In The Shadow of Mont Blanc

by Claire Edwards (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find France

February snow is the best kind. On this February day a fresh coating had formed a stark blanket across the plains of the French Alp fields that I, in my exuberant wisdom, had utilised as a short-cut back to the authentic farming village of Montchavin. Bathed in the shadow of Mount Blanc, the village resembled a chocolate-box image of a typically rustic bourg; rickety wooden chalets with unique carpentry, winding cobbled alleyways and magnificent views of the valley below. As I trudged down the mountain I looked forward to the freshly baked baguette I had ordered earlier from the boulangerie, and even longed for a waft of the stench of cow and goat, as at least this would mean I was nearing my apartment. For now the village seemed tiny; shrinking into the downhill distance as my path twisted between vast open spaces covered in powder, and clusters of trees that seemed insignificant in size from a distance, yet transformed into forests once inside. Occasionally my route was interrupted by random collections of out buildings made up of stone and timber. The buildings appeared derelict and eerily pointed towards an abandoned church, emblazoned with an intimidating lead cross and ringed by broken walls. On another day this would be the start of a horror movie, however fortunately I experienced a peaceful walk through isolated zones I’m sure not many had encountered – pure adventure, and my adrenaline relished it. The strange silence of remote mountainside causes the senses to awaken. As the afternoon sun shone then dimmed through the copses, I became aware of the moisture in the air freezing around me. This created an effect of ‘sparkly air’, a sensation of minuscule glittering particles paving my way. At least, until the dusky rays disappeared, taking the glitter with them. On the 9km walk I had seen but one other rambler. Yet, from the dense thickets, I felt the fixed stare of a watchful eye. It was an odd dichotomy; feeling so alone, yet a gut squeezing sense that I had company. “You cant stop” I encouraged myself, and the once distant scene of Montchavin village was growing towards me with every step. Step. And another step. Printed in the snow in front of me. They aren’t my steps. They aren’t even footprints. Stopping dead, I peel a ski glove from my hand, sweaty from a mixture of exercise and anxiety. I place the glove on the snow next to the prints that precede me, and the glove is far outsized by the increasingly alarming print. I look around; there’s nothing in sight, no guidance or tips germane to a murder mystery game. I snatch up my glove and inspect the giant print more closely – paws, and fresh given the recent snowfall. The paw prints spring in groups of four, separated easily by a metre. They lead across the white-sheeted pasture to the base of a fir... then simply cease. I follow the trail with my eyes into the leaves, unnerved by the situation but also terrifyingly excited. In the evening haze, I can’t clearly trace my unexpected companion, but staring towards the heights, I feel my eyes lock into a mutual magnetic gaze of inquisition and I know I’m not alone. It felt impossible to disengage, but when I managed, I took out my phone and snapped a photo of my acquaintance’s paw prints. Reaching the village felt like a victory and I made it back in time to collect my fluffy bread from the kindly baker. I turn to leave, but take the opportunity to share the photograph of my discovery. Wild lynx, he confirms, eyes wide in wonder. You never know what you might find whilst lost up a mountain, but the prints of a wild lynx were certainly not on my agenda. The experience inspired something deep within me, and I now volunteer for a large cat conservation centre. On my lunch break I often take time to lock eyes with resident lynx, Petra, and wonder if I truly shared that same gaze with her wild counterpart, or whether my imagination got the best of me whilst squinting at an empty tree.