Growing up On the Move

From the day I was born until the year I finally grew out of family holidays, I spent every vacation on the road, from crag to crag, in my parents’ van.

The first photo is from one of our adventures along the coast of Brittany. We were about to board a ferry to the island of Ouessant. It’s one of the most vivid memories I have. I love traveling by boat, and I love the austere beauty where Celtic scenery meets the sea. I also had the best crepes of my life there. And then, on the way back to land, we were caught in a terrible tempest. For the first time, I contemplated the mortality of my dad, there he was, puking everywhere, clinging to a pole at the center of the boat, a weakness I fortunately inherited nothing of.

Scotland with my little head and bikes

Both my parents were teachers, which meant they had a combined sixteen weeks of vacation per year. With very little money, my sister, my parents, and I spent most of that time on the roads of Europe, from one adventure to the next. My mom and dad are both accomplished alpinists; in fact, that’s how they met. In the 1970s and 80s, climbing was still relatively new, something for people seeking freedom, a bit hippie at heart. My parents were exactly like that. My mom once even ran a mountain hut for a season. We did just about every mountain sport imaginable: Alpine, Nordic, and touring ski; indoor and outdoor climbing, via ferrata, and ice climbing; hiking and mountain biking, plus a bit of alpinism. We traveled France and all of Europe in the van to get to some mountains. For most of those years, the van was a Ford Traffic that my dad had renovated himself. We were never really home.

They still live like that today.

Norway with mom, we would go to the museum to be warm

We’d sleep in the van parked out in nature and spend our days at the crag or hiking somewhere. I actually took my first steps inside a museum in Norway. My parents were heading to the Lofoten, from France no less, driving through Belgium, the Netherlands, and Denmark, taking the van on a ferry to Sweden, and then onward to Norway. Needless to say, Norway’s fjords are spectacular. The weather, the mist, the feeling of freedom: it remains unmatched in my heart. And I’m not just talking about the impressionable mind of a toddler. We did that same trip again about fourteen years later, Norway feels special.

Norway a second time with a more modern van

My grandfather had lent us some fishing equipment, because the fjords are full of fish. We knew absolutely nothing about fishing, but my grandfather had fished a lot. It was an honor to be entrusted with such family heirlooms! And we did fish, and with great difficulty. But as they say, it’s the journey that counts. Sitting beside my dad in those deep, black waters, with not a soul in sight, was something I still think about often. To give you a sense of it, we did manage to catch a few fish, notably one at the Saltstraumen. French tourists who were there took pity on us and gave us a few more. It’s a famously easy spot, with a strong current that brings in plenty of fish. I admire the sheer force of those currents. I’m also terrified of water.

Venice

My dad, the alpinish always traveling with his equipement, brought us beyond the Arctic Circle to the Galdhøpiggen, the highest peak in Norway. Picture a chain of four people linked by a rope: my dad at the front, my mom at the back, and my sister and me in the middle. It was honestly surprisingly straightforward (humble brag). I remember the little hut at the summit. What struck me most was the absolute harshness of the climate. There was not a single living thing in sight, just rock and ice as far as the eye could see. That moment is burned into my memory because, on the way down, my sister slipped waist-deep and began being swallowed by a crevasse in the glacier. My dad reacted instantly, pulling hard on the rope and hauling her back to safety.

A classic French breakfast: bread, Nutella and Ricoré

We also climbed the Ben Nevis in Scotland, I think. I remember being swarmed by midges while washing dishes with my sister. We visited the Loch Ness and saw the Highland castles. I’ve always had a strange fascination with the Highlander movie. It’s not deep, but I was at the time fascinated by the trench coat and white sneakers, summum of the cool (yes yes). Either way, seeing those castles in person was awesome.

Because my parents parked the van wherever it suited them, we sometimes encountered people from every walk of life. On that Scottish trip, we’d parked in a farmer’s field. A local came over to talk. None of us spoke English at the time, much less Scottish, but they shared a whisky and we all laughed together without understanding a word. I was maybe ten. I still remember his clothes, his stature.

Daily moments of the van

Speaking of danger, one of our favorite spots was the Gorges du Gardon in southern France. We’d rent canoes and paddle down the river. It was genuinely dangerous, because the water could swell and turn violent at any time. My parents obviously never took us during those periods, but fallen trees frequently blocked the route anyway. One day, we hit a submerged trunk and capsized. We ended up stranded in the middle of the rapids, me holding my sister in my arms. We got lucky. Some firefighters were training nearby and came to our rescue, helping us salvage the boats. But the Gardon had much more to offer than a river, it had giant cliffs, too. Almost like a ritual, every time we went we’d rappel down the most terrifying route we could find. This particular one was a massive overhanging cliff, and you went straight down through a hole to the bottom with nowhere to place your feet. Absolutely terrifying when you’re eight years old, but it builds character I guess.

Greece and their necropolises

Our last big family trip was in the United States, from Arizona and the Grand Canyon up to Yellowstone. We rented a 4x4 and slept in tents from one campground to the next, mostly in state and national parks. The only time we ever booked a hotel was a Motel 6 in Las Vegas, and I loved it after sleeping in the desert for so long. We never went into cities. My parents didn’t like them, and we weren’t staying in hotels anyway. I only remember three cities: Oslo, Las Vegas and Venice.

There was also other instances of mortality where my dad fell sick and got evacuated by plane. My mom had to drive the van for very long hours and across the sea with two young kids out of Corsica (an Island!). In this occasion, I got one of my first miniature model of a fighter jet, to entertain me while we were waiting for the hospital results, leading me down a terrible path of playing Warhammer and painting plastic bits for the rest of my life.

Dolomites (Italia)

If you’ve noticed, photos of my parents’ van appears alongside another van. That’s because my parents’ best friend shared their lifestyle. We spent a great many of those adventures together, in convoys of vans: in Greece, in Italy, and all over France. Sadly, Rémi, the father, passed away not long ago. He was bigger than life. His children, Leo and Lise Billon, are both accomplished alpinists in their own right. I met Lise recently in Joshua Tree, after nearly fifteen years without seeing her, and it was such a beautiful moment, talking with an old friend, sharing so much history, a unique understanding of how we become who we are.

Lise and her mate, camping under the stars of Joshua Tree

I feel a deep nostalgia thinking about those moments. There were so many adventures, and I didn’t always appreciate them as much as I should have. That’s not entirely fair to my younger self, but as adults we tend to look back on the past with a harsher eye than we ought. I was becoming an adolescent, and being on the road so much, I had no time for friends. No time for video games either. We went months with nothing but the radio as an electronic device (hard to explain the excitement when we got a cd player). It was hard to live that way, and I became almost allergic to climbing. I’d refuse to go, moaning at the bottom of every cliff. My parents made no concessions. Their lifestyle was deeply who they were. I craved normality. I just wanted to do what my friends did, to live a more conformist life. My parents were clearly special people. They are still somewhat uncomfortable in a sedentary life, and I’m only now beginning to understand that. Most of my youth was spent reading whatever my mom had packed, and that’s how I survived the boredom. I only reconnected with climbing by accident, and that wasn’t until after I turned thirty.

Greece, me and sister

I was sometimes mocked or bullied, particularly by the senior at the tennis club (I would destroy them later on), because we were perceived as poor. And it was partly true. Without relentless frugality, we couldn’t have traveled the world the way we did. But the richness of those experiences, the values of doing a lot with very little, of embracing nature and beauty, of respecting time and allowing yourself to be bored and contemplative, that is an anchor in my life.

It grounds me when I lose my way.

My mom sent me these photos after I asked her to dig up some of the “camping-car” shots. My dad wasn’t happy with the quality, but I think it gives the article its charm.

1992, 4 years old