Shambles Amoungst The Alps

(With apologies to the late Edward Whymper, F.R.G.S. First Honorary Member Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club, 1893)

Part I: The Dent du Requin
by F.D. Smith

It is usual to read in climbing club Journals articles detailing the events of successful expeditions into the mountains but this one could not be more different. Although I have had my fair share of happy and successful climbs it is the days that end in shambles that are the most engaging and that stick longest in the memory. It is on occasions such as these that one learns to appreciate the hidden qualities of one’s friends and in this I have been particularly fortunate.

From all accounts the year 1962 was a vintage year for bivouacs, no fewer than four English parties were caught out on the same mountain, and on the same night. The mountain in question was the Dent du Requin which is known at the Requin Hut as “Le Dortoir des Anglais”, and that year it added to its list our own party of Ramblers, made up of Roger Allen, David Stembridge, John Varney and myself.

Encouraged by the success of the previous day on the Aiguille du Geant, we decided upon the ‘Voie des Plaques’ route of the Dent du Requin as our second day’s climb. This route was chosen because it is described in the Vallot guide as “suitable for a late start”. Roger was keen to try dried vegetables as a means of reducing rucksack loads; on one of our shopping excursions we found some packets of dried potatoes named “Fecule”. This, together with the other items of food comprising our evening meal, was given to the guardian at the Requin Hut to prepare, as is the custom in French huts. Half an hour later a puzzled girl returned, apologised profusely for the mess she had made of our dinner and ex-plained that she had read the directions most carefully. The potatoes had become a nauseating glutinous mass resembling billposter’s paste. We improved our French vocabulary by learning that the word “fecule” means starch. The meal, however, was not spoilt but much improved when, with the compliments of the guardian, a dish of cooked new potatoes was presented.
 
In no time it was 4.30 a.m.; we rose with the usual reluctance and got away by six. From the hut a well used track led us to the glacier which we ascended to reach the rocks. We found that, in trying to avoid a snow and ice pitch on the rocks, we had gone too far to the right and that we must now be on one of the variations of the Mayer-Dibona route. This route proved both interesting and exacting, it comprised a number of steep chimneys, delicate traverses and narrow ledges. Allen and I were on the first rope, Varney and David Stembridge on the second. The guide book is delightfully vague when describing these variations and was of little use to us. The unknown, however, adds materially to the interest and I was lucky to lead some of the best pitches.

One of the harder pitches was a chimney of 60 ft. or so, surmounted by a series of huge overhanging blocks. A complicated rope technique was devised and the obstacle overcome. The blocks formed a sheltered bivouac spot and an excellent place for our second breakfast. We ate cheese, bread and honey and enjoyed wonderful vistas of the neighbouring peaks, Aiguille Verte, Grandes Jorasses and Aiguille du Geant illuminated by unlimited sunshine. Directly above the blocks is a short steep wall followed by a series of traverses of ledges to left and to right, then comes the crux, a sloping flake. The space behind the flake is packed with gravel, leaving not so much as a finger hold. My whole weight was supported by my crooked left arm held at waist level; somehow or other I managed to edge my way along to the safety of a rocky spike. A reasonable stance came into view so we brought up all four to this point as quickly as possible to save time and effort.

Looking up I noticed a trail of six pitons indicating trouble, but a little to the left was a chimney with a crack along its length. Although the crack was quite devoid of holds it was possible to hand jam and knee jam up it to join the ridge. Though a window in the rock we had our first view of the final tower of the mountain; it looked quite inaccessible but John Varney, who climbed it a few days later, found that it was relatively easy.

Signs of approaching bad weather were evident in the sky and the temperature was falling. The time was 5 p.m. and we agreed that we should rope down as quickly as possible to the hut. This decision proved to be our undoing, when four people are concerned abseiling can be tediously slow. Time seemed to pass very quickly and well before we reached the breakfast bivouac it was getting dark. At this point we were on a wide ledge, but without any cover. Hastily we made plans to build a shelter wall, using every available stone, and snow as mortar. Within minutes of finishing it the sleet began to fall; we bunched together, putting on every spare piece of clothing in preparation for sleeping the storm out. After a simple meal David gave each of us a sleeping tablet. The storm grew in intensity and the weather gave us a fine display before the pills took their effect.

When we eventually awoke it was fine but cold; despite the rain and snow we were not too wet. This was to some extent due to our large polythene bags which, although ideal for keeping rain out, also keep in the condensation. We might have completed the climb but the call of a good meal and sleep was too strong. We abseiled down without difficulty and were soon warm and back on the glacier. In glorious sunshine we retraced our tracks to the hut. We were greeted by a highly amused guardian who was amazed to see that I was wearing my Y.R.C. tie, the terylene version, usable as a sling in an emergency. I was asked, in best school English, “And where is your rolled umbrella?” The starch and tie stories reached Chamonix long before we did. We returned to the valley by way of the Aiguille du Plan and Aiguille du Midi, much the wiser for our excursion and knowing each other much better; thus ended another Shambles amongst the Alps, not the first and I am sure not the last.

Part II: The Grepon
by C. R. Allen

The account which I am about to set forth describes, in effect, a single day spent in Alpine travel; the day concerned was, however, an unusual one and it is my hope that other travellers may find the account amusing and perhaps instructive.

It had been our intention to reach Chamonix early enough to attain the Couvercle Hut, but a certain lassitude delayed us and we found ourselves obliged to pass the night in the “dormitory” at Montenvers, a noisome place almost wholly devoid of the amenities which civilised beings have come to think necessary. Our party of four consisted of Mr. F. D. Smith, Mr. D. W. Stembridge, Mr. J. Varney and myself, united by the spirit of Alpinism and by membership of an excellent and exclusive Club rooted in the greatest of England’s Counties. We were joined in residence, by a French party, which seemed to embody all the traditional characteristics of the race. Some sleep was, nonetheless, attained.

We rose at two in the morning and by simple phlegmatic efficiency succeeded in leaving before the Frenchmen. Lack of knowledge, however, resulted in our becoming mazed in a complexity of paths, and we were obliged to await their guidance to the path leading to Plan des Aiguilles. At the foot of the Nantillons Glacier there was light enough to see a selection of dubious looking clouds. A steady ascent of the glacier, including a convenient scaling of its well known ‘Rognon’ brought us to the foot of the couloir which divides the Grands Charmoz from the Grepon at 6.30 a.m. Here we left all our crampons and two of the axes and climbed the true right wall of the couloir—an enjoyable scramble except for the rubbish dislodged by the French above. At the col we briskly partook of refreshment, contemplating the superb panorama across the Mer de Glace; but some signs of gathering cloud were evident and a bitterly cold south wind was beginning to rise.

A short traverse and climb brought us to a notch beside Mr. Mummery’s famous crack. It fell to me, by lot, to lead this section; after a few fitful attempts I did succeed in gaining lodgement in the crack. The wind, owing to local conformations of rock, was blowing, so to speak, from the anatomical south and this I found less than encouraging, especially since it was now armed with a light hail; while only part way up the crack it became clear that cold and fatigue would not allow me to continue. After five attempts on the crux I assumed a pose of insouciance and belayed in it. Smith then followed me and led through in an effective and forthright manner to the top. From this point we ‘threaded’ the ridge, now misted, through the Cannon Hole and an awkward little chimney, to emerge again on the Nantillons side of the ridge. I performed a satisfactory penance to St. Mummery by leading the ‘Rateau de Chevres’; despite my companions’ remarks I am disinclined to believe that any normal goat could have succeeded.

We continued more easily along the ridge, though the wind was unpleasant; a tight chimney in descent cost me a belt buckle, but a hasty improvisation saved me from embarrassment and the risk of intimate frost-bite. We were soon on top of the Grand Gendarme; roping down from this was tricky and involved difficulty in retrieving the rope, despite precautions. Owing to lack of forethought we were then obliged to walk along the ‘Route des Bicyclettes’. Two leads then brought us, outside the rock tunnel known as the ‘Crevasse’, to the final crack. My progress up this coincided with the arrival of a hailstorm, and I sat beside the metal Madonna on the summit until a lull occurred. It was while Smith was climbing that I noticed that the Lady beside me had begun to sing in a thin, reedy voice . . . while Smith and I were looking for the route of descent we were both struck a smart blow on the back; even in the act of mutual remonstration we realised that the phenomenon was electrical. A vicious crack of thunder on the Blaitiere completed the warning, we roped down very quickly to the Crevasse and retired into it—clearly for the night, for it was 6 p.m.

The Crevasse consists of a rock tunnel of roughly rectangular section, variously eight to twelve feet high and never more than two and one half feet broad. Smith and Stembridge now set to work as Esquimaux Masons and quickly built a wall of snow-ice, from the floor, to block up the windward side of the tunnel. We were all then able to pack ourselves in: Stembridge sitting by the wall, Smith facing him, myself standing and Varney sitting below the entrance. No other arrangement was possible.

Foresight had provided us with food, some vessels and one of Mr. Bleuet’s ingenious stoves: a meal of hot soup and raisins was laboriously prepared. The night passed interminably, with the wind roaring outside; we were all very cold indeed and got but little sleep. At four o’clock we made a hot drink consisting of hot milk with honey dissolved in it—a wonderful reviver which I cannot commend too highly; at six o’clock we took a second helping, extricated Varney from the heap of snow that had surrounded him overnight and then emerged. The morning was clearing: after an unpleasant session on ice-glazed holds, with thanks for the rope left hanging, we were on the summit and in sunshine at 8 a.m. A quick rope-down brought us to the Breche Balfour, where we basked in the inexpressible glory of the sun and ate the rest of our food.

The descent began with a series of abseils, of which the last was an overshot into a long ice-gully which had to be reclimbed to a very sharp rock bridge. Smith scored again at this point by devising a method for crossing which was distinguished both by ingenuity and by induced bodily discomfort; in this way we arrived back in sunshine on the ‘CP. Platform’ at noon. Easy scrambling then brought us to the Col des Nan-tillons, and we descended the glacier in thick mist to retrieve our deposited equipment. At the foot of the glacier we were again gladdened by sunshine and walked wearily back to Montenvers. I meditated on the horror of discovering that, on the descent of the snow-plastered faces above, any mental attitude but positive alertness would have let me nod off to sleep; on arrival at Montenvers I was glad to surrender at last to sleep, even in that wretched place.

Of the lessons that might be learned from our tale, the most obvious is the need for speed: be it said with shame that the French party reached the glacier, in descent, before the storm. As to what might have befallen us had the storm continued to rage for another day or two, I prefer not to speculate. I must confess that, except for those contained in the foregoing account, we have no meteorological or glaciological observations to report. Our geological impressions are confined to the conclusion that the rock of Chamonix is among the most abrasive known to science.

Part III: “The Roof of Europe”
by J. A. Varney

We worked hard for two days throwing earth in on the water pipe. The earth had lain for eighteen months beside the trench and my sore hands bore witness to its rapid rate of concretion. (There was, however, a certain pleasure in this labour in the heat of the French sun and we enjoyed all the more the good food and the comfortable bed at the guide’s home. It was a pleasant enough way of prolonging our holiday as, across the valley, we had the rewarding, if at times unsettling, panorama of the entire range of Mont Blanc from which the sun was melting the excessive snow of the early season. Next day we would probably take our leave as Gilles was to go away for six days with two clients, ladies, who were apparently quite tigerish, having just spent a month in the Taurus and a week in the Dolomites and were now working up for the climax of their season.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I heard Gilles’ suggestion that I should consider joining his party as porter— (acting, unpaid). I agreed to do this, however, as it seemed to me to be a great privilege to have the services of an amiable guide and the company of expert lady alpinists when I expected to be homeward bound. This illustrates how gullible one can be if the trap is well baited. Gilles, being the only one who knew all the factors, knew what he was up to and had his own motives.

The next day Gilles took the ladies up the Grepon, taking the first teleferique from Chamonix, while I nursed my blistered hands and tried to accumulate a satisfactory amount of equipment, much of my own having been packed into a box which was by now in Calais. The ladies and their guide returned unscathed from their mountain and I judged from their accounts that I was not going to be a burden to the party in spite of the large rucksack I was to carry around the peaks.

We went, the next evening, to the Refuge d’Argentiere whence the following day, as the weather was bad and most people were apparently happy to go down, we contented ourselves with ascending the local peak and getting a distant view of the ice sheet on the Col du Dolent which we were to cross. The pace seemed quite satisfactorily slow but next morning, as we chased up the glacier in the dark, it was obvious that Gilles had ambitions. I was grateful that the ladies did not share these ambitions and, since they made this fact known, I was able to contain my own complaints.
 
By dawn we were above the bergschrund which was tamer than expected and were moving up the four hundred metres of 60° ice which .separated us from the col. It was here that I first began to realise what it means to be a porter: not only to be balancing on crampon points—step-cutting is considered old fashioned even by guides–loaded with the biggest rucksack one has ever carried up a mountain, responding to the leader’s movements and needs but also, at every moment, to be prepared to hold two ladies whose simple trust and mutual regard enables them, without fear, to relinquish their hold on the mountain simultaneously. The older lady remained quite calm throughout but the younger, far from rallying to Gilles’ encouraging cries (I think it was at this point that he nickname her Jelly Poo) was eventually reduced to tears and I was grateful when his conscience obliged him to take a more personal interest in her welfare and allowed me to find peace and freedom at the right end of the rope.

It was a sorry little party that emerged from the shadows of France to meet the sunshine of Italy but breakfast and the decision to abandon our plans to traverse Mont Dolent lent us new life and we fairly sprang down the more broken face of the Italian side of the col with the Elena Hut as our objective. Before we got to the valley, however, we chanced upon the Bivouacco Dolent which stands on the true left bank of the Glacier du Pre de Bar above the lower ice fall. This excellent little hut was vacant and contained just enough beds for our party so we decided to stay there in privacy, dry our clothes, sun bathe and exist on what food we had with us. I was particularly grateful for this as I was rather surprised to discover what I had been carrying. We didn’t realise how fortunate our decision had been until next morning, when we passed the site of the former Elena Hut which had apparently been destroyed by an avalanche some years ago.

We dined well in Courmayeur and provisioned ourselves for our return to the mountains. Gilles and I combined forces to persuade the ladies to venture to the Gamba Hut to “look at” the Innominata.and the Peuteret as we wanted to do something interesting whereas the ladies were feeling unsure of themselves in view of their recent performance. The guardiano of the Gamba was our ally as, firstly, he was himself so unpleasant and his food was such poor value for money that the necessity for moving on was easily impressed upon our clients and, secondly, he told such fearsome tales of the state of the Fresnay Glacier that it looked as if the only feasible climb was the Innominata face. The ladies agreed to have a look, so by 9.30 next morning we were installed in the Bivouacco Eccles which, unlike the Elena Hut, although reported destroyed by avalanche, stands boldly poised above the upper Glacier du Brouillard on a jumble of overhanging rocks with so little horizontal space that we had to use the roof for sunbathing.

After spending some time thus it seemed to us that we could usefully make a reconnaissance, so Gilles and I put on shirts over our bathing costumes, donned our climbing boots, roped up on an odd waist length (20 ft. is a bit short) grasped our axes and, thus strongly clad, took our leave of the ladies to ascend Pic Eccles, something over 4,000 metres. In our perambulation we discovered sundry pieces of wood, presumably remnants of the former ill-fated bivouacco, which we bore back with us for our evening rituals. As the darkness rose out of the valley we built our fire on the very narrow ledge before the door and sat down inside to enjoy a smoke and a drink. The drink was very pleasant but the smoke, of which our fire was the sole source, soon became unbearable. We opened the window of the hut which merely improved its efficacy as a flue so, being loth to lose our hard-won flames, we evacuated and stood along the very narrow ledge between the hut and the abyss. As in this position only one of us could actually see the fire, the rest soon began to take a more objective view of the situation and, heedless of protest, hurled the offending brands down the mountain and retired to their bunks.

The bivouacco is only big enough for six if five are in bed or, in our case, for four if three are in bed.’ In the morning Elizabeth prepared breakfast for all of us and then lay on her bed while Gilles got ready. After they went out Jelly Poo and I got ready in turn and followed on rather slowly and it was consequently some time before we caught up with them. Eventually we came across a rather irate Gilles sitting in the middle of the couloir with stones and ice whirring about him, cursing us for necessitating his waiting in a place so dangerous that it prompted him to consider that his clients should both be firmly attached to his own rope. According to the guide book the difficulties were now over; this may have been so but the dangers were only now beginning. The sun was at work loosening rock and ice and softening the snow. Soft snow lay over bare ice and there was little of either security or comfort in our race up the face. The danger was constant but the climbing uneventful as ridge followed interminable ridge consistently steep and exposed above the deepening pit of Italy.

Eventually we reached the Brouillard arete where my companions generously offered, at last, to lighten my rucksack by sharing among themselves its edible contents. I also tossed away a few pairs of socks and sundry carabiners and slings to ensure that I would manage the remaining few metres. Refreshed we pressed on to the summit of Mont Blanc where we paused for a smoke—our last precious cigarette—before dropping down to the Vallot Hut where I made lemon tea for our party, not wishing to carry anything further than necessary, and forced upon them the remaining food. Here Gilles and I virtually abandoned our lady friends as they preferred a slower pace whereas we preferred a longer rest on the terrace of the Gouter Hut, which is remarkable for its view of the ‘Roof of Europe Pilgrims’ actually in process of making their pilgrimage, and a sleep before dinner at the Tete Rousse.

The ladies celebrated their ascent of, for them, a much cherished route, I had had a new sort of experience in mountaineering while Gilles, apart from giving much satisfaction, had managed not to repeat his previous climbs and at the same time had climbed routes of quality.

Next day we rose late and shambled down to the rail head. Having at last rid myself of the rucksack I trotted down the track and lay eventually in the long grass waiting for the T.M.B. to bring up my friends.