This text is the transcript of the podcast: The Struggle of the Ice.
At the altitude where we camp, it’s -10 degrees at night. The cold radiates through our ground pads. We sustain ourselves on couscous and flour, rehydrated and melted snow. Teams come to replace us or bring supplies. This is neither arable land, nor pasture, nor a place to live—a zone to defend, but not one for permanent autonomy. Here, no land will be reclaimed; the only thing we can do is pass through Briançon a few kilometers away. Those who have crossed the border at the risk of their lives understand this well. But if this shepherd is moved when he looks at the mountain we occupy, a mountain he never brings his sheep to, it’s not only in opposition to the valley’s land grabbing but also because he feels connected to it, just as we are connected by the water that flows and nourishes us.
This wild part of the world is a world with us, whether viewed from below or traversed above. We do not want to artificially transform this place any more than we want to sanctify it. Usage here means passage, and the times demand adjustment. It’s not about defending mountaineering with or without cable cars; the mountain remains a matter for the privileged, nor about its regrettably macho tradition. Note that the majority of our glacier team consists of men, but it’s more about glimpsing an ecofeminist invitation. Here, there’s nothing to extract, conquer, or exploit. The glacier brings us back to our transient nature. It questions our relationship to our surroundings and the words we use to relate to them. On this supposed blank page, the word ‘occupation’ suddenly appears in its colonial dimension. This untakeable expanse reminds us that no land is ever truly ‘up for grabs.’
In the region where I grew up, in the heart of these Alps, which since my childhood have formed a horizon I aim for whenever possible, these Alps have recently become epicenters for two of the major catastrophes of our time: climate change and the plight of migrant populations. People have tried to patch up, to contain all these disasters here, as in the Roya Valley or in the Briançonnais. This area has been targeted by those who see immigrants as a threat, while volunteers provide essential aid to those who have no choice but to venture through the mountains to cross from Italy into France.
Nowadays, some people fight to protect what remains of glaciers threatened by climate change and the voraciousness of developers who want to build ever more, ever higher. This is happening at La Grave, in the Hautes-Alpes, where the local government, the region, and the cable car operating company are pushing to extend the cable car from 3,200 meters to 3,600 meters. This would quicken the demise of the Rose Glacier, endanger a protected endemic plant, and degrade the landscape. Studies show the project is neither financially viable nor appealing from a tourism perspective, ignoring significant issues linked to climate change. Despite this, they charge forward, blinkers firmly in place. Thus, resistance has emerged. The glacier has been occupied, with work postponed until spring—perhaps until the glacier becomes accessible once more. This is the highest ZAD (Zone to Defend) in Europe. Should they need to return, they will do so, even if it means a 2,000-meter climb, to protest once more.
In these Alps, there are people fighting to preserve their environment, hoping to pass on a mountain that hasn’t been completely pillaged. They stand up and, at times, elevate their actions to over 3,000 meters in altitude. There are voices to be heard, listened to, and understood—those who live in the mountains or frequent them, who witness year after year the impacts of climate change and increasingly liberal, predatory policies, and who decide to take action.
This is a story that is becoming clearer to us—a story of the inhabitants of the Alpine valleys, living through the harshness of their territories for centuries, in a poverty-stricken environment, where hardship was often the only horizon. Then, in the last century, a sudden breakthrough in the form of democratized ski vacations brought increasing numbers to these villages, transforming them into resorts. Everyone wanted a piece of this lucrative economy, and indeed, some prospered. But there was never an accounting of the ecological cost of such development.
What might have been acceptable half a century ago has become far more complex today, as human activity has profoundly disrupted the ecosystems shaped to its will. Throughout the Alps and beyond, resorts are multiplying, buildings are proliferating, and cable cars transport skiers ever higher and further. Names like Tignes and Val d’Isère have become successful resort models, where middle-class families of the ’70s and ’80s would spend a week at Christmas or in February. Other places, like La Grave, awaited success that eluded them for a long time.
Nils Martin, from the association “La Grave Autrement,” fights against the extension of the cable car in his village. I met him, and he shared with me the conflicted history of the resort.
What you need to understand is that the La Grave area largely escaped the grand ski developments of the ‘Plan Neige.’ It wasn’t because people here were especially environmentally conscious or more ecological; they had big station projects, just like everywhere else, but they didn’t materialize due to lack of funding or coordination. There are other projects in the Alps like this that also never happened. The small station at Chazelet, for instance, was the first ski development here before the cable car. It opened in 1964 with two drag lifts and a small chairlift. So, in 1964, they opened this small station, and in its very first season, there was no snow. This led to chronic deficits for this little station, despite being popular among locals and a great place for kids to learn skiing. With a lift ticket costing only €18, it’s hard to beat. Later, the cable car was introduced, driven by a mayor named Ernest Juge, who served four terms and was eager to develop the area. He had a vision of creating something similar to Chamonix, with a grand Alpine cable car.
The opportunity arose in 1973 with the creation of the Parc des Écrins, France’s third national park, following La Vanoise and the Pyrénées. This brought some tensions because creating national parks involved transferring local lands to state management, which some communities perceived as a form of land-grabbing. But Juge was strategic—he negotiated a deal allowing the park’s establishment in exchange for the cable car project. Interestingly, if you look at a detailed map, the park boundary precisely follows the cable car line.
However, just because the cable car was built didn’t mean it was successful. In fact, its first decade of operation was a disaster. It was designed as a summer attraction, taking people up to enjoy the view, but it didn’t attract enough visitors and operated at a loss. In 1987, operations halted, and locals criticized it for being too slow and poorly designed. This feedback reached the engineer who had designed it, Denis Creissels, who then decided to take matters into his own hands. He established a company to run the cable car, received a public service concession from the village for one franc, and threw himself into this uncertain venture. Creissels’ vision was to make the most of summer skiing, even in off-seasons. He installed a small ski lift on the glacier, reaching from 3,200 to 3,600 meters. Around this time, in the late ‘80s, snowboarding was emerging, bringing with it the allure of powder skiing. La Grave, without being designed as a winter resort, gradually became a popular freeride domain, and by the early 2000s, winter revenue surpassed summer revenue. Winter tourism effectively saved the cable car, drawing more mountain guides and establishing La Grave as a unique freeride destination.
In 2017, as the cable car operator’s contract was renewed, the village proposed a third cable car section, aiming to extend the station’s reach to 3,600 meters. However, the operator took over the nearby, much larger Deux Alpes station, facilitating the creation of a mega-station with this extension. In response, the “La Grave Autrement” collective formed just before the 2022 municipal elections, aiming to influence candidates’ positions. Nils Martin and his colleagues were determined not to let their small village turn into a massive resort like many others in the Alps.
We took on the community’s role, requesting a moratorium, but it was denied. So we decided to commission a study ourselves, just as a local government would. We contracted specialists to determine if the project was economically and touristically viable. Organizing this was complex; we had to find the right consultants, interest them in the project, establish specifications, and, of course, fund it. The study cost €48,000—not an enormous amount, but not trivial either. We mobilized partners, launched a crowdfunding campaign, and ultimately raised the funds.
The study yielded interesting findings. Economically, it revealed that the project was highly fragile, built on overly optimistic assumptions regarding revenue and expected economic impact. Additionally, the study concluded that raising the station to 3,600 meters held little tourist appeal.
In parallel, legal actions were launched. One appeal targeted the construction permit, with a decision still pending. Another appeal involved a protected species growing on the rocky outcrop designated as the site for the cable car pylons.
The Androsace du Dauphiné.
One day, in a collective meeting, someone remarked, “It’s silly—if we could just find a protected species up there, the project could be stopped.” Projects have been halted for highway construction due to protected species before. Some collective members decided to go up and photograph every plant species they could find on the site. They sent the photos to an ecologist from the Parc des Écrins, who identified one as a nationally protected species.
This species had not been noted in the project’s environmental impact study, which was therefore incomplete or inaccurate. Consequently, we formally requested the Hautes-Alpes prefect to instruct the Société d’Aménagement Touristique des Alpes (SATA) to apply for a derogation to destroy a protected species. The prefect, however, ignored the request, and we continue to dispute his inaction.
The case gained significant media coverage, partly because activists from the group “Soulèvements de la Terre” occupied the Girose Glacier for several days. I spoke with one of the activists, who recounted the events.
Everything happened very quickly. Neither “La Grave Autrement” nor “Wilderness” expected construction to begin in the fall; they thought it might start in the spring, if at all, as some appeals were still in progress. Suddenly, work began. We had known the group “Soulèvements de la Terre” for a while, so we decided to mobilize a team to go up and block the work. We formed a small group, calling on people experienced in mountain terrain and glacier hiking. Apart from a few journalists unfamiliar with such conditions, everyone else knew the mountain and altitude well, which was essential.
Everyone received a checklist of required equipment and a set meeting point for departure. We climbed on Saturday after noon, set up camp, and joined a larger gathering organized by “La Grave Autrement” on the plateau opposite the glacier the next day. About 200 supporters came to show solidarity, though they were too far away for us to see. While we didn’t need to forage since we had dehydrated couscous, peanuts, and other provisions, life at camp was still a bit slow and labor-intensive due to the altitude.
We spent time melting snow to have water, digging to better set up our communal tent, and adjusting other parts of the camp. Some people explored the surroundings, and we had to answer a lot of calls from journalists. Altitude slows everything down, so our days passed differently. There was a lot of discussion; we tried to create our own content, taking videos, photos, and writing texts. Meanwhile, supporters at the base worked on communication efforts.
There’s a sense of absurdity in how the mountain is used: on one side, the police enforce borders at Briançon, making the mountain deadly for migrants. On the other, developers push to exploit the mountain for profit, even as snow becomes scarce. In both cases, there’s a denial of the mountain’s richness, beyond what money or borders can define. The mountain has much more to offer than a cable car or border control.
This glacier, like many others, is doomed to disappear—perhaps by 2080, maybe sooner. The question is, in what final years will it endure, and will it be allowed a dignified retreat, or will it continue to be carved up for short-lived tourism? This prompts a larger question that the coming years will partially answer: how will our species mourn the parts of the environment that are vanishing?
We unfurled a glittering banner that read: “We are the glaciers defending themselves.” This phrase encapsulates the spirit of this occupation, both concrete and poetic. It’s concrete because our presence physically blocked further development, delaying the arrival of bulldozers and snow groomers that would speed up the glacier’s melting. It’s poetic because, sadly, there is little we can do to stop it. We can only turn its demise into an invitation to envision other worlds.
Over the years, glaciers have shrunk, retreating higher into the mountains. Scientists predict the Girose Glacier will be gone within 30 years. The tragic end of glaciers is not just a passing story for the evening news. Glaciers are part of the world we are losing. Their layers of ice hold our history. Their meltwater sustains rivers through summer, feeding our valleys. Their compacted snow holds back the mountains.
But glaciers are not our victims; they are forces we must learn to let go of. They are the water we will miss, the history we are losing, yet also the future—new ecosystems emerging as they melt.
This glacier, like so many others, is on a path to extinction, possibly as soon as 2080, perhaps even earlier. The question is, what final years will it have left, what kind of retreat will it experience? Will it be left undisturbed, or will it be further carved, groomed, and molded to serve a fleeting purpose for a few more skiers while it still endures? This raises a broader question—one that the coming years will likely begin to answer: how will humanity mourn the parts of the environment that are disappearing, the parts of nature that, once integral to our world, are now slipping away?
We raised a glittering banner that read, “We are the glaciers defending themselves.” This phrase, like the occupation itself, was both concrete and poetic. Concrete, because our presence this week has physically obstructed yet another development project, delaying the bulldozers and heavy equipment that would accelerate the glacier’s melting. Poetic, because, unfortunately, it is too late to prevent this. All we can do now is try to transform its end into a prompt for imagining new worlds.
Over the years, glaciers have withdrawn, shrinking higher up into the peaks. Scientists project that the Girose Glacier will vanish within 30 years. The glaciers’ tragic disappearance is not just a distant, impersonal story for the news. They are worlds we are losing. Within their layers of ice lies the record of our shared history. Their meltwater keeps rivers flowing during dry summer months, nourishing our valleys. Their massive frozen weight holds the mountains steady.
Yet glaciers are not merely our victims. They are powerful entities we will have to let go of. They are the water we will miss, the history we are losing, but also the future—the new ecological landscapes that are emerging as they retreat.
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