The Day We Finally Conquered Mont Ventoux (Without Lycra or Oxygen Tanks)

Mt. Ventoux.

Every morning, here in the Luberon Valley, I stare out of my bedroom window at Mont Ventoux’s radio tower looking back at me from 1910 meters above sea level. It gleams white against the horizon—sometimes snow, sometimes chalky rock pretending to be snow—mocking me like an enormous geological dare. I’ve tried countless times to reach the summit. And every time, Mont Ventoux has replied with a firm, unwavering non. Sheep blockades, sudden cycling races, and weather that would make Noah reconsider his ark. You name it, I’ve been thwarted by it.

But this morning, armed with optimism, caffeine, and my Leica SL3-S, my wife and I left the house at 6:30 a.m. And to my astonishment—we made it. Photographers are obsessed with light, and with good reason. At the summit, the morning light was crisp and golden, spilling across the stone landscape like it had been commissioned by Leica’s marketing department. The SL3-S was in its element. The 24–90mm captured the weathered detail of the summit buildings; the 90–280mm compressed the Alps into painterly layers of misty blue. This is the sort of moment when you forgive Leica for producing lenses heavy enough to double as free weights. Of course, it was also bitterly cold. We, being valley-dwellers accustomed to mild breezes and lavender fields, had dressed as if we were popping out for croissants. The summit wind laughed at us.

No discussion of Mont Ventoux would be complete without mentioning its infamous role in the Tour de France. For cyclists, this mountain is less a climb and more a rite of passage, an initiation ceremony involving sweat, suffering, and probably some swearing in multiple languages. The road to the summit has broken champions and made legends. Winning the Mont Ventoux stage is considered one of the greatest achievements in professional cycling, largely because the climb is both brutal and deceptive. The gradient is relentless, the wind merciless, and the bare limestone summit offers no shade, no respite, and certainly no sympathy.

One of the most storied—and tragic—moments came in 1967 when British cyclist Tom Simpson collapsed and died on the climb, forever cementing Ventoux’s reputation as a cruel but iconic stage. Since then, countless riders have suffered on its slopes, faces twisted in agony, legs spinning like rusty washing machines, while spectators cheer them on with the casual enthusiasm of people who don’t have to pedal uphill for hours. Watching them, you realize that driving to the summit with a Leica in the passenger seat is far, far preferable.

From my bedroom, Mont Ventoux looks deceptively close. In reality, it’s a 75-minute drive, three near-misses with cyclists, and at least one argument with the satnav. Still, the reward was a rare privilege: the summit to ourselves. Well—almost. Several paragliders were tracing lazy arcs around the peak, reminding us that some people prefer to conquer Ventoux while dangling from a nylon sheet.

On the way down, the mountain resumed its usual role as host to farmyard animals. Donkeys watched us with the long-suffering gaze of unpaid tour guides, while sheep ignored us completely. We stopped at a small chalet just below the summit for the real reward: coffee and pain au chocolat. I swear no pastry has ever been so flaky, no coffee so restorative. Altitude, hunger, and near-frostbite may have played their parts, but I’ll maintain that it was perfection.

Our final stop was Sault, a village at a much kinder altitude. It is famous for lavender fields (not in bloom in late August, sadly) and its proximity to a French Foreign Legion base. As luck would have it, we stumbled upon a Legion parade at the war memorial. Dressed in immaculate uniforms with their brilliant white kepis, the soldiers marched with such precision that even my camera remained respectfully silent in its bag. Sometimes the best photograph is the one you don’t take. Afterward, we did what the French do best: sat in the sunshine and ate jambon-beurre sandwiches. The warm bread, salty ham, and gentle sunlight felt worlds away from the icy gusts at the summit.

Driving home, Mont Ventoux once again shimmered on the horizon—looking deceptively close, as always. But today it felt less like a taunt and more like an old acquaintance. The camera delivered exactly what I’d hoped for: files rich with detail, dynamic range to handle both shadow and glare, and images that will outlast the frostbite in my ears.

Perhaps the real victory wasn’t reaching the summit. It was coming back down with stories, photographs, and just enough sarcasm to fill another blog post.

Practical Tips for Photographers Visiting Mont Ventoux

• Best time for photography: Early morning for golden light; late afternoon for dramatic shadows.

• Gear to bring: A versatile zoom (24–90mm) for summit details, and a telephoto (90–280mm) for distant compression shots. A tripod is optional; the wind may make it impractical.

• Clothing warning: Bring layers. Ventoux at the top is not Provence at the bottom.

• Food: Stop at a chalet for pastry and coffee. In Sault, don’t miss jambon-beurre in the village square.

• Cultural note: If you encounter the French Foreign Legion, sometimes it’s best to leave the Leica in the bag and just take in the moment.

  I hope you enjoy this morning’s short adventure to the mountains. I love to hear from you in the comments if you have a free moment in your day.

  Live Well,

  Mark

p.s. I have to praise a former colleague and old friend of mine, Ian Craib, for successfully riding this stage route to the top of Ventoux on more than one occasion. One word, LEGEND!

The village of Sault.