"This is fun," Andy’s words came back to me. I can hear his shouts from the Pain de Sucre and the small avalanches started by his falling ice.
"OK, don’t fall." I set off up the fifty degree couloir; Ian is belayed to a sling over a protruding rock. It doesn’t look safe. Fifty feet up I reach the safety of a friend in a snowy crack; we only have one axe each and no ice gear. This is meant to be an "easy snow couloir." Moving on I shower Ian with ice flaking off the rock. My foot slips while I am moving my axe; the ultimate headrush. It’s no harder than the pitch Ian just led, I tell myself. Almost at the top of the couloir I run out and reach the safety of some pegs and tat on the wall.
Looking up I can see 1000 feet of arête stretching up, awesome, above. Mushrooms of snow on all the ledges are beautiful against the deep blue sky. Stretching round behind me is the fantastic panorama of the Verte and Drus round to the Grandes Jorasses; wild mountains.
"It’s 1-30. I think perhaps we should ab down." It’s Ian. pretend to think about it for a couple of seconds.
"What about the bergschrund?"
"Don’t worry, we’ll get over." We had left the hut at 4-00 and taken 5 hours to get to the bottom of the climb. Most of it was spent crossing the monster multiple bergschrund where Andy had spoken the words that would sum up the day. It had been desperate in the morning but, now the sun was on it...
Three abseils later we are out of the couloir. Andy and Chris have topped out and we can see their footprints arcing up to the summit ridge; we’re alone. Another three and a caught rope later we’re at the bottom. We come to a crevasse; I didn’t even notice it on the way up but crossing it now is frightening. The sun has made the snow 10cm of slush.
"Hey, Ian, where did we come up?" There is no sign of this morning’s crampon markings.
"It was over there."
"No, wait, I reckon it was..."
"How many seasons have you been in the Alps?" Ian walks off; it’s always the same. We stop at a forty-five degree slope ending in an ice cliff; I can’t believe we had come up it but there’s no other way.
"Couldn’t you lower me down and follow with the two axes?"
"Just climb down and don’t fall."
"Right." Arrogant bastard. Climbing down is hard; Ian is belayed to an axe driven into chossy snow. I repeat a litany of "Ian you..." and every swear word I can think of. I almost want him to hear but don’t say it loud enough. At the bottom I feel apprehension coursing through my stomach; tottering walls of dripping ice surround me and all I hear is the creaking of the glacier. Ian leads the way across snow bridges which had scared me in the morning; as I follow I admit a grudging respect for him. Every now and then a foot falls through. I just freeze for a second; a rope wouldn’t stop you plunging into the abyss below.
I then lead (if lead is the right word; there are no runners) along a knife edge ridge between the bergschrunds. It was the way in but is hideous now. I turn back.
"Check out over there," Ian calls.
"It’s just an ice cliff."
He comes over to check. "No, there’s a bloody snow bridge there."
"I’m not going across." I have to keep some face.
"Listen Mark, I’m trying to keep us alive. Cross it."
"Why didn’t you come with someone else you bastard," I think, but don’t say it; maybe I don’t want to know. However, Ian is right and half an hour later we only have one steep slope to descend. Once down I’m flooded with relief and caution; "accidents happen on the way down."
We pack up ropes and gear and I walk off down the glacier. Ten steps later I’m sliding towards a crevasse. I’m not even going fast but digging in my hands does nothing, Reflexes take over and I jam my pick in; I’m speeding up. Frantically I plunge the shaft in and halt.
"It’s your crampons balling up. Keep banging them." Ian tells me; of course I bloody knew that. We reach the hut separately in the dusk after 16 hours.
"Mark, I’ll buy you a beer to celebrate."
"Hey, yeah, thanks; a good day."
This was an account of an ascent of the Ryan Arête on the Aiguille du Plan last summer. The guide sums the route up by saying that "the bergschrund is sometimes impossible to cross." Ironically, we were only able to get over as there was too much snow on the arête.