The air was crisp as I tightened the straps of my backpack and took my first steps into the vastness of the Valloire region of the French Alps. Late August in these mountains had always held an allure for me—the last days of summer yielding to the cool grip of autumn, the weather unpredictable but the rewards, for those willing to take the risk, immense. For three days, I’d be hiking alone through this spectacular alpine wilderness, passing over the famous Col du Télégraphe and the towering Col du Galibier, before retreating into the stillness of night under the stars, wild camping on the mountainside. The solitude was both comforting and invigorating.
Day 1: Climbing the Col du Télégraphe
The first day of my hike began with the ascent to the Col du Télégraphe. My backpack was heavy with gear—tent, stove, and food for three days. Knowing that the temperatures would drop significantly at night, I’d packed my three-season sleeping bag and was layered in merino wool from the start. I knew I’d be grateful for it later, but for now, the exertion of climbing kept me warm enough.
The trail leading to the Col du Télégraphe is steep but well-trodden, with the path weaving through dense pine forests. Every so often, the trees would open up to offer breathtaking views of the surrounding valleys, dotted with quaint villages. The further I climbed, the more the forests began to thin, replaced by alpine meadows splashed with the late bloom of wildflowers. I passed only a handful of people on the way up—mostly locals out for a shorter hike or cyclists testing their stamina on the iconic climbs of the region.
By the time I reached the summit of the Col du Télégraphe, I could feel the altitude. The air was cool, and I stopped to drink in the view. From up here, the village of Valloire looked tiny, nestled in the valley far below. I paused, letting the quiet of the mountains sink in.
The evening was approaching, and I needed to find a spot to camp before nightfall. I continued along the ridge for another hour, finally settling on a relatively flat patch of ground close to the peak. I pitched my tent and layered up for the night. The temperature was already dropping, and I knew it would only get colder. The combination of my merino wool base layers and sleeping bag provided enough warmth to stay comfortable, but I could feel the bite of the cold seeping in.
Night 1: Camping at Altitude
That first night was a trial by fire—or rather, by ice. The thermometer dipped down to -7°C, colder than I had anticipated for early September. I crawled into my sleeping bag early, cocooning myself against the freezing air. The merino wool layers I wore were a lifesaver. Not only did they keep me warm, but their moisture-wicking properties ensured I stayed dry—a crucial factor in these conditions.
I’d made myself a simple dinner—pasta cooked on my small camping stove—and sat outside my tent, watching the sky fade from deep blue to inky black. The stars seemed closer than usual, their brilliance undiluted by any artificial light. There’s a particular kind of clarity that comes from being alone in nature, especially in such a stark, unforgiving environment. Every sound seemed amplified: the soft rustle of the wind through the grass, the occasional shifting of rocks in the distance. It was a reminder of how small I was in the grand scheme of things, but also how liberating that could be.
Day 2: The Col du Galibier
I woke early on the second day, stiff from the cold but eager to move. After a quick breakfast and packing up camp, I set out toward the Col du Galibier. This was the part of the hike I had been most looking forward to—the Galibier is one of the highest mountain passes in the Alps and has a storied history in cycling and hiking lore.
The ascent was long and grueling, with rocky switchbacks leading me higher and higher. The air grew thinner with each step, and my legs burned from the effort, but the scenery more than compensated. Jagged peaks surrounded me, their tops dusted with snow even in late summer. Glacial streams cut through the landscape, their icy blue waters a striking contrast to the stark grey of the rocks.
As I neared the top, the wind picked up, howling across the exposed ridge. It was colder than the previous day, and I was grateful again for the warmth of my merino wool base layers. Layering is key in these environments; the ability to quickly add or remove clothing depending on the conditions was essential for staying comfortable.
Reaching the summit of the Col du Galibier felt like an accomplishment. The view from up there is always incredible. Mountains stretch out in every direction, a seemingly endless expanse of peaks and valleys. There was a stillness, an almost eerie quiet, broken only by the wind and the occasional call of a bird overhead. I stood there for a long time, simply taking it all in, before beginning my descent to find a campsite for the night.
Night 2: The Cold Bites
The second night was colder than the first, and even though I was better prepared, it was still a challenge. After setting up camp on a flat outcrop overlooking the valley below, I spent some time boiling water for tea, using the warmth from the stove to thaw my fingers. I knew it was going to be another frigid night, so I layered up even more—adding an extra pair of merino wool socks and pulling the drawstring of my sleeping bag tight around my face.
Once again, the stars were out in full force, and despite the cold, I felt a deep sense of peace. There’s something about being alone in such a remote place that forces you to confront yourself. There’s no one else to rely on, no distractions to pull you away from your thoughts. It’s just you, the mountains, and the vast sky above.
Day 3: A Taste of Savoie Culture
The final day of my hike took me back down into the valley, where the warmth of the sun felt like a blessing after two nights in freezing conditions. My legs were tired, but I felt strong, as if the mountains had stripped away all the unnecessary weight I had been carrying—not just in my pack, but in my mind as well.
As I descended into the village, I stopped at a small, family-run restaurant I had heard about from a fellow hiker. It was a charming place, nestled between traditional stone houses, with the aroma of cooking wafting out into the street. I was starving, having subsisted on trail food for the past few days, and the thought of a hot meal made my stomach growl.
The restaurant specialised in Savoie cuisine, and I ordered a hearty plate of tartiflette—a traditional dish made with potatoes, reblochon cheese, lardons, and onions. It was the perfect comfort food after three days in the wilderness. The family who ran the restaurant was warm and welcoming, and as I sat there enjoying my meal, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. There’s something about simple, local food that speaks to the soul, especially after days of self-reliance in the mountains.
The Healing Power of Solitude
As I made my way back to the trailhead, I reflected on the past three days. Hiking alone through the Alps had been a challenging, sometimes grueling experience, but also one of profound beauty and peace. There’s something incredibly restorative about spending time alone in nature, removed from the noise and chaos of daily life. The mountains have a way of stripping everything back to its essentials, forcing you to focus on the present moment.
The solitude gave me space to think, to process, and ultimately, to heal. There’s a reason so many people turn to the wilderness when they’re searching for clarity—it’s as if the vastness of nature puts everything into perspective. My body was tired, but my spirit felt lighter, freer, as if the weight of everyday concerns had melted away somewhere along the trail.
The cold nights, the breathtaking views, the simple meals cooked on a tiny stove, and the warmth of local hospitality at the end of it all—it was a journey that reminded me of the power of simplicity and the beauty of being alone with one’s thoughts. As I left the mountains behind, I knew this experience would stay with me for a long time, a reminder of the peace that can be found in the wild, and within myself.
