The Raw Beauty of the Chamonix Zermatt Haute Route

by Marie Baum

In December 2024, I started planning an ambitious journey: going from Chamonix to Zermatt on foot, on my own. It had been a long time since I wanted to do a solo multi-day hike, and I loved the idea of linking those two iconic valleys. Some may say it was ambitious, maybe even a little crazy, to plan such a walk with so little experience. Yes, I love hiking, but I’m more of an occasional hiker than a seasoned trekker. Maybe I enjoy challenging myself more than I think.

I trained, and I set off on a bright summer day, under a suffocating, relentless sun. It took me 12 days to reach Zermatt. I walked 130 km, which is slightly less than the usual route, but I had to adjust my itinerary to preserve my body and manage my fatigue. The truth is: it was much harder than expected. Even though I had studied the route, the stages, the distances, the elevation, I was caught off guard by the difficulty of the paths, incredibly steep and technical. Carrying a 12 kg backpack added significantly to the effort. Not to mention the first three days, which were unbearably hot, making the walk extremely demanding for the heart, lungs and body.

And yet, there I was. Pushed along endless tracks, offering neither shade nor respite, I surprised myself by holding on. There I was, wincing, huffing, puffing, grumbling, but moving forward. I knew I had no choice but to keep going, because once you’ve started climbing, you have to come back down. I didn’t ignore my fatigue, my pain, or my frustration as the hours ticked by, knowing I still had a long way to go. I simply dealt with it. This made me realize how resilient the body is, how strong the mind can be. How it sharpens and focuses around a determination that leaves no room for doubt or giving up. The way the body stores suffering, endures it, and eventually releases it. It fascinated me.

This kind of experience makes you - forces you - to pay close attention to your body. Every twinge, every muscle contraction, the feeling of fatigue or a sudden surge of energy. You become aware of subtle variations, you know when your physical state aligns with your mental state, and when it doesn’t. You realize how easily you can adapt. You can walk with a sore body from the previous days and, surprisingly, feel less pain after a few hours of effort.
Emotions are fleeting. Joy and awe turn into despair. You’re fed up, then satisfied, nostalgic, relieved, proud. It’s all a jumble. And nothing lasts. Each morning, for example, I felt anxious not knowing what the day would bring. It was like throwing the dice all over again. How hard would the path be? Would my body hold up? Would the weather be favorable? Each completed day was a victory, but there was no guarantee the next one would have the same outcome.

On day five, I broke down. It was a grey day in a grey landscape, mineral, austere. The sky was overcast. The ground was steep, technical, rocky, dotted with snow patches I had to slide down on my buttocks. The succession of ascents and descents wore my mood down. And so, once I arrived at Cabane de Prafleuri, where I was supposed to stop only for a lunch break, I fell apart.
As the rain started to weigh on the scenery, I sat with a pot of hot tea, tears rolling down my face. I didn’t even know exactly what they carried. At some point, the hut keeper came to see me with a slice of chocolate cake. She sat next to me with a cup of tea as well. She offered me a place to stay for the night, lent me her acupressure mat for my aching back, and advised me to lie down and get some rest, to take it easy. It’s hard to express how grateful I am for her incredible kindness at that moment.

Around the tables, the other trekkers - some I had crossed paths with in the previous days - didn’t seem as exhausted as I was. That’s when I started to think I might have overestimated my abilities, or underestimated the difficulty of this trek. That’s also when I decided, after some hesitation, to listen to my instinct and skip the following day, during which I was supposed to tackle the most difficult section of the entire route. This decision was hard to accept, but I quickly understood that it was precisely what would allow me to keep going. That perspective helped temper my resentment. The goal was to go all the way, but not at any cost, and not at the expense of losing sight of the joy.

Because the reason I wanted to hike solo was not only to test my endurance, but also to witness beauty in a raw, intense way. So most of the time, I chose not to listen to music, but only to the sounds of nature around me. Birdsong, cowbells, wind, marmot whistles, running water. My own breath. It helped me immerse myself in the effort, but also in what surrounded me.
Each time you look up, you are fully present. Aware of the shiver of light through the branches, the morning dew twinkling on the leaves, the clouds drifting by, the blurred mountains in the distance, the steepness of the hillside plunging into the valley. The flowers. The infinite shades of green coloring the forest. I crossed villages, silently marveling at the vivid red of the geraniums, at the idyllic sight of small chalets scattered across the alpine pastures. I watched the plump crescent moon hanging in the velvety sky of a soft lilac blue after the sun went down.
I felt I was witnessing a life that eluded our clumsy human ways. A light, subtle life you can sense in the dialogue between vibrating air and rays of sunlight rustling the undergrowth. A life that can be felt more than described.

As the Haute Route is far from crowded, I encountered very few people on the trails. It was humbling to be the only human soul in the midst of those vast, wild mountains, but also, I must admit, sometimes a little frightening. I’m not used to this kind of solitude. You feel small, fragile, vulnerable. Far from everything and everyone. Countless times, I found myself scanning the landscape, hoping another human figure might appear. I didn’t need them to talk to me. I just needed to know someone else was there, somewhere.
Maybe I prefer my solitude when I’m among others, when I can feel presences around me. Maybe the solitude I think I enjoy is just an illusion, and the real solitude that pulls you out of the world frightens me. And yet, I find it deeply attractive, deeply desirable. I brushed against it, and it shook me, forcing me to think, to reconsider it. I think it even gave me the urge to return to it. But not now.

Despite what I just said, I did manage to meet a few fellow hikers along the way. I think there were around ten of us walking the Haute Route at the same time. First there was Philippe, whom we met on the first evening in Balme, then again in Le Châble, at Cabane de Louvie, in Prafleuri, and on a trail between Arolla and Les Haudères. Then there was Sebastian, whom we met at a fountain, and by chance again the next day in a hut with his friend Callum. We found ourselves following one another for five days, sometimes walking together, and spending our evenings camping, shopping, drinking coffee, and cooking, the three of us. It reminded me of the feeling of solo travel, that genuine fellowship that forms naturally.
There was also Vincent, who, like me, stayed in the Prafleuri winter hut and followed the same stages right up until the day before arrival. And then there were Frédérique from Quebec, Warwick from Australia, and Robert from the USA.

It was so nice and comforting to see those familiar faces again, sometimes unexpectedly. It turned this solo, introspective journey into something of a shared experience. We were going through the same stages, enduring the same difficulties, sometimes talking about our joys and our pain. Their presence gave substance to this journey. They were the surprise I hadn’t anticipated.

The day before arriving in Zermatt, as I was climbing my final stretch up to the Europahütte, I suddenly felt emotional, realizing I had made it. I had come all the way from Chamonix, crossing passes and valleys, waking up every morning with a smile and a taste for challenge, despite the bad nights of sleep. Yes, I took the bus a few times, but still. 7,990 meters of elevation gained, 9,270 meters lost. My knees were swollen, my calves hard as wood, my shoulders inflamed from the friction of the straps. I even cut my foot on one of my tent pegs. But I made it to the end.

For the first few days, I kept asking myself why I had done this. What was I trying to prove to myself? Where did I want to belong? Who did I want or need to impress? As I moved forward, however, the questions slowly faded, until they were completely diluted. Moments replaced reasons, the need for explanations. I walked for hours, wrapped in nostalgia, knowing this parenthesis was coming to an end. That all I would be left with was something intangible, which I humbly try to put into words, but which can truly exist only between my heart and my mind.