If you asked me how the mountain trip went, here’s the honest version.

We left around midday, caught a gondola and a train partway out of town, and stepped straight into a steep grind. The trail to Tête Rousse Hut kicks up fast. Everyone got quiet because we knew we had 2–3 hours of that ahead. Thankfully it eased off and turned into a beautiful hike. We reached the hut, had dinner, played cards, then got called into a weather briefing. Sunny skies were in our favor. The wind wasn’t. Forecast said 40–60 km/h. You could feel the mood drop.

The guides split us into small teams and laid out a plan. Physically, they trusted us. If gusts stayed under 50, it would be brutal but possible. We’d climb to the Goûter Hut and make the call there.

Breakfast at 5:15 a.m. was a strange combo of stale bread, oats with apple sauce, and orange juice. Somehow perfect for what became the hardest day of my life.

We kitted up and moved out around 5:30–5:45 as the sun rose. A short snow approach led us to the Grand Couloir (nicknamed the “Death Couloir”). One teammate left early to get high and spot rockfall for us.

When he signaled clear, we crossed in small groups of two or three. A few rocks fell between groups, but everyone stayed calm and made it over.

Then came roughly two hours of exposed rock scrambling to the Goûter Hut. Up there the wind felt bearable, so we pushed on for the summit. An hour later the wind ramped and the mountain disappeared into white. Visibility dropped to about 50 feet. The altitude hit like a wall. I took the biggest breaths I could and they still felt short. Every step was work. We kept climbing for about four hours in full whiteout. Ice built up on everything I wore.

We ducked into a tiny metal shelter on the ridge. I added layers, pulled on snow pants and a thick down jacket, drank water, ate a snack, and headed back into it. The wind kept trying to throw me off balance and polished my goggles with a fresh layer of ice every minute. When they fogged so badly I couldn’t see, I tried taking them off to clear them. In seconds my eyes were hit with tiny shards of ice. My guide handed me his goggles and took mine, cleaning them by feel with his eyes shut, crouched against the gusts.

When they fogged so badly I couldn’t see, I tried taking them off to clear them. In seconds my eyes were hit with tiny shards of ice. My guide handed me his goggles and took mine, cleaning them by feel with his eyes shut, crouched against the gusts.

We pushed to the second Bosses ridge around 4,500 meters and met another team coming down. They said the wind just ahead was so strong they had to crawl. That was the line for us. As a group we decided to turn back. I was devastated, but also relieved. With the altitude, wind, snow, and almost no visibility, I didn’t know how much more my body had in it.

The descent felt endless and just as intense. That night at Goûter I lay in bed thinking about the day and opened a note my girlfriend had given me before the expedition, one I promised not to read until I stood on the summit. I read it anyway. The first line said, “I knew you could summit that mountain babe, I’m so proud of you and never had a doubt in my mind,” then it talked about how I take on challenges in life. It cut deep, in a good way and a hard way at the same time.

We started down to Chamonix at 5:30 a.m. The wind was still bitter on the short walk back to the technical section near the Grand Couloir, and the storm had iced the entire cliff face. We moved slowly, picking our steps only on patches where the dirt showed. Every so often my foot hit slick rock and I’d slip, catching myself on the frozen fixed cable. After we got a third of the way down the rock thawed and the descent sped up. A few more hours and we were back in town.

I’ve never done anything that demanding. I wish the wind was calmer and we could’ve pushed on. But I’m proud of the choice we made. The mountain will be there. We chose to be here. And I’ll be back.

MY Mont Blanc Expedition

Justin Radus Cinematography & Media