SOMETHING soft and wet settled on my nose, waking me from a light, uneasy sleep. Then something tickled my chin. Slowly I became aware that a gentle pattering had replaced the gusty violence of the wind. Sleep dispelled, I opened my eyes to find that the great yellow moon which had hung over us earlier in the night, so solicitously, it had seemed, was gone. I was shut up in a closed little world of thickly-falling snow and already covered with a layer an inch thick.
Without warning there was a flash of lightning that brightened for a moment the all-enveloping gloom of grey-whiteness, closely followed by a heavens-tearing clap of thunder. Soon the storm was directly overhead. I could not see the others. but I knew they also must be wishing that the metal gear could be moved further away. Isolated on our narrow, lonely ledge, however, there was nothing to do but feel distinctly afraid as lightning glowed behind our white curtain, and thunderclap on thunderclap crashed and reverberated about us. Half-heartedly humming appropriate strains from Wagner, I envied Siegfried his confidence.
... I don’t remember whose choice it was, but it had seemed a good one at the time – just the thing for our first route, not difficult, and, according to the guide-book, only six hours to the summit and two and a half down.
So we slogged up to the nearest hut, gasping and panting from the effects of altitude and unfitness, and at three o’clock the next morning were threading our way over the glacier, a full moon lighting up a ghostly mountainscape of black and silver.
We were still on it as the stars began to fade, and a faint rose- tint permeated the sky in front of us. "Like something out of a book, isn’t it?" remarked John. Guiltily I thought of the innumerable descriptions of dawn in the mountains that I had skipped over impatiently.
Reaching the ridge we were confronted by a sheet of steep ice, but someone was clearly in front of us, for a series of fresh steps had been cut straight up it.
On up more snow slopes till we came to the first of the rock gendarmes, turned on its left by traversing round on steep rock, crampons striking sparks and a sensational drop below, but with big, comforting jugs to grasp. Back onto the ridge to a knife-edge of rotten snow that could not possibly take one’s weight but somehow did. And so to the next gendarme. Rock and rotten snow alternating, we gradually worked our way up the ridge; but the care demanded by the dangerous state of the snow was taking up precious time, and already we were behind schedule.
The heat was intense now. From under my helmet sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eyes. More rotten snow. Yet .html gendarme.
At last the summit came into sight. Figures were moving about – but it was still a long way off, and mid-day was upon us already. In all our minds was the guide book warning about the descent: "... prone to avalanche in the afternoon". It seemed easier to continue though, than to turn back, and we pressed on.
Slowly the final rock pillar drew nearer. It was unclimbable direct, so, in the lead, I by-passed it and followed the traces of some old steps up a steep little ice gully. It was steeper than I had realized, and the steps had weathered to mere scrapes in the ice. The party in front had obviously found an easier way up. Suddenly aware of the drop below, I laboriously chopped myself larger holds for hands and feet, and carefully moved up into the narrow exit chimney. To one side was a narrow rib of rock that seemed to offer easier climbing than the ice. Unfortunately, the holds ran out and before long I found myself bridged precariously with front-points in the ice on one side of the chimney, one point in contact with the rock on the other. My right leg started to tremble. Hurriedly I cut a step higher up for my left foot, fashioned a handhold in the ice, and moved up on the one crampon point that was on rock. Then the angle eased. Two more steps to cut, over some boulders, and I was on the summit.
We did not linger there as we were anxious to push on down as quickly as possible. At this stage we were joined by the two Frenchmen who had been in front of us. Uncertain of the way down, they had waited for us – and we ourselves were dependent on the guide- book description. It was going to be a case of the blind leading the blind, with the sole link between the two, my schoolboy French that was not simply rusty, but positively corroded.
At first it was easy going along a well-defined rock ridge. but soon we had to leave it to descend a snow slope made treacherously soft by the glare of the afternoon sun. Cautiously we had to belay our way down, following a ribbon of boulders. It was slow going, with a party of six. The snow needed the greatest care, and language difficulties were proving a hindrance. Time was dragging on.
All at once we became aware of cloud billowing up from the valley below, heaving and pulsating like some gigantic creature. and within seconds we were engulfed in its cold, clammy maw. With route-finding in the mist added to our problems, progress was slower than ever.
It was with relief that we arrived at a steep rock gully, recognizable from the guide book description, and we scrambled down it until it gave onto more snow slopes. But by now the mist had closed right down, the snow was still untrustworthy, and darkness was coming on. A bivouac was clearly unavoidable, and there was nothing for it but to climb back up the gully to look for a suitable site.
The Frenchmen decided to stay at the foot of the gully in a highly uncomfortable-looking spot, and we were amazed to discover that they had no bivouac equipment beyond a spare pullover each. I decided that I was not going to freeze for their sake, but I felt I had to do something, and gave them a spare brew-kit, and some food. Having eased my conscience and wished them "bonne nuit", I continued up the gully, thankful that I was not in their position.
Near the top we found a ledge large enough to enable us to recline in fair comfort. It was, however, totally unsheltered, and an ominously rising wind was blowing icily straight into our faces, piercing our clothing with no difficulty. It took real will-power to take down my breeches and pull on a pair of long johns underneath. The stove meanwhile was fighting a losing battle with the wind and eventually we gave up, drinking the tea tepid, and chewing dry oatmeal blocks without enthusiasm. Afterwards, all we could do was sit and wait.
I may or may not have dozed off, but once I opened my eyes to find the mist dispersed and the moon shining. And then the next thing I was aware of was the steady pattering of snow...
We waited two hours, until the thunder had faded to a distant mutter and a faint lightening of the gloom hinted at daybreak, before we stood up stiffly and set to work sorting out wirelike ropes and trying to fasten ice-sheathed crampon straps. The gully we had climbed down and up again with such ease the previous evening was now a very different proposition, with every hold hidden beneath a uniform white blanket. and it was only after much search that we uncovered a small flake. Two abseils took us to the bottom where we found the two Frenchmen waiting for us, looking cold and wet, and reticent about the night they had spent, but otherwise none the worse for wear.
Here it dawned on us that the snow was easing off, and the sky showed signs of clearing. Below, we could see the col which we knew gave onto the glacier. Feeling a lot happier we roped down a series of snow slopes, finding to our relief that one could gain a purchase beneath the layer of soft powder. By the time we reached the col, the sun was dispelling the last vestiges of mist and it was clearly going to be a brilliant day. Off with duvets and out with the stove, a cheerful speck of blue in the vast white landscape.
Peering over the edge of the col we saw that we should have to descend a slope that seemed formidably steep, with a bergschrund we knew to be awkward at the bottom of it. We could make out the traces of old steps going straight down the centre, and although it was necessary to kick fresh ones, Pete followed them, finding the snow, perhaps because of its steepness, pleasantly free from powder. Rather than belay half way down, the two ropes were tied together, and it was at the end of nearly three hundred feet that Pete arrived at the bergschrund. To the right and left of him, it was a gaping trench up to twenty feet wide, with a considerable drop between its upper and lower lips; but immediately below him, although the slope steepened to well past the vertical, there seemed to be no actual gap. Shouting that he wanted to be lowered. he let himself over the edge, and the stretch in the nylon immediately carried him to the snow, fifteen feet below. Cheerfully he shouted up: "This is the only way over the bergschrund, but it’s only a four foot drop."
The others went down without mishap, and then it was my turn. John had cut himself a stance in the snow some way above the bergschrund and belayed me from there. But nevertheless, as I started down, kicking firmly into each step, I was very conscious that I was 200 ft. above him. Thankfully, I arrived at the stance, and from there proceeded to lower John over. An apprehensive wait ensued while the others arranged a belay firm enough to hold me when I jumped. I could see nothing, and had no idea of what lay below, but I had a shrewd suspicion that the drop was more than four feet.
At last they were ready for me, and I descended to the lip of the bergschrund reluctantly placing my feet in the last steps before the slope disappeared. Still I could see nothing. Just in case, I put my glasses into an anorak pocket. You never know... Mike’s encouraging voice suddenly seemed a long way off. I wondered how firm that belay was – below, the glacier stretched straight and steep for a long way. Still, there was no point hanging about, we had been on the climb quite long enough already. And before my resolution had a chance to waver. I stepped backwards into nothing. The unpleasant sensation of falling free through space, normally confined to nightmares, seemed to last a long time. Then thump, I landed slap on my back, and head first started off down the glacier. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to the rope, when it came taut, and I was able to right myself in time to watch my balaclava rolling merrily into a crevasse several hundred feet below.. Wondering how the camera in my sac had fared, I cleared the snow out of my ears and nose, and remarked with feeling that some people should learn to estimate height. Pete, however, refused to be nonplussed; he had put my performance on film, and was full of the slanderous inferences to be drawn.
From there it was plain sailing. Down the subsidiary glacier below us, across the glacier proper with its maze of crevasses. and wearily over the moraine to the hut. feeling as if every ounce of liquid had been sucked out of us, and wanting only to drink and drink and drink. We were met by the warden. carrying a pair of binoculars. Tactfully, he confined himself to a dry "Bonne course. eh?" "Très bonne" we agreed. It had taken thirty-eight hours.