There are those who would say Alpine climbing is a waste of time. At times I have voiced this opinion. After all, who wouldn’t, after two weeks solid festering in Chamonix? Robert and I had exhausted our ideas for passing the time. Guides had been read and re-read. The hit-list of routes had been devised long before. A minor diversion was to choose sticky morsels of patisserie as rewards for success: top of the list was the Central Pillar of Freney; for this we had promised ourselves a ’Tête Négre’ – a huge, sticky chocolate bun. We were too frugal to spend money on such luxuries without a good cause.
After endless hopeless meteo’s, a good forecast saw us frantically packing. Our objective: Route Major on the Brenva Face of Mont Blanc. By midafternoon we were walking down the Vallee Blanche from the Simond Hut where we had left our sleeping bags. I was glad to be coasting downhill in the hot afternoon sun, following the well beaten track.
A short climb took us to the Trident Hut, a prefabricated aluminium shelter on top of the Arête de la Brenva. I gawped at the huge expanse of the Brenva face in front of me, searching for a familiar landmark. I found none. It was so big, and looked steeper than I’d expected. I scurried into the hut, and nervously consulted the guide. Slowly I began to fit the description to the face and picked out the main features. The Sentinelle Rouge was just that in the late afternoon sun. Slightly reassured, we passed the time chatting and brewing up.
At 6.30 p.m. we could stand waiting no longer. We descended onto the Brenva glacier and hurried across to Col Moort. The tracks were rather faint, and every so often gentle creakings from the glacier caused us to glance around nervously. Once onto the face, we scrambled up the partially frozen ground. I felt slightly lost; features picked out from the hut looked different at close quarters. Slanting up across the face we reached the Sentinelle Rouge bivouac site just before dusk. We decided to wait there until the seracs menacing the Great Couloir were well frozen.
In the Alps you become used to killing time. Having climbed with Robert a good deal, we had been through the usual topics of conversation many times before. I tried to get him on to that old chestnut, religion, but he was content to write postcards! After what seemed like an age, I stole a look at my watch. Only midnight – at least .html two hours to wait. We both felt justified in having .html brew and a little while later were pleased to notice the teabag freezing in the pan. Time to go!
A voice startled us. Just around the corner was .html climber: an American, stealing time from his physics summer school. We swapped stories for half an hour and then went our separate ways: for him it was upwards on the Sentinelle Rouge route. We angled up a little higher and reached the edge of the Great Couloir.
At this point the couloir is quite easy-angled and narrow. I shouted to Robert that t was about to start across, and half–ran to the other side. Looking back, I saw Robert’s headtorch bobbing hesitantly, then he too sprinted across. For several hundred feet we followed the left edge of the snow, gaining height rapidly. I was impatient to get out of the couloir and, as soon as possible, traversed left onto the elegantly thin snow ridge. A succession of easy snow arêtes led quickly up to the final rock barrier.
A quandary: in the dark we couldn’t decide which route to take. Footsteps led off to the right and Robert followed them. He took the so-called "unclimbable corner". It nearly was for me, with my short legs, but a hefty pull on a runner saver] the day. Continuing up a series of chimneys, I began to grow impatient. No longer in the lead, I felt isolated. I had no control over the decisions as to which route we took. A voice floated down,
"Watch it here!"
Ah, it must be hard. Following, the difficulty was evident. A dubious piece of cord protruded from the ice and, using it as a footsling, a tricky section could be overcome. Robert’s hesitation when leading was understandable. Being the cold second, I just swarmed up.
By 6 a.m. only the serac barrier remained. I rushed ahead, eager to be in the sunlight. We were soon on the final snow slopes, and I charged off, much to Robert’s annoyance. He was feeling the altitude and, despite my coaxing, encouragement and eventually swearing, plodded on a steady pace.
It was 8 a.m. when we reached the summit, feeling absolutely knackered. The queues on the normal route looked at us quizzically, as if to say, "Where have you come from?" On the summit all I wanted to do was descend and go to sleep, but we lingered to take a few photographs.
The ’traverse’ back to the Simond Hut involved the add little climb, up which we groaned slowly. I had been trying to hurry, tugging my altiphobic companion along. This became too much for him; he refused to go on if we didn’t move more slowly. I argued with him, and he began to swear violently – a real tantrum. After about ten minutes this bickering began to see in futile and we plodded onwards and down.
The afternoon was spent in a celebratory eating session, featuring such delights as ’cassoulet’ – the nearest thing to sausages and beans available. From our perch under an electricity pylon we watched the hordes descending Mont Blanc de Tacul and plodding wearily back to the ’frique.
I found the route immensely satisfying and well worth the preceding wait. I felt that we were now, in some vague sense, ’mountaineers’ in a way that we had not been before. The challenges presented were more fundamental than those of pure rock climbing, and the pleasure gained from overcoming them is perhaps more enduring. The frustrations of Alpine climbing have to be accepted, and in the end make the achievements more worthwhile.
After this route, the bad weather closed in. A fortnight later the clouds parted to reveal snow down to the Montenvers Hotel. We boarded the bus home without getting our ’Tete Negre’. That will have to wait until next summer!