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Nathalie Gervais – Teaching old dogs new tricks

At first the name didn't mean anything. "How was your summer?" started the e-mail message. "I just read your article in Pique and I could see it's not been the easiest or funnest you've been through.
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At first the name didn't mean anything. "How was your summer?" started the e-mail message. "I just read your article in Pique and I could see it's not been the easiest or funnest you've been through." The sender of the message was a gal called Nathalie Gervais. And for the life of me I couldn't remember who the heck that was.

No surprise there. So much had happened to me since my return from Europe last April that memories of my five-week stint in the Alps had been pushed back into the far recesses of my brain. But as I continued to read her note, it all slowly flowed back.

Every now and then my work will put me in contact with young athletes who are pushing the far edge of the possible in their pursuit of vertical epiphanies. They rarely do it for money. And they don't really do it for fame. Rather most are driven by this quasi-spiritual zeal for "alpine satori"; a youthful urge to live a near-monastic life fully absorbed by mountain challenges. Such was the case with Nathalie Gervais. A former ski-racer from Ottawa, the 26-year-old alpinist was completing her first winter in La Grave, France when we crossed paths in the shadow of the legendary Meije last March.

Well, to be frank, it wasn't a random crossing of paths. My French magazine editor friend, Mathieu Ros, had arranged the meeting. "She's awesome," the usually understated Ros raved. "Easily one of the best big-mountain skiers I've ever had the pleasure to ride with. Believe me, she's top-notch. And there's no attitude. She's a real gem, this gal..."

I took his comments with a grain of salt. After all, I've known some mighty impressive female riders in my time. Still, nothing had prepared me for Nathalie. It's not just that she was a strong skier, or that her sunny, go-for-it attitude put a positive spin on any activity she engaged in. It's that Nathalie had actually gone out and done things that few others had dreamed of, let alone ever accomplished.

Know many other women who've spent three weeks camping in the Baffin Island backcountry exploring new ski routes? Or completed a harrowing multi-day ski traverse of Alaska's remote Kenai Peninsula in whiteout conditions and a raging blizzard? Or commercial fished for halibut in the North Pacific? Or mastered a 23-pitch climbing route in Mexico? Or spelunked into a network of caves a thousand metres deep? Nathalie has done all those things. And to hear her recount these stories, none of her exploits are ever a big a deal...

She's totally understated. All too happy to duck the spotlight in exchange for a good outing somewhere. And she honestly doesn't find what she does particularly dangerous. Which makes her a formidable companion when venturing out into the wilds.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Picture our first meeting:

Midweek in La Grave, overcast and starting to snow in the valley, which usually means flat light and varied conditions up high. Not great. Take a seat in the funky jelly-bean coloured gondolas anyway and head for the top. By the time I reach the summit chalet, L'Au Dessus at 3,200 metres, the weather has turned seriously nasty. Things are going from bad to worse. No way are we going to ski big lines today...

But Nathalie refuses to bow before the storm. A happy introductory smile. A firm handshake. "Ready for some skiing," she asks. And that's it; off we go. "I'm just starting to get a feel for this place," she mouths as the wind does its bet to tear the words away before they get to my ears. "But I think I can find a few good spots. Just follow me."

And for the next few runs she leads me on a magical mystery tour of the mountain's hoary front side. So what if the 35-year-old gondolas sway and creak and groan as they laboriously pull us back to the top (and then stop altogether when the gusts are too strong)? So what if the weather is so fierce that there doesn't seem to be another soul on the mountain (at least not where we're skiing)? And so what if the visibility is so bad that I can barely see my tips in front of me (or anything else come to think of it)? All I need to do is follow the guide. And what an inspiring guide she turns out to be.

Here's a page from my journal that day: Nathalie - short black hair tied back in a practical girl-jock ponytail, narrow-set eyes, high cheekbones, tanned face, strong compact body. Great smile too - slightly-crossed front teeth gives her the air of a gamine. Her skiwear is from the tough-chick school of dressing though. Nothing fancy; definitely hard-worn. Her skiing reflects her personality - confident, bold, but without pretension. She still arcs her turns like a racer. And she never hesitates. Doesn't matter what the slope, what the conditions, she drops in at speed.

By the time we duck back into L'Au Dessus for a bite to eat, I'm feeling much better about the day. But it's far from over. Turns out our friend Patisse is waiting for us. And he has a plan. Seeing that the lift is going to close soon because of the storm, he suggests we do one of the classic La Grave itineraries for last run. Sounds like fun, I say. "Do you have a climbing harness in your pack," he asks eying my girdless loins. And then he explains about the short rappel we'll have to negotiate along the way. I shake my head forlornly. No harness in my pack today. Fortunately, a friend has a spare in his pack and I don't have to explain why I left mine in my rental car in the valley...

An aside: I wasn't supposed to do anything "extreme" this winter. Given the ridiculously battered state of my knees - both were scheduled for total replacement on my return from Europe - I really didn't have much choice in the matter. But up until the Patisse run I'd been able to fake it. How? Every morning before skiing I'd drop a trio of little pain pills, and they would somehow manage to get my poor knees through the day - if not painlessly at least in a mild fog of chemically-induced goodwill.

Alas, I soon realized that skiing in La Grave under a mild fog of chemically-induced goodwill was not a particularly intelligent thing to do. And it was the look I saw in Nathalie's eyes on that last run that made me realize just how stupid I'd been.

Here's how I describe the moment in my journal: The skiing up high is surprisingly good; already a fine carpet of new snow lies over the glacier. Effortless turns! It's only when I step out of my bindings and start walking down to the anchor where Patisse is preparing the belay that I realize something is off. My balance isn't right. I'm tentative - unsure of myself. For some reason the painkillers I took hours ago have decided to make themselves manifest - and they're doing so with a force I've never felt before.

I know I'm in trouble as I crouch on the slope and try to strap my skis onto my pack. My fingers feel thick, useless. The wind screams around me, making everything more difficult. I take two or three deep breaths. Stay calm, I tell myself. This too will pass. I grab my pack and watch Nathalie disappear over the edge. I'm next. Another deep breath - but I just can't breathe the fog out of my head. It's making me slow. Clumsy. I try to focus. "Ready to clip in?" asks Patisse. Nat must be down already. I wasn't even paying attention. I nod. He waves me over, clips the rope into my harness and offers a few last-minute tips. And then it's my turn. Mind empty, heart beating fast, I push off into nothing.

I don't really remember the rappel. All I remember is desperately hanging on to the little platform I'd boot-packed in the impossibly-steep side of the hill where the rope had dropped me while awkwardly trying to extricate myself from its grasp and send it back up to Patisse. But try as I might -stand on my toes, bend from left to right - I couldn't get enough slack in the damn rope to unclip. I felt like a little kid with his shirt tails caught in the merry-go-round. Let me go , I felt like screaming. That's when I caught Nathalie watching me. She was off to the side of the couloir, a few metres down from my position. And her eyes said it all.

I'd seen that look hundreds of times. Had donned it myself on numerous occasions. But I'd never felt it directed at me before. Made up equally of concern and condescension - with just a little bit of mountain snobbishness - her expression slashed through my ego like a knife. "Poor old guy," her eyes said. "He's in way over his head. We'll have to keep a careful eye on him until we get to the bottom."

Bloody hell. Here was this young gal, less than half my age - could be my daughter for goodness sake - expressing concern for my safety. And in the mountains at that! I'd never felt so embarrassed in my life.

Nathalie quickly jumped onto her skis and slid over to see if she could be of help. But by that time I was free. Still shaking with frustration. Still mortified with shame. But free. The rest of the run was fine. As soon as I got my feet back on my boards I felt better. But that look of hers stayed with me for some time.

And the little pain pills? That day was the last time I ever rode under their influence. Meanwhile, Nathalie and I continued to ski together. Fortunately, I never saw that expression on her face again. Still, what a lesson she taught me that day...

 

Next week: follow Nathalie's adventures as she takes us on a tour of some of the planet's most remote locations.