As soon as Rob left Bregalia the rain stopped, the sun carne out and everyone was happy again. I met up with a couple of Germans and we spent the evening doing some serious drinking and the next day doing some less serious climbing. ’The Ghost of Albigna’, our intended route, proved too elusive and we climbed a popular pinnacle called ’The Flamma’.
I decided to hitch to Zermatt and arrived the following evening after an amazing series of lifts through spectacular scenery. One short and stocky driver turned out to be the Swiss national downhill skiing coach who happened to be driving the remaining two hundred kilometres. He drove his car like I imagine he skis – fast! I pitched my tent discretely outside town, well away from the alarming number of American summer skiers. I found a superb site with a picture-postcard view of the Matterhorn...
I overslept the next morning and had to rush into town to buy the last remaining guide book. The Italian Ridge is described as "a superb rock ridge...a far superior climb compared with the Hornli". My only problem was getting to the Carrel hut at the start of the ridge on the other side of the mountain.
I had an exciting time crossing the Breuiljoch Pass into Italy: what should have been a simple snow slope was, by this late month, a steep crevassed slope complete with collapsing snow-bridges, tumbling seracs and other nightmare ingredients. It was while attempting to retreat that I eventually stumbled on a way up through the maze of crevasses. Later on, the continuous rockfall from the south face of the mountain turned nasty and I stood entranced as enormous boulders came tumbling across the glacier from almost a mile away. It was not a difficult decision to traverse the mountain rather than attempt to return by this same route.
I arrived at the hut still wearing my trainers, much to the amusement of the onlookers. The Carrel hut is perched like a roosting box on the shoulder of the ridge and the place was seething with Italians. I met only one English-speaking person a Swiss girl who, like all Swiss I met, could speak at least three languages fluently. The sunset was tremendous; the night was cold and clear.
The next day the weather was idyllic and the mountain was swarming with people. The climbing was steady but with fantastic exposure – superb views on both sides. Verglass was the only menace; "beaucoup de glace" is, I think, the only coherent French phrase I have been heard to use – in warning to a French party that seemed set for a little high altitude ice skating.
Sadly parts of the ridge ace degraded by an excessive number of fixed ropes; there is even a rope ladder over an overhanging section. The Breuil guides clearly profit by dragging up as many clients as possible – and damn the ethics.
The view from the summit was stunning – unlimited visibility over the entire Alps. Only the sound of a helicopter disturbed the peace and serenity. Mount Viso was clearly visible as were the mountains above Nice, nearly two hundred miles away.
I had hoped to rope up for the descent but I got tired of waiting and the route was well marked. The descent required endless downclimbing with the occasional ’hitched’ abseil to break the monotony. The Hornli hut looked tantilizingly close, but seemed to get no nearer. When I finally arrived, I collapsed in a heap and drank a litre of water. Feeling much better, I continued down to Zermatt to buy some food and beer; the place was unusually quiet until the church doors opened and a crowd of well-dressed worshippers flocked into the streets. It was a Sunday – I had lost track of the days. I spent a sober evening eating lentils.
I was climbing in my mind far a couple of days afterwards before I could properly relax and convince my subconcious that I was back on the ground. This was the most sustained flow of adrenalin that I had ever experienced; I can well believe that it is addictive.