La Haute Route, 1960

by D. W. Stembridge

If you are thinking of doing the “Haute Route” for the skiing, think again. But as a mountaineering expedition which takes you through the finest scenery of the Alps at a time of year when you have them to yourselves, it is first class. The Swiss “High Level Route” is to the ski-mountaineer what the Black Cuillin ridge is to the climber; a yardstick of stamina and ability in the form of a continuous chain of hazard and difficulty, but whereas the Cuillin ridge can be completed within 24 hours, the “Haute Route” may take up to a fortnight. The route itself follows a variety of ways from Chamonix to Saas Fée or vice versa according to personal preference, the West to East route being the more popular. We chose to start from Saas Fee, and were to regret this later, since we often had the disadvantage of climbing on icy eastern slopes, and ski-ing down westerly slopes which had been thawed by the previous afternoon’s sunshine, and were now badly crusted from the night’s frost.

The best time to do the “Haute Route” is the middle fortnight in April, and so our party gathered in Zermatt during the first week in April for two or three days ski-ing practice and acclimatisation. The party numbered seven, and contained experienced ski-mountaineers in the form of Harry Spilsbury, Dick Cook, Eric Arnison, Joe Renwick, Tom Price, and my father, Harry Stembridge, whilst I was the only real “youngster”. As a safety precaution we took as guide, Nestor Crettex, making a total of eight.

Our training went well, and despite Dick Cook’s chance meeting with a recent Himalayan expedition friend, Guiseppe Pirorano, now the head of the Ski-school at Breuil, and the consequent celebrations in Breuil and Zermatt, we managed to drag ourselves away from the fleshpots, and on Palm Sunday move round to Saas Fee. Happy with the prospect of settled weather we spent the day gathering provisions in readiness for a good start the next day.

It was no easy job to calculate our requirements, torn as we were between keeping weight down, and having sufficient food to see us through several days of bad weather if we were marooned in huts. Ski-ing with a heavy pack is even more difficult than climbing with one, and apart from heavy essentials such as bully beef, honey and butter, we concentrated on Ryvita, coffee, dried milk, soups and spaghetti. As our technique improved we aspired to steaks and tinned fruit. In addition, of course, we had to carry climbing ropes, some ice axes, skins, spare tips and cables, and more spare clothing than is customary on a summer expedition.

Our aim was to move back to the Zermatt valley via the Britannia Hut and the Adler Pass, and spend the second night at either the Betemps (Monte Rosa) Hut or Zermatt, before moving up the Zmutt glacier to the Schonbuhl Hut. Monday gave us a sunny start, and Saas looked gay and colourful as we sailed out on the cable-car, a rather weak start to an expe-dition, but a saving of two or three hours’ slog up a grimy moraine. The trek to the Britannia Hut was suitable for a first day; a long traverse, a short descent, followed by a climb up a steep little gully which warmed our jackets, and left us with a gentle traverse to the hut itself.

The guardian, a jolly fellow, made us welcome, and this was fortunate as the following day dawned cloudy with a new snow covering of nearly two feet, making it both difficult and dangerous to start before the snow had settled. However, by noon the weather had cleared giving a fine view of the Dom-Taschorn ridge with trailing snow plumes from the peaks. Everyone in the hut burst out on to the neighbouring knoll, and the afternoon was spent ski-ing on a home-made slalom course, where a dive over a corniced edge and a long drop was the penalty for an error of judgment! By evening four or five parties had gathered at the Britannia, although they were only going over the Adler Pass to Zermatt the next day, and not completing the whole route.

A rising barometer gave us high hopes, and on Wednesday we were up at 4.30 a.m. to a clear dawn, and away in just over an hour. A steep downhill traverse was a difficult start for cold bones in the semi-darkness, since at that time of the year it was still well before sunrise. We were glad to put on skins and trek briskly up the glacier towards the Adler Pass, a curious succession of mule-train columns all glad to follow the trail of the leaders in the deep snow. This proved to be one of the few occasions when we had the opportunity to follow, and in future we had to blaze our own trail.

A three and a half hour climb took us to the top of the pass, and when the others welcomed a rest, Dick, Tom, Eric, Nestor and I climbed for another hour to the summit of the Strahlhorn, which gave us a magnificent view of our route ahead to the Chamonix “Aiguilles”. We had to leave our skis for the last twenty feet of the climb, we found very few peaks on the route suitable to be climbed completely on ski, a notable difference from the peaks in the Austrian Alps. Meanwhile the others shivered in a cold wind on the col despite a strong sun, and they were glad when we schussed through new snow to rejoin them. The descent down the other side was a difficult mixture of traversing and side-slipping down steep sheet ice and wind-crust for several hundred feet, and it was with jelly-legs and aching hips that we rested for lunch in a warm spot looking towards Monte Rosa and the Breithorn.

The run down to Zermatt was very varied and not without incident. Early soft snow gave way to easier conditions, but not before Eric Arnison had pulled a calf muscle, and I had parted company with the heel of my boot whilst travelling at full speed. Most of us were still unaccustomed to ski-ing with a pack of 20—30 lbs. weight, and we all had more falls than usual, causing a rather tired group to flounder down the Fin-deln wood paths above Zermatt before coming to the end of the snow. The manageress of the Gornergrat Hotel welcomed us for the second night within a week, and we installed ourselves in the dormitory, whilst Eric and Tom preferred Herr Biner’s hostelry, although we gathered it was so full that Eric nearly spent the night in the bath.

There was little good snow in Zermatt and we left on the Schwarzee lift in order to fit a ski-run in the day’s exercise, rather than carry skis a long way up the valley towards the Schonbuhl. The day was cloudy and close, but a pleasant run from the top of the Schwarzee down the piste to Staffelalp served to restore our confidence after the falls of the previous day. At Staffelalp, a workmen’s canteen provided us with very cheap Chianti, whilst we bargained for a lift on their aerial ropeway to take us further up the valley. Indeed, one would think the Haute Route is as much a test of ingenuity and resourcefulness as it is a test of mountaineering ability.

Eventually we clambered aboard a semi-open box and sailed off up the valley with a consignment of stone and other goods. So, late in the afternoon, we had only a walk of an hour and a half up to the Schonbuhl hut, although the last steep slopes proved very hot and tiring in the close atmosphere. On arrival at the hut we were surprised to find that we had it to ourselves. We felt dwarfed under the north face of the Matterhorn, heavily plastered with snow, an overpowering sight, until as evening drew in it was swallowed up in a mass of cloud. In the last rays of the sun only the very summit stood clear, a delicate pink rock cone, seemingly miles above us.

The hut was uncomfortably cold, and with a noggin or two of ‘Marc’ to keep us warm, we went to bed early in readiness for the long day over to Arolla. Despite the cloud of the previous evening, Good Friday dawned fine, and we were away from the hut before 5.30 a.m. It was a bitterly cold morning, and still somewhat chilled from the cold hut, we were eager to start climbing up the difficult Zmutt glacier. A steep descent, tricky in the half-light, landed us on the glacier, and we then climbed steadily on an ever steepening slope, with the wintry north face of the Dent d’Herens on our left flank, and a mass of bad weather cloud brewing up behind us in the Zermatt valley.

After three hours hard work we branched northwards off the glacier, and carrying our skis, kicked and cut steps for five hundred feet up a very steep slope until the angle eased enough for us to skin up again, and take a breather. A biting wind encouraged us to push on, but we were now in bright sunshine, and looking back we had time to appreciate a fine view of the Weisshorn, Rothorn and Matterhorn, and their surrounding peaks, protruding like islands above a sea of cloud which by then was well below us. Spurred on by the cold we reached the Col de Valpelline after five hours’ climbing, and we were able to see our route ahead, over the Col du Mont Brule into the Arolla valley.

The run down from the Valpelline was lethal. Patches of windcrust and of blown powder snow were a poor reward for our efforts, and running from one to the other caused numerous nasty falls. It is only too easy to break a leg in these conditions, and an accident at such a height is no joke at that time of the year. So that day, we found, as often, that ski-ing down was more tiring than the climb, requiring great concentration and skill to avoid falling.

Consequently we were relieved when the glacier smoothed out to the foot of the Col du Mont Brule, but the short steep climb left us feeling weak and tired. A swig at Eric’s gourd revived us, and we were pleased to find a convenient set of ready cut steps down the other side into the Arolla valley, a very steep little descent carrying skis.

With the hardest part of the day over we ate a leisurely lunch out of the wind below the col, basking in the spring sunshine before setting off down the long and gentle glacier to Arolla. This was one of the best runs we had, a complete contrast to our experience earlier in the day. The snow was in perfect spring powder condition, and we swung easily from side to side of the glacier for several miles, in a series of fast, wide sweeps, only slowed by the apparent caution of Nestor whose skis seemed to have been waxed with glue!

We were able to ski almost to the village, and a short walk brought us to the friendly welcome of the Hotel de la Poste, and indeed the village people in general. It was delightful to come down to some green alps and a sprinkling of spring flowers again, a refreshing change after the continual world of rock, snow and sky. The old proprietor of this country hotel seemed delighted to have us as his guests, and after a large meal and drinks on the house we were glad to sleep in a proper bed for a change. Harry Spilsbury, who> had been troubled by a bad cold for some days, very unselfishly decided to leave us here, as he felt he was slowing down the party, and regretfully we left him to descend to friends in the valley.

A cloudy morning gave us an excuse to lie in on Saturday and having booked our bunks at the Cabane des Vignettes, we felt that there was no rush to get away, so we lingered over breakfast and the shopping. The hotel proprietor-cum-storekeeper gathered our provisions with the care of a man sending off an Everest expedition, and with packs laden with four days provisions including fine steaks and country cheese, we were off just before midday, pushing aside Nestor’s suggestion that we should eat at a workmen’s canteen on our route. We were to regret this, and five hours later, after a dreary slog in thick cloud and falling snow, plodding hopefully from one glacier marker to another, we reached the hut feeling very tired through lack of food.

Imagine our dismay when we found the hut like Blackpool at Bank Holiday. Built to sleep a mere 45 persons, there must have been at least 100 people crowded into it. Apparently the Easter weekend had caused a big rush to the hut, and due to the bad weather no-one had been able to leave that day. We mentioned our booking, but the guardian just shrugged his shoulders and wandered away wearily to chop wood. It was almost impossible to sit down, let alone eat, but during the afternoon we managed to worm a way into the odd bunk on the promise of giving it up later. However, some senior members of the S.A.C. very kindly saw that we were not turned out again and we ate in relays before returning gratefully to our six inches of bunk space to rest, if not to sleep, in a suffocating atmosphere. It was snowing heavily that evening, and the grim prospect of another day in such conditions was most discouraging. The Cabane des Vignettes (originally the Refuge Jenkins) is notorious for its position, perched on the very brink of a thousand foot high cliff, and the thought of an international riot was alarming!

By some saving grace Easter Sunday dawned a perfect morning, but with at least a foot of new snow. Despite a general eagerness to move away from the hut, nobody was keen to blaze the trail up the Pigne d’Arolla in the heavy going and although we were up in good time it was 8.30 a.m. before Nestor stirred himself to follow another party with the same idea. The climb up the Pigne cleared the fog from our lungs and the new snow had given the surrounding peaks an extra cloak of beauty. Two and a half hours’ climbing took us to the Col below the summit, where the wind was so cold that after taking off our skis we ran to the top, ran down again and fairly bolted for the comparative warmth of the plateau below in one long, fast traverse. A short rest in the midday sunshine and then the run down to the Cabane des Dix, which proved difficult in the deep snow. Although we had several exhilarating schusses, a succession of kick turns were necessary to negotiate the final icefall before crossing the flat of the glacier to the hut itself.

We had feared that many others might move over with us to this hut from the Vignettes and it was with relief that we found the hut comparatively empty. By the time we had made some soup the weather closed in again and snow began to fall. We slept well after the poor night at the Vignettes and were surprised to wake to another fine morning. It seemed incredible that nearly every day the weather should close in about 4 p.m. only to clear overnight—a vital factor which contributed to the success of the trip.

It was half-past six before we were away from the hut and we started our second week with an unusually good run for the time of day; a steep twisting run down to the head of the Val des Dix itself. However, the ensuing traverse above the artificial lake soon lowered our spirits. A long gentle rise covering several miles, edging all the way on icy slopes under a hot sun, left us feeling dehydrated and with aching ankles, yet with little useful height gained. The heat of the day increased as we branched up a steep and airless couloir to the final slopes of the Rosablanche, and despite frequent rests we were unable to eat much due to thirst. Nevertheless, spurred on by the usual bad weather clouds boiling up behind us, we tackled the last five hundred feet of the mountain feeling extremely tired. This section was so steep that it was necessary to carry skis and kick steps, using the skis to dig in as artificial handholds. By midday we were on the summit, thoroughly exhausted and short of water, and it needed the descent in sunshine and good powder snow to revive our enthusiasm, if not our energy. Since the more recent daily snowfalls it had been noticeable how much better ski-ing conditions had been, with a welcome lack of ice and windcrust.

A fairly short climb to the Col de la Chaux brought us in sight of the Cabane de Mont Fort only half an hour away. Once again the descent was a good one, although the snow had by then become a little sticky, and we were all speeding home when Joe Renwick had the misfortune to fall heavily on an ankle. However, it did not appear to be broken, and with some difficulty he was shepherded to the hut. There was no guardian and we had the hut to ourselves until a pair of Italians joined us.

Next morning, Joe’s foot was swollen and painful and we were relieved that he was able to limp the mile or two along the ridge high above Verbier. After kicking steps down a short gully we strapped him to a makeshift ski-stretcher and launched him on to the icy pistes, into the midst of crowds of hurtling skiers, the most dangerous hazard we had yet encountered! Carefully steering Joe by numerous tugs we arrived at the top of the Ruinette chairlift in time for a welcome lunch of steak and chips before the depleted party descended to Verbier by means of a notorious wood-route, a steep and narrow “schwarz-weg” if ever there was one!

At one stage we had contemplated the inclusion of the Grand Combin in our “Haute Route”, although it is really an offshoot of the main route. However, lack of time now forced us to abandon this idea, and after Joe had seen a doctor we decided to move over to Champex that night, and have an overdue rest the following day. A hired jeep took the seven of us and all our kit down the hairpin-studded road to the valley, where we had an all too short glimpse of the cherry blossom and green fields before taking the equally alarming road up to Champex on the other side. Perhaps I ought to mention to those who may think that we had abandoned our skis in preference for four wheels that there was little or no snow over this part of our route!

Wednesday, April 20th, was a welcome rest day, and Joe and Dick left us to return to England. Joe had been advised to have treatment for his ankle, and Dick, who was suffering from ‘flu, felt that it would be better if he went with him. So the party was now reduced to five for the last lap; Eric, Tom, my father, Nestor and myself.

Champex looked cold and bleak in the spring sunshine, with the massive Grand Combin reflected starkly in the icy lake against a border of black pines. Nevertheless with the first signs of spring chaffinches and blackbirds were singing, and the first crocuses were bursting out. A very busy resort in summer, the village was now almost deserted, only the “Club Alpin” and one pension being open to greet us.

Nestor was obviously relieved to be back on his own ground, being a Champex guide, and the following day we were up early to find the chair-lift already in motion specially for our benefit, to take us the first two thousand feet up to the Col de la Breyaz. So sleepy was the attendant at the top of the lift that my father nearly got swept round the wheel at the top for another circuit, but fortunately managed to bale out in time. In summer the easy track to the Cabane d’Orny takes a mere hour and a quarter, but that day it took us a weary five hours. The warmth of the day plus a fair amount of new snow made it impossible to follow the normal climbers’ track due to avalanche danger, and we climbed steeply up the Breyaz ridge only to descend the far side kicking steps down a very steep gully into the Val d’Arpette. No sooner down than we ziz-zagged up to the ridge again only to slither over slippery grass and icy rocks down to the summer path, now carrying our accursed skis! Once on the track our troubles were not over, and we waded knee deep through wet snow before finally collapsing in a perspiring heap for lunch, too tired even to speak. A summer walk of half an hour had been transformed into a spring torture of three and a half hours.

Food and rest revived us, and with improving conditions we were able to reach the Cabane d’Orny, after a further hour and a half of hard labour. By that time it was hot and sunny, and while we rested our saturated clothes dried in the sun. So with the heat of the day over we left the tiny hut as late as 3.30 p.m. and enjoyed a pleasant climb up the glacier towards the Cabane du Trient. Now we were rewarded with magnificent evening views of the Aiguilles Dorees ridge, and the Aiguille du Chardonnet before we eventually reached the unguarded hut just after 5 p.m. We were the only visitors and crowded into the tiny guides’ room glad to have only a small space to warm. The steaks we had carried were cooked to a turn, and we ate hungrily before turning in early, ready for our final day.

Friday, 22nd April, was a rosepetal dawn. I stood hopefully on the hut terrace waiting for a red dawn but it never came and the mountains only blushed as we headed across the plateau de Trient for the Aiguille du Tour. Here at 11,000 feet the previous summer we had seen a mouse scurrying from one crevasse to another, but now we had the wide snowfield to ourselves and after two and a half hours we were on the South summit having scrambled on rocks over the last few hundred feet. The morning was crisp and clear with a magic glitter about the snow as we looked back over our route from Saas Fee and saw in retrospect the whole ninety miles of it, with its 32,000 feet” of climbing and we feft a certain amount of satisfaction with our efforts. Determined to enjoy our last run we sped down the Glacier des Grands towards La Forclaz Pass, where we intended to finish before returning to Martigny.

To our dismay the first thousand feet were difficult in powder snow and crusty conditions, but at length conditions improved to give us a fast and exhilarating steep, swinging finish into the woods at the head of the Trient valley. Happy, we ambled pleasantly along the wood path to La Forclaz glad to return to the world of flowers and greenery after twelve days of snow and ice. After a celebration meal of the usual soup and bread we fell asleep amongst a mass of crocuses and spring flowers to await the bus that never came before hiring a taxi and descending to Martigny in state, scruffy but victorious, to be welcomed by Harry Spilsbury, now fully re-covered and ready to hear the rest of our tale.

Martigny was beautiful; all the blossom and flowers had opened out since our arrival, and the air was thick with the scent of lilac and wisteria, apple and pear blossom, a wonderful contrast to the black and white chill of the mountains and one of the most impressive features of the Haute Route at this time of the year.

In retrospect may I say that for those skiers who have never done the “Haute Route” it is a necessity. After it, the “piste” skier may return gladly to his icy ruts, but he will always remember the vast, open snowfields, the grandeur of it all, and the feeling of being a mouse among the mighty peaks. Above all he will appreciate his artificial climbing aids so much the more. To do the “Haute Route” one need not be a particularly good skier, but it is essential to be able to do the basic stem-turns and stem-christianias well on all kinds of snow, and above all to be fully fit, prepared for every day to be a hard day.