The old Goûter Refuge is due to be dismantled this May. It feels like the wrong ending for a place that carried so much of the history of Mont Blanc. It could have been treated more like a monument—something closer in spirit to Camp 4 in Yosemite, which has heritage status. Instead, it will disappear in a fairly practical way, like most things in the mountains eventually do.
I have a long and slightly conflicted relationship with Mont Blanc. Over 35 years it has been both a workplace and something more personal. I started my guiding career there. In the early days I would climb it twice a week. It was efficient. You met clients, you built trust, and if things went well you could suggest they come back the following year for something more interesting. Many of them did. Some kept coming back for decades.
At one point I worked out that I had spent more than 250 nights in the Goûter Refuge. That seems excessive when written down, but it felt normal at the time.
The climbs themselves blur together now, but certain ones remain fixed. I climbed Mont Blanc with Don Planner, the first blind man to reach its summit. It was not straightforward, but it worked.
My final ascent was with my daughter Sophie.
It was the right way to finish. I had a few tears in my eyes as I left the summit. I have climbed Mont Blanc with all three of my daughters, and with my wife. Those are some of the best moments I have.
The old refuge was central to all of this. It was not comfortable, but it mostly worked. The guardian, Guy Bochataty was a wonderful man and a constant presence. His father had done the same job before him. Guy himself was effectively born into it. His mother went into labour at the refuge and didn’t make it to hospital. He was born on the mountain train on the way down. It set the tone.
Vincent, his second-in-command, spent 18 seasons up there. He served dinner by bringing every tray to every table on his own, every evening, without fail. It was faultless, and the system never changed. He always had a smile and genuinely loved his role. Reservations were made by writing to Guy in the off-season. He would reply by post in careful, immaculate French handwriting. There was time for that then.
Not everything was orderly. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, large numbers of climbers arrived from Eastern Europe. Many had poor equipment and no bookings. They came anyway. The result was predictable: too many people, not enough space. People slept on the floor. Some took beds that were not theirs. It was not ideal, but it was dealt with in the usual way—by getting through the night.
Because I was there so often, I was sometimes given a bed by the wall. This counted as luxury.
The toilet situation was basic. A shed at the end of an icy walkway. A long drop. No distractions. One night, a Guide friend of mine was heading there at about 2:00 a.m. He was stopped by someone asking to borrow his headlamp. The reason was simple: they had dropped theirs down the shaft. Retrieval was apparently under consideration.
Later, an annex was built to add more beds, and during the construction of the new refuge it was used to house the workers. One evening they had too much to drink and a fight broke out. The police were called. They arrived by helicopter. They are more used to altitude sickness and mountain rescues than breaking up drunken fights at 3,800 metres, but they dealt with it.
A slightly improved toilet was installed downstairs. I happened to meet the builders and was asked to test it. I agreed. It seemed like the right thing to do. Being the first person to use a new toilet at the Goûter Refuge is not something you aim for, but it is something you remember.
There were moments of clarity. One older guide would arrive and order two beers, always with the same explanation:
“Une pour la soif, une pour le plaisir.”
One for the thirst, one for the pleasure.
It is a useful distinction.
The refuge will go, and something more efficient has already replaced it. That is how these things work. But the old place held a particular kind of order within its absolute chaos. People who passed through it remember it in very specific ways—not because it was good, but because it was exactly what it was.
Foot Note: In fact I now learn that the refuge will be rebuilt in the thermal park in St Gervais as a museum!
