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Courmayeur Loc. Facebook Instagram. La Loge du Massif. A jewel with a view of Mont Blanc. It is a 'magical' and unique place to experience real culinary ecstasy. The terrace of the Loge du Massif thrills always, under the sun or a roof of stars. La Loge du Massif Courmayeur Loc. X We use cookies on our website to give you the most relevant experience by remembering your preferences and repeat visits. However you may visit Cookie Settings to provide a controlled consent. Read the privacy policy. Accept everything Reject everything Settings of cookie. Manage consent. Close Privacy overview This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these cookies, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may have an effect on your browsing experience. Necessary Necessary. Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously. Cookie Duration Description cookielawinfo-checkbox-advertisement Set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin, this cookie is used to record the user consent for the cookies in the 'Advertisement' category. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category 'Analytics'. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category 'Necessary'. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category 'Other. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category 'Performance'. It does not store any personal data. Functional functional. Functional cookies help to perform certain functionalities like sharing the content of the website on social media platforms, collect feedbacks, and other third-party features. Performance performance. Performance cookies are used to understand and analyze the key performance indexes of the website which helps in delivering a better user experience for the visitors. Analytics analytics. Analytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. These cookies help provide information on metrics the number of visitors, bounce rate, traffic source, etc. The cookie stores information anonymously and assigns a randomly generated number to recognize unique visitors. Advertisement advertisement. Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads. Others others. Other uncategorized cookies are those that are being analyzed and have not been classified into a category as yet. Powered by. The cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category 'Functional'. The cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. YouTube sets this cookie via embedded youtube-videos and registers anonymous statistical data. A cookie set by YouTube to measure bandwidth that determines whether the user gets the new or old player interface. YSC cookie is set by Youtube and is used to track the views of embedded videos on Youtube pages. YouTube sets this cookie to store the video preferences of the user using embedded YouTube video.

Courmayeur Mont Blanc Announces Brand New Alpine Experiences

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Follow friends and authors, share adventures, and get outside. New perk! Get after it with local recommendations just for you. It will romance you with its views and quaintness before it takes out your knees. Could this be the best DNF you ever have? The race, held in a remote cubby hole of the Italian Alps, represented a vacation as much as a chance to test my lungs, legs and heart against miles of punishing climbs and painful descents. With that nudge, I considered whether I could cover roughly the same distance as Boston to New York—if that route climbed over 78, vertical feet. That is more vertical gain than climbing Mount Everest, from sea level, twice. Its trail rims at least 30 mountain lakes. It chaperones runners through 32 scenic alpine municipalities, the Gran Paradiso National Park and altitude fluctuations of an ear-popping 11, feet. The full distance, if I could miraculously run it, would be twice as far as I had ever run in one push. It takes your breath away on first glance, and the second. Glaciers fill its couloirs, and cling impossibly to its steep walls. Only , people live here, a number likely dwarfed by the cows. One visit to the vacation hotspot reveals why: it is physically difficult to live on degree slopes and perhaps mentally difficult to survive its box-canyon isolation. Upon learning of the Tor several months earlier, I half wondered if it was a joke. There are seven of the latter, which provide all the replenishment of a fully stocked grocery store, plus tents for quick naps, showers and drop bags. In the inaugural event, runners seized the opportunity to visit this idyllic enclave. Fifty-four percent of runners finished last year—including Haston. I overhear conversation snippets in German, French, one of the Nordic languages and a throaty tongue I cannot place. A film-crew helicopter hovers above the town square and just ahead, the walkway funnels into a curving, narrow pedestrian alley lined three deep with spectators. And we are off, running at a relaxed pace through a tunnel of noise—shouts and the clanging of cowbells bouncing from stone walls to window shutters. A mile later, we funnel onto an ascending singletrack trail, beginning the first climb of the day, vertical feet to Col Arp. The first climb of any race is filled with excitement, hope and overzealousness. I, on the other hand, try to ease into a steady uphill rhythm. Two thousand feet above the valley floor, at a meadowed precipice from which I could imagine paragliders taking flight, we come upon a six-foot-tall cross, the first of countless others that we will encounter in this heavily Catholic region. Soon, to our right, nearly 50 horses graze, facing the glaciered torso of Mont Blanc. In the early miles, the Sound-of-Music scenery and cobblestone charm of running in the Alps entrance runners into a numb perma-grin and, later, a benevolent stupor. The pitch of the trail increases on the final approach to the col, a distant saddle between two soapy white granite faces. A runner says something in Italian and motions ahead with the tip of his trekking pole. I squint to make out the shapes of people awaiting us at the top. Soon, I hear them: the clang-clanging of a hundred cowbells, summoning us upward. It plays in the promotional videos and reverberates around Courmayeur as runners begin the race. For me, the official anthem is the joyous rhythm of cowbells. At the top of climbs, in valleys and approaching aid stations, their mystical jangle lifts my spirit and, sometimes, my legs. I pause to savor the moment and point my toes downhill, following Dominik Aichinger, an Austrian ultrarunner with whom I was able to exercise some of my rusty German skills during the climb. We crest the Col and absorb the sprawling view. Most Americans who visit the trails of Europe limp home with horror stories of merciless descents. The degree steepness combined with up to feet of vertical loss tells only part of the story. The other part is that Europeans typically take the most direct route down the mountain, even if it makes the footing uncertain or involves cutting switchbacks. Before the race, Haston provided a wry warning about course cutting, saying that nearly every runner does it. Aichinger introduces me to this quirk of European trail running right away. As the trail cuts widely in one direction, he heads straight down to the next switchback, eliminating a tenth of a mile. I follow him for the next two miles two and quarter by actual trail and, as we stop at the Youlaz Aid Station, my quads remind me that I did not train to run such severely pitched downhills—some of which lose vertical feet in one mile. All around, exposed rock and scrubby vegetation give the sense of being over 10, feet, if we were in Colorado. The Tor, however, peaks out above that altitude for fewer than three miles. In Europe, the alpine zone—the area situated above treeline—is only about feet. Here, short grass, small plants and alpine flowers dot the landscape, providing runners an unhindered view of glaciated peaks. I run because I can. The downhills have reduced me to a careful stutter step and the uphills have put sandbags around my ankles. The dimming, cloudy sky tells me that it is some time after 7 p. I marvel at how long it has taken me to cover 31 miles—over nine hours. One volunteer fetches my drop bag while another offers me food. For an American trail runner the aid stations can be a culture shock. On the table beside water bottles sit carafes of red wine and cans of beer. Coke appears to be the rough equivalent of an energy drink; apparently, Hammer Nutrition does not yet have a European office. Runners in the Tor have one drop bag that follows them from one Life Station to the next. In between these stations, the smaller water and food stations are six to 12 kilometers apart. Due to the rugged terrain and time it takes to cover it, runners must carry mandatory gear: spare clothing, water, food, two headlamps, spare batteries, rain shell, cell phone, elastic tape, altimeter, whistle, emergency blanket and a cup. I decide to wait out the storm, and have another helping of pasta. Thirty minutes later, I guzzle a cup of coffee before heading into a steady drizzle. I walk past a church and bell tower barely larger than a typical two-story, single-family home. The tick-tick of my trekking poles lulls me back into solitary race mode. Reflectors line the way up a steep trail toward Col Fenetre, yet another foot climb—the fifth major climb of the day. I feel recharged from the two pasta plates I inhaled. In fact, this is the best I have ever felt heading into the night miles of an ultramarathon, and I experience a rare euphoria. I feel as if I could run forever—or perhaps to the finish line. Far up the mountain, trail markers lead me to the front door of Chalet Epee, a hut with walls of jigsaw-puzzled stone. I pull open the heavy wood door and am greeted like a soldier returning from a tour of duty. Gathered around bottles of wine, non-runners clap. Moments later, I am sipping a delicious shot of high-octane jitter juice in the Italian Alps, still riding a wave of exhilaration. On the opposite side, even the steep descent brings a sly chuckle—this race is not the sufferfest I had imagined. I ride this ecstasy into the night. In the valley, as I near the tiny town of Rhemes-Notre Dame, I glance at the jet-black silhouette of mountain behind me, darker even than the cloudy night sky. I push on over the next climb, Col Entrelor feet , and my quads merely survive the downhill to the town of Eaux Rousse. Predictably, at approximately 4 a. Fatigue hits me like a falling piano. So, I stand and begin a trudge up the next climb. I wish I had memorized the course profile. Had I known what awaited me, I might have rested more in Eaux Rousse. I stagger upward, clawing for the top. The sky lightens enough to reveal several runners approaching from behind. I step off the trail to let them pass. The trail turns a corner and I fully expect to reach the top. Instead, there is a new ridge, two miles and vertical feet ahead. Problem is, the Aosta Valley is waking up and I want nothing more than to lie down. Up ahead, another runner is completely horizontal on a rock. I compromise and sit gazing down on a narrow gulley littered with boulders. Motion catches my eye and I look more closely to notice three ibex, about the size of white-tailed deer, but more rotund. They bow their curved antlers toward me as they resume their scrub-grass breakfasts. An hour later, I reach the Col Loson, and summon my legs for yet another descent. A waterfall leads all the way down to the next valley floor. My feet shuffle onward. I am exhausted and sore. By the time I arrive at the Cogne aid station, 63 miles and 25 hours into the race, I have surpassed my pain threshold. That is, I drop. After my identification bracelet is cut, I retire to a quiet gymnasium, where several other runners play the part of corpses, lying motionless on cots. I am asleep before my eyes close. After a dreamless nap, I join a group of other DNFed runners in a shuttle van headed back to Courmayeur. Few words are spoken; most of us stare blankly out the window. Across an alleyway, in another piazza, the finish line is being set up and the audio system is being tested. Along the way, runners continue the arduous cycle of climbing cols and descending into towns. This boggles my mind: I was spent, and the finish line would have been at least three days away, if I had run a good pace. Volunteers at the next aid station where he was due grew concerned when he did not arrive. They hiked down the trail and found him asleep. After being shaken, he awoke refreshed and stormed on. Like glancing at a car accident, I am morbidly curious to see what a course like this can do to a body. A cobbled street narrows and winds up out of the valley, passing by windowed shrines to the Virgin Mary and farmers tending to slopeside fields. Sheltered public fountains provide a pleasant pause for runners. One runner sits, washing his socks, as I walk past. An elderly woman wears a light blue dress that is tattered at the edges. She walks the town street and holds a shovel spade. As a grand finale, runners must climb vertical feet. With every two strides up on the scree-littered slopes, I slide one step down. Near the top, the terrain steepens. Iron steps and handrails are bolted into the rock. Finally, I crest the Col Malatra through a three-foot wide rock notch and am greeted with a view of Mont Blanc, previously obstructed by a sheer barricade of mountain peaks. Predictably, the subsequent downhill through a meadow and along a snaking creek lasts hours. A rolling trail takes runners across a north-facing slope that overlooks Mont Blanc. Torrents of glacial melt stream from it. From here, the course plunges feet over two miles. Runners limp downhill like hunchbacks—and these are still the front runners. One is escorted by a young girl and, with only one mile to go, he must stop and rest. The girl crouches down, trying to coax him onward. She kisses both his knees before he rises to continue. Gazzola ran away with the race, crossing the finish line draped in a Swiss flag after only 75 hours. The elation was short lived. After discussing the discrepancy with Gazzola, they discovered that he had accidentally cut the course. Still, somebody like Gazzola, who has every reason to sulk, reflected only on the beauty in these Alpine episodes. Some are finishers, others are drops and it is easy to tell the two apart. Finishers hobble along the street, laboring to lift one leg and then the other. They are sunburnt and ghost-eyed. The DNFers display far more energy. At breakfast on Friday morning, I strike up a conversation with an apparent runner. His finishing time of hours 56 minutes put him in 32nd place. Finishing position aside, there exists a chasm between the finishers and DNFers. Taking it in stride, she admitted to riding an emotional roller coaster afterward, hovering between disappointment and relief. In all, runners completed the Tor. More than runners were left to reflect on what they could have done differently to finish.

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