Mark Twight click to zoom © James Martin

Snow blows like smoke straight up past the windows of the café atop the Aiguille du Midi. I rode here on the world's most impressive cable car, climbing from about 4,000 feet to almost 13,000 in a few minutes, the equivalent of three El Capitans stacked. Now, I sit sipping tea, dizzy and groggy. Just leaning back in my chair constitutes exercise. I feel like a dog whose collar is too tight.

					"I feel like a dog whose collar is too tight..."

I'm here to photograph illustrations for a book on extreme climbing with Mark Twight and Nancy Feagin working as models. Each day we soar to the top of the Midi and then rappel down a cliff or ice face to shoot examples of proper climbing technique. Both Mark and Nancy are among the world's elite climbers so I have an unparalleled opportunity to obtain great climbing images without the effort of climbing myself. The clouds thin and disappear, revealing one of the world's grand mountain landscapes. The three mile high hulk of Mt. Blanc glistens brightly while the sharp dark forms of the Grand Jorasses, the Dru, and numerous aiguilles command my attention. Far to the east, the Matterhorn's distinctive shape peers over the local peaks.

At the end of the day we descend to town for dinner. Most places serve a version of Salade Chevre Chaud, a hot goat cheese salad we find hard to resist. We devoted one night to dining at the National, one of the stomping grounds, literally, of British climbers from the Golden Age, such as Whillans, Bonnington, and the rest, a group not known for sobriety and rectitude. Now, the National has metamorphosed into a genteel bistro so we behaved ourselves. The local hot shots tempted us into a French Tex-Mex establishment, which earned the accolade, "not as bad as you might think." The following evening found us foraging on salad again.

One day Mark and Nancy took off to climb a route beyond my ability. I spent the day sipping espresso, nibbling on celestial ham and cheese sandwiches, and absorbing the ambiance. Clusters of parapents soared between the peaks. Down in town the air felt almost syrupy. No sore feet, blasted knees, mosquitoes, or camp food on my day off. I resolved to practice this novel form of alpinism whenever possible from now on. Now I know why the French have so much joie in their vivre.