Peaks of Panic: Facing My Fears in the French Alps

The east face of Mont Charvin, photographed at an elevation of 1,580 meters.

This is our second autumn in the French Alps, and we’ve settled in Ugine, a charming town located next to Albertville, just an hour's drive north of Modane, where we spent last October. We are still enjoying the beauty of the Savoie region.

The mountains hold a unique, majestic allure all their own. Nature here is breathtakingly beautiful, endlessly varied, and at its peak, nothing short of spectacular. The air is crisp, with mysterious fogs drifting through regularly, and clouds playfully swirling around the mountains in mesmerizing patterns. Yet life in the mountains is not without its challenges; I can only imagine the winter hardships faced by those who live here year-round. Exploring here is rarely as simple as it looks on a map. An enticing spot that appears to be nearby often turns out to be a good 40-minute drive away. It takes time to get a sense of the topography and how it shapes movement in any direction. The roads are narrow, winding, and sometimes in less-than-ideal condition.

As soon as we arrived, we picked up a trail map and began hiking through the surrounding areas. One mountain, in particular, has drawn us in - the majestic Mont Charvin, our closest peak. Part of the Aravis range, its summit stands at 2,409 meters, distinctive from the south side and remarkably photogenic. This mountain is so iconic here that it even has a pastry named after it, and, in true French fashion, we’ve indulged in quite a few already.

Mont Charvin, south face.

My fear of heights, though, holds me back from reaching Mont Charvin’s summit, despite my efforts to push past it. Our most recent attempt was just last Sunday—we climbed as high as I could manage, reaching a modest 1,900 meters. But from there, the trail grew so narrow that I had no choice but to turn back. I felt deeply disappointed in myself. We’ve been higher before, but what I can handle isn’t as much about altitude as it is the type of trail. When the slope hits a certain steepness, when the path is muddy and slippery, or so dry it’s sandy, or when I find myself on a narrow ridge with steep drops on either side - that’s when I run into trouble. Over the past month and a half, I’ve gradually tackled tougher trails, and it’s a shame to stop just as I was starting to make real progress.

What I love most about the mountains is their photogenic quality, especially on days when fast-moving clouds wrap around the peaks, rising and falling along the slopes. I’ve been taking plenty of photos here as well. The mountains are also appealing because climbing them offers fantastic exercise out in nature. Plus, mapping out trails and then exploring them in person is fun and full of surprises – trails always look much easier on the map, ha!. With so many wonderful aspects to exploring the mountains, it’s incredibly frustrating to have this fear holding me back – from the summits, I’d capture the breathtaking views I crave in photos. But I have to accept my limits and keep pushing myself, little by little.

In September, I hiked quite a bit on my own, as Kimmo was in Finland for a few weeks. Those solo hikes were especially exciting, with the rainy and cold season making the trails slick and challenging. On one hike, my phone’s battery suddenly died – it had taken a series of pocket photos without my realizing. By then, I’d already covered about ten kilometers, and an unfamiliar trail lay ahead, which I’d prepared for by saving screenshots of the route on my phone. This trail, located in the Parc naturel régional du massif des Bauges, was outside the range of our map, so I had no backup with me.

I hadn’t seen a single person on the trail; the weather was that poor. I was genuinely concerned – one wrong step or a twisted ankle, and I’d be in real trouble, likely hypothermic without a way to call for help. As I climbed, thinking of all this while surrounded by thick fog, I reached the most stunning point of my route, a narrow ridge that marked the start of a descent. And there, like a blessing, two men appeared out of the fog along the ridge. One of them, Antoine, spoke excellent English and kindly lent me his power bank so I could stay on track or call for help if needed. I was beyond grateful.

We parted ways; they continued along the ridge toward a nearby peak, and I headed down a steep slope. Then, suddenly, the fog lifted, revealing the view ahead and the fact that the narrow, muddy trail curved around a steep slope, passing an overhang that would be especially challenging for me – if not mentally impossible.

In these moments, I try to reason with myself. I tell myself that if I can physically handle it, I should be able to manage it mentally too. But the truth is, I don’t fully trust my physical strength – a panic attack can drain every ounce of strength from my legs, turn my vision into a tunnel, and rob me of my breath. So, I fear having a full-blown panic attack, which has happened once before in the mountains of Poland. My fear of heights is mild, though; there are plenty of high places where I’m perfectly fine, and if my tolerance were zero, I doubt I’d be so drawn to the mountains.

But here, I don’t want to push my limits, freezing and on a narrow, slippery trail in icy rain. I turn back, even though it means a challenging ten-kilometer hike back the way I came, rather than the six kilometers that would have been left on the other path. A familiar trail feels safer than the unknown, especially when you’re wet and cold. So, I began retracing my steps. It had been drizzling all day, and now it was pouring. The trail down the steep hill became a slick mudslide, and I had to sit at times to control my descent; otherwise, it would have been dangerously fast. When I reached a nearby refuge, it started hailing, so I took shelter under the roof with a goat, which also seemed rather disturbed by the relentless hail.

When the hail returned to regular rain, I continued on. To stay warm, I ran whenever I could. Toward the end, I was finally able to switch from muddy trails to the road, which felt wonderful – I could properly warm up now that my running wasn’t interrupted. When I finally reached the car, I was relieved. I stripped off the soaked outerwear, started the car, and turned the seat heater to full. I was completely spent; this was, without a doubt, the most mentally challenging hike I’ve ever done.

We've had some amazing hikes here, and I've reached several summits. Still, when setting out, I never know if there will be a point where I'll have to stop and turn back before reaching the top. On Mont Charvin, I've managed to push myself further each time, and if I were from a mountainous place like Ugine, I'd probably reach the top easily. But Finland is very flat, and even the biggest fells there are more like gentle hills, with smooth, rounded slopes.

This is the highest point I reached on Mont Chavin, this is the view such that the summit is left behind.

Unfortunately we’re leaving here soon. But tomorrow, we’re driving to Chamonix to hike in the Mont Blanc area for our final week here in the Alps. On the same trip, I’ll return the power bank to Antoine, to whom I’m still incredibly grateful. And next time, I’ll make sure to get my own power bank from Fnac; I don’t want to be that close to potential trouble again.