Tour de Mont Blanc: Rivers and Rocks

On the Tour de Mont Blanc, you were never far from some sort of river. There were streams you could leap over, deep gorges you had to cross via suspension bridges, sightings of waterfalls as you rounded corners and glimpses of icy blues and glassy greens through tree branches. Each day we crossed water at multiple points. These crossing were aided by bridges of all sorts--skinny bridges held by swaying ropes, ancient bridges of cobbled rock, wooden bridges recently painted and makeshift bridges composed of single boards balanced (sometimes precariously) over raised rocks. At times the river water was brilliant blue; other times it was milky green. When the water ran fast, it was frothy white; and at slower points, it was steely grey or muddied brown. The rivers crossed countries. They zigzagged and meandered; gushed and pooled. Sometimes the trail hugged the tour's rivers. Other times the trail furled away from them. But never for long. Each day, again and again, your travels were punctuated with that sound of water over rock (rushing, trickling, flowing, lapping).

Rocks were another constant. They rose up on either side of you, forming hillsides and distant mountains. They were underfoot--as small bits of gravel ground into dirt by the summer's hikers or smooth slabs of rock deposited during the Roman empire. Their colors were varied--bright orange, deep blue, liquid silver, nearly black, white with flecks of gray and gray with stripes of white. Rocks were assembled into teetering cairns, sturdy huts,  piled offerings to lost hikers, protective walls for windy summits and other, more frivolous arrangements. They made sounds--crunching, falling, jostling, echoing. Some were so large they took your breath away, while others were small enough to be examined in the palm of your hand. They were jagged and craggy; they were polished and smooth. They resembled things: stern faces, whimsical animals, little hearts or broken glass. There was no way to see them all but that didn't stop you from trying. 

This is my (small) tribute to the many rivers and innumerable rocks of the Tour de Mont Blanc:

They're forever changing; they've been around forever.