothing about a key; there was nothing about checking-in at all. Now, if I’d been in possession of foresight, I would have looked all this up the night prior when we had access to WiFi, but did I do that? Of course not. The town was empty and not a person nor a car passed through. I knew there was another chalet rented by the same owner and so we walked to it and looked through the windows. No one inside. In my email, I found a contact number to call for assistance, so that’s what I did.

“Bonjour?” he said.

“Bonjour,” I said. Then I realized, much to my dismay, that that’s the extent of my French. The man spewed off a few words that I did not understand and I hoped that he spoke a little English—he did not. Time to tap Mikki in. She was once fluent in French but without use over the years it has gotten a wee bit rusty, but it was a hell of a lot better than I was doing with my single “bonjour.” They talked back and forth for a minute and then she typed a series of numbers in her own phone before hanging up. I was very impressed by her French and told her as much.

“Any luck?” I asked, hopeful.

“No,” she said. “He said he wasn’t here, which is obvious, and that he is in an office far away and doesn’t know about a key. He gave me this number saying another person could help.”

So we called said number. It rang endlessly. We called again, but to no avail. Back to square one. We searched for a hidden key around the building. We looked in the planters, around the door, on ledges, but there was nothing. I looked through my planning documents hoping that six-months-ago-me had written something useful down; she did not. So, I used my weak cell signal to log in to booking.com and look at my messages, hoping I’d missed something in there. Again, no information. I did, however, come across a different phone number, which I called. I couldn’t wait to see the international calling fees I was accruing at this point.

“Bonjour?” a woman said.

“Bonjour,” I said. “We are outside the chalet and need help getting in. Do you speak English?”

“A little,” she said with an accent. “What is the problem?”

“We can’t enter the chalet we booked, Le Biolley. Is there a key? How do we get in?” I asked.

“Ah, Le Biolley chalet. There is a key to get in,” she said.

“Yes,” I said annoyance tinging my voice. “Where exactly is this key?”

“Ah yes, all the information is in the email I sent you!” she said sweetly, as if that were obvious enough.

“I didn’t get an email.”

“Yes, I sent an email when you booked.”

“I’m looking at my inbox right now, as well as on booking.com, and the only email I have is that the chalet is confirmed, nothing else.”

“No, no. There is an email that has check-in instructions,” she said.

“Okay,” I said with exasperation. “Email or not, can you tell me where the key is?”

“It’s all in the email I sent,” she said again like a broken robot with only one setting left. I breathed deeply. She was kindly speaking my language and I appreciated that, but I just wanted the damn key.

“Okay,” I said. “Can you just tell me what the email says? About the key? To get into the place we are standing outside of right now. That is locked. Or can you resend this email?”

“Hmm, yes, I can resend. What is your email?” I tell her and she tells me she will send it to me.

“Well, while that email is on the way, can you perhaps tell me if there is a key to the chalet somewhere?” I ask.

“Ah yes, of course. It’s in the mailbox,” she says simply. I want to knock my head against a wall repeatedly but I’m too excited that we finally have its location to consider finding a nice wall to do so on. Instead, Mikki and I are moving, looking left and right for a mailbox.

“If you are standing at the chalet, there is a café behind you. Go there,” she says, and we follow her directions. “Now, turn around.”

And there it is, a simple metal mailbox. We open it and there, tucked flat in the back left corner, is a tiny silver key.

“Merci, beaucoup. Merci, merci!” I tell her.

It had begun to rain so we hurried back to the chalet’s entrance, unlocked it, and were finally inside. Hours later I found an email in my inbox: “Welcome to Chalet Le Biolley!”

That night, we had hot showers and a delicious spaghetti dinner, polishing off an entire pound of noodles, a whole bag of cheese, and a bottle of wine to its last drop. As we ate and laughed and enjoyed the night, a storm raged. The rain consistently pelted the picture window in the dining room and streaks of lightening flashed across the sky. We turned off the lights and watched the valley light up with each strike and waited for the pounding thunder to follow. By 10 pm we were cuddled in our comfy bed with soft pillows, the sound of rain lulling us into slumber, and we slept the whole night through.