Pointing a crone's skeletal finger at the Haute Savoie sky, the Aiguille du Midi's wind swept basalt cliffs and sheer verglas walls are both wildly seductive and incredibly dangerous.

A precipitous trail falls away from the Aiquille du Midi's upper tram station to a low saddle that in turn cascades down a south face to the Vallee Blanche. 

In my heart of hearts, I hoped Chamonix would offer us common ground in a foreign country--time to talk on chair lifts, on steep snow covered faces and over dinner in dimly lit, back street restaurants. 

In attempt to avoid the hundreds of skiers who dot the vast white plane, Jones takes a circuitous route across the gentle Glacier Du Geant to the sheer Pyramide du Tacul where the snow softens and the grade increases.

Robert was assaulted by the rich mélange of foreign languages, the vistas and the promise of first turns in France.

I hoped Chamonix would offer us common ground in a foreign country––time to talk on chair lifts, on steep snow covered faces and over dinner in dimly lit, back street restaurants. 

Robert was suddenly more confident and more focused and despite the fact he struggled with the language, more verbal.

Pierre Carrier has skied the Col de la Buche––a sunlit sliver of snow, climbed the exposed south wall of the Aiguille Du Midi and the snow covered North Face of the Tour Ronde as well as the Couloir Gervazulie.

Combinations of soup, garden vegetables, squab, breads, cheese, desert and an incredible Chenin Blanc that I insisted Robert try––simply because, like Chamonix it was an experience he should not miss.

Our days passed in the sunny bowls of the Glacier des Rognons and shadowed faces above the Bochard Gondola.

Protected by a massive prow shaped avalanche barrier, Mark Jone’s floor to ceiling windows offer spectacular views of the Grands Montets, the Aiquille Du Midi, Mont Blanc.

It worries me that Robert, my thirteen-year old son, has no fear. Studying the Aiguille du Midi's forbidding blue ice and black rock north wall from the sixty person tram, he does not blink when Mark Jones tells him, "People ski that."

Robert could have replied in many ways. "No Way!" would have been a good start. Or even, “You’re kidding!" Instead he nods and observes, "Cool." What frightens me is, he's not joking. Leading him onto the knife edge that splits the Vallee Blanche Glacier from the North Wall of the Aiguille du Midi, whether it's his lack of experience, or simply a profound faith in his own immortality, I have no doubt he’d follow Mark Jones onto the North Wall.

 Pointing a crone's skeletal finger at the Haute Savoie sky, the Aiguille du Midi's wind swept basalt cliffs and sheer verglas walls are both wildly seductive and incredibly dangerous. The truth is, less then two dozen extremists have survived the shadowed side of this exposed pinnacle. That Robert would even consider jumping from edge to edge down that vertical ribbon of ice and snow frightens me. If I brought my son to France to experience Chamonix, I quickly learned he needs new brakes.

For the moment crampons will do. A precipitous trail falls away from the Aiquille du Midi's upper tram station to a low saddle that in turn cascades down a south face to the Vallee Blanche. At best, this trail is unpredictable. Deep powder one day, glare ice the next, locals have long since lost count of tourists who, while attempting to descend in ski boots, lost their footing in the icy rut, started to slide and cartwheeled three thousand feet down the north face.

 A forty-two year old Canadian speed skier now living in Le Planet above Argentiere, Mark Jones recently skied 212,000 feet off the Grand Montets' upper tram to set the twelve-hour world vertical record. Quiet, self assured, a superb skier with steel gray hair and a model's chiseled jaw, Jones has lived in Chamonix for twenty years, speaks passable French and has carved a lifestyle out climbing, skiing and bicycling. Robert clearly idolizes him and for the past three days has shadowed him on the Grand Montets and through Chamonix's narrow streets.            

 Touching the sharp steel points that bristle from his ski boots, Jones now cautions him, "Remember to place your feet slightly apart, keep your weight centered and your shoulders square to the fall line." Then taking a final tug on the crampon's toe strap he glances up for confirmation and warns, "If you snag your ski pant, you'll trip and fall.... and falling is not an option." Nodding seriously, Robert shoulders his skis and follows Jones through an ice tunnel to the trail. Once outside he pauses to study the crowded knife-edge that snakes toward the enormous glacier, then observes, "What's the big deal? We can ski this!"

While Jones is amused by Robert's attitude, it frightens me. 

The morning sun has softened the snow and we slowly descend to a small plateau above the Vallee Blanche from where we ski a moguled face onto the Mer de Glace. Translated to "Sea of Ice," the Mer De Glace is fed by a dozen glaciers. Three of these rivers of ice flow underfoot while others drape like massive blue and white tapestries from the glaciated walls. 

In an attempt to avoid the hundreds of skiers who dot the vast white plane, Jones takes a circuitous route across the gentle Glacier Du Geant to the sheer Pyramide du Tacul where the snow softens and the grade increases. Robert has never seen a glacier before and is clearly fascinated by the broken blocks of alluvial ice that have fractured off the blue cliffs. For the next two hours we navigate around the seracs, through the crevasses and down untracked faces until we reached the rough, snow covered road that descends through the forest back to Chamonix. 

If bringing a thirteen year old to Chamonix, France seems wildly extravagant, the exact opposite is true. I am convinced teenagers should be exposed to foreign languages, haute cuisine and strange customs. And I believe getting lost, being confused and struggling to make yourself understood, teach valuable life lessons.

For both fathers and sons, thirteen is not for the faint of heart. During the past year Robert has grown six inches and gained twenty pounds. When I now hug him goodnight, I'm acutely aware that he is taller than I am. At the same time, his voice has dropped two octaves, his shoulders have broadened and blonde stubble now sparkles across his cheeks. If I anticipated the physical changes in Robert, I was not prepared for an accompanying loss of closeness. 

Friends remind me that thirteen is a state of mind--a scorched earth, take no prisoners rebellion founded upon constantly changing but non negotiable demands. In Robert's case, those demands are unclear. While he gets good grades, excels at athletics and exhibits a remarkable indifference to pain, he is far too serious for thirteen and his answers to my questions, though polite, typically amount to a simple yes, no or ok. In my heart of hearts, I hoped Chamonix would offer us common ground in a foreign country--time to talk on chair lifts, on steep snow covered faces and over dinner in dimly lit, back street restaurants. 

Many of my life's major adventures have played out in or above this French village. I have skied the Haute Route from Saas Fee to Argentierre and chronicled Mark Jones world twelve-hour vertical record.x I followed Les Grand Defi, a five-day endurance race with Bernard Prud'homme, one time President of the Chamonix Guides and now head of Chamonix's Tourist Office. And I have researched Count Lora Totino's Aguille Du Midi Tram, skied the Vallee Blanche and eaten at Pierre and Martine Carrier's Albert Premier Hotel. 

My intent in bringing Robert to Chamonix was not to make him relive my life, but to expose him to the village, the culture, as well as the Grands Montets and Vallee Blanche. I also wanted him to meet Jones, Prud'homme and Carrier­­––men who have found success and happiness in unusual, but colorful careers.

Back in Idaho, the chance to ski Chamonix lit a fire under Robert. He immediately located the village on a French road map, learned to say s’il vous plait, merci and bonjour then crossed the days off a calendar until we boarded the Swissair flight from Los Angeles to Geneva.

We arrived in Chamonix under cloudy skies and a steady snowfall that obscured Mont Blanc's glaciated north face, the black rock needles and snow filled chutes of the Aiguille Du Midi, Grands Jorasses and the Aiguille Verte. Spiraling out of the low clouds, fat spring flakes reminded us of February's record snows and the resulting killer avalanches that swept through the village of Le Tour above Argentiere. By early March the hazard had moderated and the winter was shaping up to be the best in recent history. 

It was late afternoon when we checked into the Hotel Morgane that sits next to the River L’Arve. If I was inclined to guide Robert to the village square, I knew his first impressions of Chamonix, would be his most valuable. I had no doubt that Chamonix's idiomatic French, its guides darkened by the high altitude sun and sport shop windows filled with packs, skis and crampons-- the narrow cobblestone streets and mountain architecture--the skiers, climbers and boarders and the omnipresent Aiquille casting their late afternoon shadows across the village––would speak to Robert, as it had first spoken to me the year before he was born.

And handing him a hundred Francs, I watched him cross the bridge on the River L'Arve to the Rue du Docteur Piccard, where he tentatively turned toward the village center. He returned an hour later with a grilled cheese and ham panini, a liter of orangeade and a bar of Swiss chocolate. He also had a question. Studying the Aiguille du Midi that brooded among the clouds, he inquired, Which of these Aiguilles things are we going to ski first?

We met Mark Jones the following morning at the Aiguille des Grands Montets that dominates the north end of the Chamonix Valley above Argentierre. Starting in 1893, skiing in the Chamonix Valley has grown to include 12 separate ski areas; dozens of trams, gondolas and chairs that service, arguably the worlds, most extreme, lifts assisted terrain. The Grands Montets is by far the most famous. Accessed by two trams that vault 6790 vertical feet from the valley floor to the summit, this massive mountain mixes groomed pistes with huge bump runs, shadowed chutes and four hundred foot deep crevasses that wait like unsprung traps within the rivers of ice. 

Born in Sun Valley, Idaho Robert has apprenticed on both the Free Style and Nordic teams. Though he has skied in Canada, Colorado, Idaho and Montana, it's obvious from his expression that he has never encountered anyone quite as weird as the Rasta extremists waiting in the tramline. The dreadlocks, piercings, tattoos and mismatched, wild ski suits and packs festooned with crampons, ice axes and ropes scream of a lifestyle that is rare, if nonexistent outside this glaciated valley. Then too the Grands Montets' seductive laissez faire––it's lack of boundaries, ropes and helpful lift operators catching the chair offered a powerful contrast to U.S ski resorts. Loading the upper tram, Robert was assaulted by the rich mélange of foreign languages, the vistas and the promise of first turns in France. It had a marvelous effect. He was suddenly more confident and more focused and despite the fact he struggled with the language, more verbal. Robert's inexpert grasp of French turned "Francs" to "Frankies," "Fromage" to "Cheese-ay," and "Bon" to the more emphatic "bon, bon bon."

Mark Jones was training that day for a new attempt on the world twelve-hour vertical record. Running down upper station's concrete and steel stairs, he stepped into his skis and with Robert on his heels blistered down the Pylones Run that traces the tramline to Canadian Bowl and the Lognan Tram base. I was more than a minute behind them and when I skied up they greeted me with a studied nonchalance. Comparing Robert's 186 centimeter, Dynastar SFs to Mark's 215 Atomic downhills, I quietly advised him. "It's only a matter of time before Robert crashes trying to ski as fast as you do. Trust me, neither of us want to pick up the pieces."

Mark nodded, then promised to slow down.

I have often wondered if Chamonix's mountains inspire men to great deeds. I've known Pierre Carrier since the first time I stayed in the Albert Premier. In the ten years since, he managed to win a second Michelin Star while he built the Fermes Du Hameau Albert Premier, a farm house with twelve suites and it's own restaurant. Pierre Carrier is a seventh generation Chamoniard born to a family of hoteliers. His father was a Michelin rated chef who never doubted his son would take over the family business. Pierre, however, had other ideas. 

In his youth, Pierre considered taking the rigorous Chamonix Mountain Guide exam. By that time, he had climbed the exposed south wall of the Aiguille Du Midi, the snow covered North Face of the Tour Ronde as well as the Couloir Gervazulie. He had skied the Col de la Buche––a sunlit sliver of snow and had a passion for cross-country racing. When he graduated from school, he had to choose between guiding clients up Chamonix's Mount Blanc and following his father into the kitchen of the Albert Premier. Pierre chose the kitchen and was awarded a Michelin Star and Christian Millau Golden Key before he was thirty. 

Pierre insists he is just a "cook"–– a simple man of the mountains who also loves big wall climbing, nordic marathons, ski extreme, classic cars and fast motorcycles. Pierre and his wife Martine are typical of Chamoniard hospitality. Over a glass of champagne in the Albert Premier, they insist Robert and I stay for lunch. Without exaggeration, the following combinations of soup, garden vegetables, squab, breads, cheese, desert and an incredible Chenin Blanc that I insisted Robert try––simply because, like Chamonix it was an experience he should not miss––was simply the best meal either of us had ever eaten. 

Pierre and Martine appeared as we finished desert. Acknowledging our praise with self-conscious smiles, they inquired, "Can you take time to ski with us?" 

Robert and I had looked forward to skiing with Pierre since we started planning the trip and half an hour later we unloaded from the Aiquille du Midi's first stage and followed Pierre and Martine down Le Pre du Rocher, a steep, sketchy pitch that drops toward the village center. We followed a steep ridge that funneled into a bump filled gully where the sun softened snow clutched at our boots. The gully wound through open woods that eventually funneled onto a narrow logging road that traversed avalanche debris and willow thickets. Stopping to take a photo, I watched Pierre, Martine and Robert race down a narrow path that finally emerged above the Aiguille du Midi tram station. 

 It was late and Pierre and Martine needed to return to the Albert Premier. As we parted at the Aiguille du Midi, Pierre shook hands with Robert and inquired, "Do you plan to come back to Chamonix?"

 "Oui,"he nodded. "Maybe next winter or this summer even."

Mark Jones offered to let us stay in his apartment in the Hotel Le Planet converted tuberculosis clinic. Set on an exposed ridge above the Chamonix Valley and protected by a massive prow shaped avalanche barrier, his floor to ceiling windows offer spectacular views of the Grands Montets, the Aiquille Du Midi, Mont Blanc and the towering avalanche chute pointed at the hotel's south wall Jones apartment sits six hundred feet from where the avalanche released and, during the worst of the hazard, he was forced to evacuate down valley. When he was allowed to return ten days later, he had to dig through twelve feet of new snow to his front door. 

The hazard, however, had moderated and we settled into his spare room, shared cooking and explored the Grands Montets. Our days passed in the sunny bowls of the Glacier des Rognons and shadowed faces above the Bochard Gondola. Our nights were devoted to pasta dinners, baguettes, goat cheese salads and red wine. For entertainment, Matius Elofsson, a Swedish friend of Marks, appeared one evening to narrate a slide show of his single day ascent and descent of Mount Blanc.

We stopped by the Office du Tourisme on our last day in Chamonix, to visit Bernard Prud’homme. Six foot four, black hair, rail thin with a ready smile and a firm grip, Prud’homme twice climbed Everest to 8,400 meters where he was turned back by storms. He also pioneered new routes in South America's Andes and throughout Switzerland, France and Austria's Alps. 

The first time I saw Prud’homme, he was standing on a dizzying knife-edge that fell hundreds of feet to a glacial neve. As Head of Safety for Les Grands Defi, a four-man team endurance race that scaled the French and Italian Alps, Prud’homme was responsible for both the competitors and press corps who were chasing them. Following a week of guiding us across exposed ridges and into chutes that took my breath away, I developed a profound respect for this third generation Chamoniard.

One time President of the prestigious Chamonix Guides and now head of the busy Chamonix Office du Tourisme, Prud’homme spends much of his day in meetings. He says he would prefer guiding, but admits because he understands Chamonix and the competing resorts, he is better suited for the Tourist Office. 

Robert waits quietly while Bernard and I reminisce about Les Grand Defi. I do not know what he takes away from the meeting. I hope he remembers Prud’homme's humor, his self-confidence and the places he has been. 

Prud’homme is a busy man and as we rise to leave, he turns to my son. "And you Robert, what do you think of Chamonix?"

Robert hesitates, then summoning his limited French, admits "Bon...tres, tres bon."