© J A D Healey 2014
Frank and I caught the 9.14 to Newhaven and got through the customs long before the crowds from the boat trains arrived "You know it's not as easy as this coming back", the official warned us. We went past the "Worthing" to the second (French) boat, the "Arramanches". We were quit interested to see the post-war boat with its painting of the Arramanches beaches, the snag was that it was serving French food and I found the lunch less satisfying and more expensive than an English one. We saw no sign of Freda and Margaret, so concluded that they were on the "Worthing".
At Dieppe we eventually got off the boat, got through the Douane and found our seats in the train and then watched the people disembark from the "Worthing"; besides Freda and Margaret there were Charles and Maurice in our party.
At Paris, Charles found the inter-station bus and we enjoyed the ride through the centre of the city. The evening sunlight on the river was lovely. At the Gare du Lyon, Frank and I first guarded the luggage, while the others went to the Café European, then we all found our seats in the train before Frank and I went off for a "citron pressé" and filled our water bottles with beer.
We were four a side in the carriage and the corridors were simply packed. At times the rain teemed down, and those near the window got rather wet before they managed to shut it. The weather was too bad for any very inspiring views of the Alps, and soon we seemed to be crawling along, stopping at every little station. It seemed a very different Annecy from the sunny place we had visited in 1939.
We were about 2 hours late at St. Gervais, but an electric train soon left, taking us to Chamonix. I was very interested to go through Les Houches. At Chamonix, it was pouring with rain, and I started to think of the other holidays I had had which started like this. We were met at the station by Greg, Val, Jack and Vince, who had come over from Zermatt and they showed us the campsite. I got my tent up at the edge of the rifle range, Frank fetched some water and we made some much needed tea.
I had been foolish enough not to bring a cape, so I thought my best plan was to continue to wear my skirt, which was already wet.
Soon we went down into the town to do some shopping. We were looking in one window when someone said "Hello Eileen". I recognized the voice as that of Geoff Thompson, for I'd never have recognised the bearded face. He wasn't very cheering about the weather and told us that Ken Brindley had already gone home as it didn't look as though the big peaks would come into condition, but I was very thrilled to hear that Ken's party had been the second one to climb the Gripon this year.
Geoff also told that, instead of camping he was staying at the Chalet Bislay, a hut of the C.A.F. We went back to the camp and told the others about the Chalet. Tony and Don (who had arrived by motor bike just after us) thought it a very good idea, they had had enough of leaking tents in their journey across France. Margaret then found that her tent was leaking, so she and Freda also came down. I thought my tent ought to stand up to the rain, but I liked the idea of the Refuge for the company.
We slept well on the straw that night, hanging our wet clothes up, hoping to dry them a little.
It was a perfect sunny morning. What a thrill it was to go down and get that first view in the sunshine of the Aiguilles and of the Dom de Gouter. Our clothes soon dried out in the sunshine.
We found plenty to do in the morning, collect ration cards, shop and have a meal, and then catch the 2.20 train to Montenvers.
We followed Lucien Pez up to the Convercle hut. We started the usual way up the Mer de Glace, a way which became very familiar and yet I could never remember the way round those first crevasses. After following up the medial moraine a little way, we struck off to the west, past a 'moulin' and on over more moraine, where we had a short rest. Next we made for the red painted patches and started up the artificial stairway on the rocks; I found it most strenuous to pull myself up by the hand rails, besides carrying a pack with 3 day's food on my back.
Anyone who still thought that a guide's pace was slow lost that illusion, I should imagine. At the hut we immediately ordered hot water for tea which was followed by soup and then by pom which we made ourselves with more hot water, and corned beef.
We were called at about 4 o'clock instead of 3.30 as we had expected, and then were ready in about an hour. The weather didn't look too promising, but someone said that fine mornings were the order of the day. We were very keen to do our first climb to see how the party got on together. When it was first discussed the night before, Greg suggested that Frank and I should climb with the guide, but eventually we went with Tony.
We started up north over the Glacier de Talèfre and then roped up and left all but one axe per party, before making for the rocks between the Moine and the Nonne. I found that wall of rock most thrilling; Lucien found the line of least resistance and that seemed to me the only climbable rock arch.
I was very pleased to see that when Lucien got to the top of the first pitch he stopped and took the rope in over his shoulder, for it certainly looked to me like rock where one should move one at a time.
Lucien took Val and Charlie, then Greg followed on with Nannette and Maurice, next Freda and Margaret led through and Geoff and Don came after Tony, Frank and me. I found it quite tricky stepping off from the snow onto the rock, a flake round the corner for the hand was the secret. On the crack I followed Tony's example and stood up before stepping round – the guide's Vibrams had fitted onto nothing very well for the lower traverse, but I had an idea that nails wouldn't be so good. The next pitch was steep and slabby, but Geoff, from the rear said that it was 'move altogether' type of rock, so that was what we did, but when it came to my turn to climb, I found that the pitch had its moments – at least in the early hours when the hands are cold. I know I used a knee at one point, the strata of the rock wasn't quite right to give the positive holds I should have liked.
We followed the party in front and went round on the right into a rotten gully from which we only had to traverse out again. Geoff and Don had more sense and went straight up and got behind the guide.
Soon it started to snow and we got wet, but there was no wind, so it wasn't too cold except for the fingers. After we had reached the col between the Moine and the Nonne, we kept up the ridge – this was quite broken, with easy, interesting pitches more like the climbing I had had in Switzerland. At the summit, we only climbed the higher of the two blocks. There was quite a traffic jam there. Apparently Don led it alright, but Margaret and Tony decided to have a rope down. I was the last person of all to get up and I certainly took my time. There were lovely holds on the rock and the nails seemed to stick anywhere, but with numbed hands good for balance holds only, larger foot holds would have been an advantage.
Already some of the party were starting to abseil down. How thrilled I was to think I'd be doing my first alpine abseil. It was rather slow getting everyone down on the one rope, so Greg went down on his climbing rope. I followed him, but I don't think he quite liked his nylon being used as a common abseil rope. Halfway down, they seemed to be having a little trouble with my lifeline; fortunately I was able to stand on a little ledge while they dealt with the knitting.
Greg's rope only reached to half way down the chimney, but was an easy climb down the last part.
We had a little to eat below the abseil and then set off down a very easy way – the "voie normale" I imagine.
This time I wasn't in the last party and we had to slow up for those behind, as visibility wasn't good.
At the end of the rock there was an interesting little jump onto the snow, the take off was very meagre and then it was necessary to jump beyond any possible bergsehrund. As the one with the axe, I went first, but I rather had the impression that Tony, as last man, didn't take his duties very seriously.
Next we followed Lucien's example and had a sitting glissade, practically down to where the rest of the axes had been left. Then we had to walk a little way before we came to the final slopes where we tried standing glissades, but conditions weren't nearly as good as Nevis we decided.
Back at the hut those with dry clothes changed into them, and the rest of us just had to stay wet. I was settling down to an afternoon's knitting when the orders came to return to Chamonix. We thought at the time that it was Pez who had said that even if it were fine the next day there was nothing we could do, but afterwards we began to wonder whether perhaps it was because some of the party were short of food.
I was annoyed at having to carry down food and was sure that retreat was the wrong thing to do on the first wet day, at a hut, but I thought that those who had made the decision had had more experience than I had.
We missed the 3.20 train by about 5 minutes, the railway officials were most apologetic at not having held up the train for us; they said they had looked to see if anyone was coming, but we were just round the bend and they didn't see us. They opened a warm waiting room, but Tony, Don, Geoff, Frank and I decided to walk down. Frank and Geoff were in front and Frank waited at one point to show us a shortcut he had gone down. Because of that, I blamed him for the fact that we missed the way!
An elderly French lady joined us, her English was about as good as our French, but if she spoke in English and we answered in French we got on quite well, we found. She taught us the word 'mouilleé' – we little knew how often we were going to hear that word before the holiday finished.
We were rather amused, occasionally we'd take a shortcut and the lady would go round, but she'd be at the bottom quite as soon as us. We got down to the valley at Praz, where the lady left us to go to the station, while we started towards Chamonix. We passed a signpost which said it was an hour to Chamonix. Soon afterwards I got a longing for a dainty afternoon tea – much to the horror of the others, when I told them, but they seemed quite willing to stop and eat oranges. We were home much sooner than we expected and at least we were back before the train, but Frank and Geoff said that we were an hour after them – apparently they had come down to Chamonix instead of Praz – they had found a signpost pointing straight down to Praz, so they had taken the turning to the left which had brought them to Chamonix. We must have missed it through taking a short cut.
That evening, Frreda and Margaret pitched their tents again, the five of us left had an evening meal in the "Restaurant des deux Gares" – the place was a good find of Geoff's. The word "mouillé" came in useful too; I was showing off my new word when (trying) to talk to Madame at the refuge, and she offered to dry our clothes.
How foolish we felt to be back in the valley on the next perfect morning, but we found plenty to do before catching the 11 o'clock train to Montroc. Just outside the village we stopped for lunch, and then continued through the hayfield to the path to the Albert Premier Hut. I had been interested in tracing the line of the path from below, and when we came to go up we found it very gentle, if all the zigzags were taken (those in training from Switzerland just ran straight up!). We were glad of a halt by the stream, if only to admire Mt. Buet opposite. From then on the path went up the moraine, and certainly it's the steepest band of moraine I have ever struck.
It was a very happy evening in the hut, firstly admiring and photographing the surroundings, secondly eating and then planning the next day's programme. The Aiguille Dorées sounded much too good to be true – cramponing up steep snow, traversing lots of rock and then cramponing down snow on the other side. I kept on to Lucien about the weather, and he seemed to say there was a 50-50 chance that the sun would shine, so I went to bed very happy.
It was raining and blowing early, so we didn't bother to get up until fairly late. By then, the weather had cleared a little and I think we hoped to do the Aiguille de Tour, or something like that. We set off over the Glacier du Tour, stopping when the sun first appeared, to put on our glasses and glacier cream. We then made for the Col Superior Du Trou, but by the time we reached it, it was snowing and a cold wind was blowing. We continued round to the Col du Tour, where I should described the condition as a blizzard. I was very pleased that at one point Lucien got as excited as an amateur and shouted that he was in Switzerland. From the Col du Tour, the only thing to do was to retreat as quickly as possible back to the hut. The snow stung my face so badly that I put my hood up, but that wasn't such a bright idea for it meant that the snow which was frozen to my hair melted and ran down my neck.
Lucien continually looked back at the rest of us, he admitted afterwards that, with the tracks gone and visibility nil, the only way he could get his direction was to see if we were all in a straight line. Conditions weren't so bad near the hut, but some skiers seemed to be having rather a tough time.
Back at the hut it took me a long time to thaw out my hair (apparently it looked strange enough for Don to photograph!) and until I had done that I kept on my wet cloths, for the water was running down my neck from the melting ice. Inside the hut, the bedroom was the most popular place, for it was possible to dry one's clothes very slowly on the hot pipe which ran up through the room. Also it was pleasant to recall the scene the night before when people repeatedly climbed the ladder to the upper storey. So many people seemed to go up it that we began to wonder whether they then descended the other side to come up again just for the fun of it. Apparently it had reminded Frank of a church wall painting of poor tormented souls trying to climb up the ladder out of hell.
It continued to snow all day and the general feeling seemed to be that it would be Chamonix again the next morning. Freda and I seemed to have the same ideas and determined to stay up if there was any possibility of doing anything.
The walk over the two cols to the Argentière hut particularly appealed to me, but Lucien said it would only be possible on a clear morning, for, without the tracks, he would have no idea where he was going in the mist.
Supper was a good idea; I don't know whether the whole hut did warm up or whether it was just the hot food inside us, but we felt much better afterwards. I thought I should never hear the last of the potatoes. The night before I had found the thickened soup very filling, so when Frank and Geoff wanted to order potatoes, I said I didn't want a whole portion, they could let me have a little of theirs. Fortunately, they ordered three portions and I was glad of all of my share.
This was certainly Friday 13th as far as climbing was concerned, it was still snowing and we could see that the snow went quite a way down towards the valley. This time, even I could believe that nothing would be in condition for some days, so we all decided to go down.
Greg at the last minute decided we could catch an earlier train; I was rather sorry, for the mist was lifting and it would have been grand to stay to see if we could get some views with the sun shining on the new snow. The whole of the moraine was covered in snow, and a very thin covering stretched half way down the hillside below. It was a lovely run down, occasionally taking shortcuts down the zigzags, and we arrived at the bottom rather hot and with about an hour to spare for the train.
Back at Chamonix we did a little shopping, cooked our usual meal of liver and potatoes and caught the afternoon train to Bossons, where Lucien met us on his bicycle.
He took us up to the foot of the glacier where we put on our crampons and were shown how to use them. I thought how different from my first introduction the year before on the glacier below the Weisshorn, on that misty moonlit morning.
Pez turned out to be a splendid teacher, which was surprising considering that he knew no English. He would demonstrate the right way to place the crampons and then drive home his point by showing what would happen if we did the opposite. Freda was at a great disadvantage with her 4-point crampons, occasionally Lucien would cut a few steps, explaining that they were for her. We also got a little step cutting practice and a few jumps. I wasn't so keen on the latter. I particularly remember one little ice chimney we climbed, I'm afraid I spoiled the wall below for those behind by cutting a step in it, and then I was very slow in the chimney until Lucien told me to get further in. Then I found it most enjoyable, my crampons held well on the lower side of rough ice and my back slipped so easily up the concave side of smooth ice.
There was one very steep place where Pez walked down and three times I tried to follow, but he wouldn't let me, he knew it was too difficult. Don was the only one he would let try it. One place where we went up, I found very difficult and Lucien showed a perfect understanding of the English temperament by putting his hand round my arm, and yet hardly touching me, i.e. he'd have let me climb on a slack rope.
Finally we did some running in crampons and then Pez decided we had finished. It was raining, so it was quite a good idea to pack up, but at the same time I felt I had been keyed up for a climb for several days and these few hours practice had nowhere near used up my surplus energy. When we reached our rucksacks, I tackled Lucien about the next week, but he assured us that we would be in the good hands of one of his comrades. I then asked him whether we could retreat to another district, but he didn't show any enthusiasm over Switzerland and when I mentioned the Dauphiné, his comment was "Montagne des vaches". As to Chamonix, he admitted that the 'H' was the easiest peak, but even that was impossible under these conditions. Hence we returned to Chamonix rather depressed by the climbing prospects, and determined to enjoy the next day among the flesh pots of Switzerland.
No-one else seemed keen on the 8.30, so we caught the 10.0 to Switzerland. I was at the station a good 20 minutes before the train was due to leave, but the queue at the booking office made no progress in that time and eventually the man at the barrier gave us chits to say that we were from Chamonix, and we were allowed onto the train.
At Valloreine we had to change trains and the Frenchman wasn't at all polite about our chits. He made us pay single from Chamonix and then left us and attended to other people, while we made up our minds whether we wanted tickets to Martigny or only to Chatelard. Eventually we got our tickets all the way and went through the customs and into the Swiss train. At Chatelard the Swiss customs came through the train. They proved quite helpful in the end, someone remarked that it would be Saturday afternoon when we arrived and the banks would be closed. I opened the window and asked the Douane men about it; one of them said a lot, but I couldn't listen to a word he said; he had such an enormous face I was just fascinated by it. They must have passed on news of my dilemma, for an official came along the train to tell me that I should be able to change my cheque at the station at Martigny. I feel I should be rather thrilled with the journey down to the Rhone Valley, but in actual practice I found it rather tedious.
At Martigny, it was just astonishing the different in the officials compared with France. After asking why I hadn't gone to a bank, the man at the station made no more bones about cashing my cheque.
We stopped at the first shop we came to and the girl didn't seem to mind when we went behind the counter and started to load ourselves with macaroni, tinned milk, chocolate etc. Next we went into the café attached for ices. They were water ices, but had such delicious fruit flavours – we tried all the different kinds – apricot, lemon, strawberry etc. Then we went on and through Martigny ville to Martigny Bourg, the original town, we decided. We called in many shops on the way, buying corned beef, butter and always more chocolate. Don bought a watch and Val some nylons. I couldn't interest anyone else in 'patisseries', so I occasionally bought a few on my own.
After a look inside the church, we began to enquire about a meal, and were directed to the Lyon d'Or. We were loaded with bread we were taking back to France and at first they thought that we wanted somewhere to sit while we ate our own food! Although it was about 4.30 p.m., how we appreciated the noodle soup, followed by 'Bifsteak' and rice and sauté potatoes, when they came.
We had no trouble with the customs on the way back, Tony wore Don's watch because the former was more used to wearing a watch. The journey seemed very tedious, in fact I'd have felt a good deal fresher after a climb.
We managed to avoid the cross Frenchmen at Vallorcina and at Chamonix managed to walk out of the back of the station without paying. The truth of the matter was that we were very hard up, in fact we'd spent the 1000 F. Geoff had left for the guide in getting into Switzerland, and we couldn't afford to pay single fare both ways to Vallorcina.
After a mug of cocoa we retired to bed early, worn out by the lazy day, but at 11 o'clock we were woken by Freda, telling us to catch the 7.30 in the morning to Montenvers where Pez would give us a day's rock climbing. I was amazed at this news for, in the morning, when the snow had got down to Argentière (about 4,000 ft), I thought that the holiday wouldn't be wasted if I could learn some skiing.
We got up at 5.30 and that left plenty of time for our usual valley breakfast of porridge, followed by fried bacon, egg and tomato. Usually I had no room for marmalade after that.
At the time I considered it one of the happiest days of my life; there was the sun, which I had given up hope of seeing again, the clouds which were only there to add to the view, and then there was the fresh snow, all over the hills to the north.
From Montenvers we started along the path to the Nanillon Glacier. How thrilled I was to be coming this way, even if I had never visualised the path covered with snow. After some way the path seemed to take to the inevitable band of moraine, and after that I wondered whether we were on the glacier. I followed Lucien's example and inverted my ice axe. The head of it acted nearly as well as the basket on a ski-stick.
All this way we had been following someone else's track, but eventually Lucien stopped and turned up on the left towards the Col de Buche. I really admired Pez for the way he made that track, sometimes he'd be floundering up to this waist, yet he never made himself pant, and never hesitated for long. It was easy enough for those following, occasionally I need only use one of about half a dozen steps the guide had had to make.
At the top of the col we roped up, Lucien took Maurice and Charles, then Freda and I followed, leading through. Behind us came Don with Margaret and Frank, and finally there were Tony and Val.
I was very thrilled with this first bit, it would be nothing in ordinary conditions, but I felt that the snow on the rocks made it more like something in the high alps. We moved together down the first pitch and then Freda went ahead, but she thought she could improve on Pez's route and only had to come down a different way.
Meanwhile, the party behind was getting impatient and also Charles in front, for he was saying that now he hadn't enough rope to help us if we couldn't manage the crack. I then went ahead and got up the crack with the aid of a knee and brought Freda up, although there was no belay. Freda's lead then brought her to the col before the Pic Albert and she stood there looking enviously at the next pitch, which she said would be so fine in vibrams, but I was firm and said that leading through meant leading alternate pitches, but it was my lucky day, for I got all the more interesting ones. The first pitch up the Pic Albert was grand, but easy enough with the sun-warmed rocks. Freda had the next pitch and I enjoyed the final, slightly more strenuous pitch. At the top, Lucien pointed out amongst other peaks, Mont Joly – I told him I had been there "avant la guerre"!
Freda was last down the top pitch, which left me last down the abseil. Freda borrowed my sling and then sent it up on the lifeline. I think Freda thought it strange that I insisted that she tied on the lifeline again before I came down. At the end of the holiday I noted that Louis Lechaud carefully took in Terray's lifeline as the latter abseiled down as last man from the Grépon, so I thought perhaps I hadn't been too fussy on Pic Albert, after all.
After the abseil, we picked up our packs and axes, and started up the middle part of the 'M'. Lucien's route isn't in the book and was barely scratched, and gave me a real taste of what climbing on Chamonix granite can be like.
First, there was an ordinary traverse and then Freda got quite a delicate little bit and that gave me the crack or open chimney the "crux of the climb". Lucien dangled a loop of rope down for me here, but he didn't seem to mind that I wanted to try it myself. I found the handholds quite adequate and the good footholds on the right wall besides in the crack eased the strain on the hands considerably. That brought us to the arête, where we were able to move together and we stopped for lunch just before the final tower.
The other 2 ropes were some way behind; they had thought that Lucien wanted the sling, besides the spare rope, retrieving from the abseil and Tony had had to climb down. On the final problem, there was a little vertical chimney followed by a slanting one and finally a slab on which I used a knee. At the top of this pitch, while Freda was leading the next, two Frenchmen wanted to know what it was like – I meant to encourage them, but at my "Non trop difficile", they went away without trying it!
Pez was very nice at the top. He told me that my little chimney soon after the Pic Albert was grade IV, but I think all this kind talk must have been because he had a daughter called Eileen, for I have never before been told in any language "Vous grimpez trés bien!".
We were very soon down the ordinary way to the lunch place, and it was now that Lucien showed that he had just as much enthusiasm as an amateur. He unroped and climbed the vertical crack on the right, just for the fun of the thing. Val and Tony also led through up a route on this. The easy way took us down to the top of the Col de Buche in no time, we were amazed to see how much snow had gone since we had come up. We kept on the rope till we got to the bottom of the couloir and then set off down the track. It was well after the moraine where we took a couple of short cuts. I found this the best part of the run down, with just the remnants of snow on the grass. We were back in plenty of time to catch the 5.20 to Chamonix, which was a little gay, it being the guides' day (another reason why we appreciated the fact that Lucien had taken us).
This was another typical day; we hurried back from our shopping just before 12 o'clock to start cooking our potatoes and liver, which was followed by fruit, before going to the station where we met our new guide, Joseph Marillac, catching the 2.20 to Montenvers. It had been rather a difficult decision to take, whether to have a guide or not. The evening before, rather influenced I think by the other guideless English people, we at first decided against it, but then we said that in this weather we couldn't do anything guideless (and the other at the Chalet had done nothing besides having experiences like 6 hours roping down, etc.). Our only chance of doing some climbs was to have a guide, for it was the climbs that mattered most. The one thing we didn't reckon on was that the guide should be a hindrance instead of a help! Freda suggested that if Margaret followed the guide he would have to go at a slower pace, and it would keep the whole party together. There was nothing to be said to this, but I could find few points in its favour, although I had never been that way before, I was utterly bored with the walk, besides being very cold, and it was obvious how difficult the guide was finding it to go so slowly. My greatest fear was that it would give a bad impression of us to the guide. That evening when I was trying to get a promise from him to take us up rocks, he said that Pez had said that we climbed very well, but Marillac scarcely acted as though he believed it. The Requin hut was pretty crowded that night; we were in a sort of anteroom and only had about one blanket between two. Frank slept deep down in the mattresses, letting me monopolise a whole blanket.
Tony and Don had brought up a primus again, to save francs and they fed Joe for the first night and then thought they had better continue to do so as Joe had given them some of his food.
We were called as usual at 3.30 and started out an hour later; the night before the most we had been able to get from Joe was that perhaps we'd be going to the Aiguille du Midi. It was a fine morning and we set out round the Seracs du Geant and then onto the glacier. At first I was rather thrilled with the effects in the sky, but then they seemed to change and took on more a greenish oily appearance and I started to think "I'd have thought this meant bad weather, if I hadn't known that my luck with the weather had changed, for hadn't the forecast in Chamonix been good?"
We continued on and then I thought I felt one or two flakes of snow, and it was just after that that Joe had to make his decision. He stopped, looked around, took one or two steps in the snow and then returned and continued in the track to the Col du Geant. It's easy to condemn him for it's so much easier to follow an old track than to break a fresh trail, and therefore the Geant could be called the decision of a lazy man, but against that was the fact that the weather was breaking and that he obviously thought all three of the women grave responsibilities, the way he had insisted on having all of us on his rope, and finally we hadn't been up to the col, and it definitely seemed a place to visit while in the district. Joe promised us that we should go up one little hump on the ridge and made for the col between the Pt. and Gd. Flambeaux and we then proceeded up the snow ridge of the latter. I was second on the rope and towards the top the order came "Attendez" while he cut steps in the ice. . "C'est toute la conde" (a cry which was to become very familiar), I used for the first time. I thought I'd be happy when the ice was over and we got onto the rock, but rock is much too polite a name for those loose stones. There was no possibility of a belay. Further on I much preferred Don's way up a slab of rock to the left, to Joe's over the loose stuff, and Joe preferred to come down that way. Tony, Maurice, Frank and Don who had followed us up went down first and then Margaret and Freda followed them; Joe and I felt we'd been stuck on top in the snow storm for a very long time. I don't know whether he thought I needed cheering up, but I was very pleased to hear him say "Vous marchez tres bien". I thought I was doing well this holiday for compliments. On the snow after the ice, I got in a short sitting glissade.
We then went down over the Col du Geant to the Torino hut. The way went through the Telefrique Station, which seemed very deserted. The hut contained mostly well dressed skiers (I was glad to see on the way back to the Requin that the man who was the best dressed of all was by no means the best skier – meow!). The coffee was very sweet and milky, but cost 2/- a bowl. It was the postcards which were the best find; they were about 20 fr. each, but larger, and better views than the usual French ones.
On the way back, the weather improved, in fact once, from the top of the Col, we could see our Grand Flambeau. I felt we missed a lot on the journey down by walking sedately down. I agreed with old Leo that it was a lot less tiring to go quickly. Back at the hut the sun started to shine and we thought we'd get our socks dried. Joe returned good for evil to me, just after I'd been criticizing his mountaineering judgement, he went inside and got a pair of slippers for me, from the guardian, so I don't think he could understand my English.
That night we worried the life out of poor Joe. I went round asking everyone's advice about the Dent du Requin. The only one to take any notice of me was the English boy, Patrick, who said that if we did it, he and his French friend would like to follow on.
Wednesday was Tony's and Don's last day and my idea was that, if Joe wouldn't do it, they ought to try it on their own. Our trouble was that we didn't know how far Joe's lack of enterprise was due to his large party. However, he successfully put us off the Requin by telling us that a fortnight before a friend of his who had done the north face of the Grand Jorasses had taken 12 hours just to get to the shoulder. Joe's only suggestion was the Tacul. When this news penetrated upstairs, Maurice was sent down to protest, for they thought it was too far away.
We needn't have worried about our plans for the day, we weren't called until 6.30. I was glad enough to get up, but the others didn't stir at once. When I got down, Joe informed me that if we got ready immediately we might be able to do something on the way down, so "toute de suite" became the order of the day. I think we rather surprised Joe by getting a move on down the glacier. We had to wait a little under the Petit Charmoz for Tony and Don to catch up; they had set off after us and had kept further to the left and got a little mixed with the seracs. Joe then started up the steep hillside towards the Petit Charmoz – he took a very good line and it was much easier than I had expected. At one time I got a serious warning to follow him, but I'd already had my warning when the huge slab I was standing on started to move! The angle eased off for a moment and then we started steeply up the Glacier de la Thondia, making for the gully to the south of the Petit Charmoz. At the bottom of this gully we roped up, and again he insisted on having all three of us on his rope. The men were allowed to climb in twos, but he wouldn't let me join one of their ropes.
The only good thing was the fact that I was on the end of the rope and could climb up myself, carrying coils, except when we got to the top of any little hump. Here he would take over from Freda, and give me a tight rope. I more remember the gully for its looseness then for its interesting climbing.
At the top we stopped for lunch. There was a fine drizzle by now and it seemed to dampen the spirits of some of the party; also the rucksacks didn't help. I felt so sorry for Frank, having to carry down food I had refused to let him eat at the hut, when he had said he was hungry!
We had watched a party go up an interesting slab from our lunch place, but Joe went round and up the ordinary way. I can't say I blamed him for, as I have said, he hadn't got such a happy rope. I was interested to find that the Petit Charmoz was also in the shape of an M., but at right angles to the Aig de l'M. There was a little slab to get up the first point and then a wonderful traverse along on slabs which appeared to go right down to the Mer de Glace. At the northern summit, there was one little scoop which he started to look at and then thought better of it, so I was very pleased when Don led up it.
We waited until the others were almost up and then started down. I'm all for speed going down, and my idea was to go down keeping the rope between Freda and me fairly tight. Leo would have approved, but Joe didn't. A Dutchman climbing with a Swiss guide was able to translate that I wasn't to move down until Freda could belay me. We climbed down a little on the west and then traversed to the top of the Col de Bouche. We were sorry not to have done the abseil, but I was very happy to have done something, and to have come up from the Mer de Glace made it a double traverse, and Maurice said I had converted him (to what I don't know!)
The Dutchman, who was waiting at the top of the Col de Bouche told us that a man had just been injured down there.
We unroped and went down very cautiously and then Joe told us to follow the Dutchman and his party while he went on to help the blessé. The bottom of the glacier had a thin covering of snow on it and it was great fun to sort of skate down there. Next, the Swiss guide set much too sedate a pace, but we followed until we came to the shortcuts; here Don and I enjoyed a run down, until we caught up the rescue party. The guides were taking it in turns to carry the blessé pick-a-back, and Joe took over soon after we caught up. He went up a lot in my estimation when I found that he could go about twice as far as well as twice as fast as any of the other guides.
He told us that the boy was the French friend of the English lad we had been speaking to in the hut.
We watched Tony and Don load up the bike, and then saw them off and wandered town to the Café National where we met Joe, also Greg and Charlie. To see Joe dressed in Chamonix, it was quite obvious who was in financially the best position! But the mountaineering school guides seemed to dress in as much of a uniform on off days as they did in the mountains.
It rained all the morning, so nothing was decided, except that we should meet at the Chale Bislay that evening to decide what to do. Maurice and Margaret then decided to go to Switzerland that afternoon. It was a pity as that ruled out the Argentière, as it would be too long a walk for them after they got back from Switzerland the next day.
That evening the guides must have thought we were meeting at 7.30 instead of 7, for we were strolling down to the town at that time when we met them, and had our discussion there and then. I got my way that we should go to the Couvercle. Greg seemed to favour the Requin, but I was against it, partly because we had just come down from there, and partly because it seemed rather a loss in this doubtful weather.
Then Joe brought up what I know he'd been thinking all along, that we were too many women. I couldn't understand much, of course, but I know I was involved in the discussion, and Nanette was sticking up for us right and left, quoting Freda and Margaret leading through on the Nonne.
On still another glorious morning, we found ourselves in the valley. It was cold first thing, but when it warmed up a little, I washed my hair and had a shower.
At about 11 o'clock Joe called in case we didn't know what we were doing, and he also asked us to take some food for him. In case we hadn't understood he asked if anyone at the refuge spoke English and got a man to translate for us! When he called, Frank happened to be showing his photos to Freda and was glad to let Joe see one of Margaret abseiling – just in case we hadn't come down the Petit Charmoz on rappel because Joe didn't think us capable.
I enjoyed the walk up to the Couvercle – we went at just the right pace and had a short rest just after the steep bit, but not long enough for us to get cold.
I had forgotten that the last part after that was so long to the hut.
I had come up to the hut to do the Arête Sud du Moine, and I soon found that Joe had other ideas. I knew nothing about Triolet, but I was against the idea on principle, because I knew that he had chosen a snow climb because he didn't think we were capable of a rock one. Afterwards when I had seen the Triolet from a few more angles, I realised what a grand position it was in, and that it would have been a completely fresh viewpoint for us.
I tried everything I knew that evening, telling him that in England we spent every Sunday practicing on rock and that we never got any practice on snow, but I knew he was unconvinced and when I got to bed that night, it was after midnight before I got to sleep, through wondering what would be the best line of attack in the morning.
The barometer was high and yet it started to snow; Margaret and Maurice arrived in the snow, soon after dark; their train from Switzerland had been rather late, but they seemed to think their trip thoroughly worthwhile.
I awoke at 3.30, and said to Joe "Il fait trés beau temp". Joe did actually jump out of bed and look out the window (I thought there had never been such a beautiful moonlit morning), but then he calmly got back into his blanket, muttering something about the gardien.
We were called at 4 o'clock, and downstairs I started on at Joe again; I wanted to know if he'd do the Arête Sud if we were all men, but he wouldn't answer, and it was quite a time before we could look each other in the eye again.
As soon as we left the hut we passed a rock over which a little stream flowed, it was a glorious cold morning and Joe was pleased to inform me that there was verglas the same as there would be on the Arête Sud! I can't say I was really sorry to be going over snow. I must say rocks can't compare in beauty. For quite a way there was a track in the snow, but eventually Joe had to start and blaze a trail. I had to take back all I had thought about his being lazy; it must have been terribly hard work for him, yet it was easy enough for us to follow, in fact we could scarcely keep warm.
At times we'd break through the steps, but on the whole they were pretty firm. When it came to roping up, Joe put Frank between Freda and me. I think Freda found me a little inconsiderate on the rope, for if, for any reason, we got behind (in the interests of photography) I then hurried to catch up the front rope, but I was glad of a little speed to warm up. Looking back, we had the most glorious views with the early sun lighting up Mont Blanc, and in front we were very pleased with Joe's route among the seracs. Presently the slope steepened and then Joe cut a horizontal traverse of about 6 steps in the ice which were barely covered by the snow, and then we continued up in snow which was barely stable on the ice. Then Joe stopped and some chocolate was passed forward to encourage him; we little knew the treacherous thoughts in his mind!
He soon informed us that we must turn back now, before the sun touched our slope, making it avalanche. I was told afterwards that I said (in English), "But I insist on going on", but I quite agreed with Joe about that slope we were on; I hoped that if we went up he'd have to find another way down and that would involve traversing one of those wonderful rocky edges which formed the skyline round the Glacier de Talèfre, but Joe said that the Col de Cristaux and all the other ways down would be as bad, so we had to turn back there and then. He got us down a little more cheerfully by saying that there might be time for the Arête Sud when we got back.
I belayed Frank while he paid out Freda's rope for the traverse, but when I got down for Frank to traverse, I found that the snow wasn't deep enough for a belay. I found the snow down after the traverse the worst, the steps may have been firm at first, but by the time I came to use them I found the snow peeling off from the ice. I was interested to watch the other rope descend and to notice that Joe made steps down in fresh snow, although Maurice and Margaret still followed in the old steps.
The other rope then got in front and Joe didn't encourage the party to hurry. In fact, if Frank stopped to take a photograph, Joe would also stop, although we said we'd catch them up (and have been glad of an excuse to go at a more suitable pace).
We got back at about 10.30, too late Joe said for the Arête Sud, but I couldn't bind, it was such a glorious morning, the snow had something of the Ringing Roger quality about it.
We ordered soup and then spent the rest of the day lazing in the sun, in sun tops until we started to go red. It was worth spending a whole day admiring the position of the hut. The centrepiece, of course was the north face of the Grand Jorasses – it was almost completely white, and it was difficult to visualise the routes up it indicated by the book. We watched the sun creeping round onto it, for Frank was waiting until it touched the second buttress before photographing it.
I was sorry when I saw Joe come back from his inspection of the Arête Sud. Certainly the verdict was that conditions were excellent, but I had hoped to accompany him and learn something about the route. Possibly he had never had any intention of doing the ridge, and he was looking out the Voie Normal – he admitted that, while he had done the South Arête before, he had never done the ordinary way. Later, Frank, Freda and I had a look at the Arête Sud. There was no mistaking which was the Arête Sud – it consisted of vertical rocky towers beyond my wildest dreams, and I was so keen to do it that when I got back my barometer tapping became even more frequent. I learned later that the Arête Sud route only joins the ridge fairly near the top, so possibly that wonderful lower part is quite unclimbable.
I enjoyed an occasional glissade on the way back to the hut and then stopped to talk to two tourists – I think that must have been what they were, for their opinion of me was "une vraie alpiniste".
That evening Greg and co. and the Carlisle crowd arrived with their guide. He sat next to Joe, and I was on Joe's other side. I couldn't make out much of what was going on but I'd occasionally hear my name and "une femme qui monte au premier de la corde" – apparently Joe had never heard of such a creature before! The barometer was high and we went to bed fairly happy for the morning.
I woke up at 3.30 and found the guardian and Catiak discussing the weather. I asked the latter about the weather and he gave the thumbs down sign, so we went to sleep again till 6.30. When I got down Joe said that we might still be able to do our climb, so "toute-de-suite" again became the order of the day. We were ready in an hour, but Joe wasn't; he said that we must wait until 8 o'clock for it might be snowing by then. By 8.30 the guides could find no excuse for hanging about any longer, and we set off.
When it came to roping up, Joe took Margaret and Frank, and Freda and I followed on, leading through, although most of the way we could all move together. The scrambling was very easy, but instead of (I imagine) scree between the rocks there was snow. Freda got the little gully which, until then, was the most interesting part.
I didn't feel Catiak approved of me, once he took Freda's rope and paid it out round a rock and another he shouted across to me to "assurez". I'm afraid if he thought that Freda and I were just trusting that the other wouldn't slip, he was quite right.
Half way up Catiak found an interesting rib to the left, but Joe thought we had better follow him. After that, in places, there were some fair slabs' there was quite a race up, too. I must have annoyed Greg no end by overtaking him, but we were only 2 to his 3. At the top we found people eating, but I had left the rucksack at the bottom with the axes, so there was only a little chocolate for Frank and me. In any case the order came to go down "Toute-de-suite". I suppose we had come up slightly to the right of the Voie Normale, but then went down the ordinary route. Joe went down first until we rejoined our track up. Freda and I followed close behind and we all got down very quickly. After the rocks we picked up our axes, and Joe, after paying out his own rope until they were over the Bergschrund took hold of the middle of Freda's and mine and safeguarded us down the steep snow slope until we were over the rock. I couldn't understand why we had to go down to the rock, until two French lads glissaded down to the right – they got their legs jammed in the snow bridge over the hidden Bergschrund.
At the stone I had had an interesting lesson on the way up. It was a long stride and I had been trying to get a handhold by putting the pick into the snow. Catiak, who was just behind, showed me that even if the snow is a long way up it makes a better hold to put in the shaft of the axe (a method I used the next week).
Once past the Bergschrund, we unroped and the others started cautiously down the snow slope. I waited for Joe, for I was sure he wouldn't walk down. He immediately started a sitting glissade and I had the best one of my life, I should think, following his track – occasionally there would be a slight switchback sensation as I had to go over little humps of snow which must have piled up under him. After this, the word "mouillé" was much in evidence when we got back to the Couvercle. We had our lunch back at the hut (standing up for my part!) and then Frank, Freda, Margaret and I set off for Montenvers. We soon left Margaret behind, but didn't worry as we knew the two guides would pick her up.
I was accused of setting the pace and we only just got there by 5.20 by my watch; however, that was 20 minutes fast – the others couldn't understand why I was in such a hurry!
We caught the 2.20 again on another lovely day; we had with us five day's food supply for I hoped that we'd stay up until the end of the week. Freda and Margaret also carried a primus, but Frank and I didn't bother. I wondered whether we should see the Carlisle people's guide, but Freda and Margaret said he was coming on a later train.
Frank and I went at our own pace and arrived at the Requin just 2 hours after Montenvers. The nearest we got to any excitement was just after the path steepened, and the huge snow bridge over a stream collapsed, but I had just got off it. At the hut we found the guardian scanning the opposite hillside with binoculars for chamois.
I found the other people in the hut quite amusing, for instance there were the two typical Englishmen with their guide who were hoping to do some mountaineering – we gradually came to talk to them when a little of the English reserve on both sides had worn off. They also spoke to the two English skiers, but I never got as far as that. I had come up in the train with the skiers and they had amused me right from the first – they reminded me so of Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne. Then there were the Swiss, it was Mr. Schmidt who spoke such good English.
Greg, Charlie and Nanette had already arrived, straight from the Couvercle, they were 'bouldering' and Charles tried to interest me in it, but I could only do the very simplest problem. Presently the guide arrived, he reminded us a little of Pez, which was a point in his favour. As none of the Carlisle people wanted him the next day, we were told that the four of us could share him. We told him that we wanted to do the Requin, but he wouldn't hear of it, the rocks weren't yet in condition after the snow, he said. There was also another reason, which annoyed us a lot. He said that he could never take just the four of us up for on the way down there were 2 abseils, one after the other and with a party with the composition of ours, it would mean that a woman would have to go down first and put on the second abseil rope. Now a woman could never understand to put on that rope correctly and it that rope wasn't put on properly, his whole career as a guide would be gone! Worse than Marillac was our opinion of him after that.
He thought the Plan possible for the next day, so I suggested the S.W. Ridge (hoping for more rock – also the book said it was "une belle course d'arête classique"), but the guide only laughed and said that it was hardly ever done. Greg tried to tell us how lucky we were to have a guide like Louis Lachenal, of Grand Jorasses (North Face) fame , but I wasn't so sure.
It was a perfect morning and we set out at 4.30, firstly up the moraine behind the hut. I was rather impressed by the way Louis danced over the stones in the moonlight. Before we started on the first snow slope (which was quite harmless) we were made to rope, although other parties had gone on without. He told Frank and me to go together and he took Margaret and Freda. At the end of that first snow slope there was the little chimney; Louis watched me get up it, so I was glad I found the foothold out on the left which enabled me to chimney up it. I found the slab above a little thin at that time of the morning.
Soon the order came to put on crampons (fortunately Nanette's had fitted Freda). Louis came down to the second rope with that perpetual half query of his "va" (or however it's spelt). What a different person he seemed from the despiser of women (would-be) mountaineers he had seemed in the hut the night before. He was all smiles and on this first day he'd continually ask various people "fatigue?". Then he stopped for a moment to point out the sunrise on the Midi, and seemed as thrilled with it as we were. The division of the party seemed quite good to me, Frank could occasionally stop to take photographs (we had quite a system, I carried the filter that day and would take it out of the box, while Frank got out his camera) and we would fairly soon catch up the first rope. As from the Couvercle hut, it seemed to me that the Grand Jorasses dominated the scene, this time though the North Face was seen more in profile. Most of the time there was just a little cloud around the top.
There was an occasional bergschrund to cross, but they were very easy with all the snow, and then we reached the top of the Col Superior du Plan and cramponed up the last snow to the rocks. We still kept our crampons on, but it was very easy, the only place where we hesitated was at the arête. Louis waited here and advised me to get the point of my right crampon well on the little hold and told me to reach up with my hand. I found I preferred a low press hold for my left hand, and that once I had the courage to trust that crampon point, it was alright, for once I had stood up on it I could reach good handholds; I forget the order of the next holds, but I know I ended by sitting on a very convenient lump of rock.
At one time while we were waiting for the rope in front, I was rather thrilled to see rainbow effects on the little patch of mist over Chamonix – then we followed the others to the top. I didn't take Louis' advice when he said "sautez", I preferred the hand traverse! From the top there was a perfect Brockenspectre over Chamonix – we didn't see our own shadows; I suppose the mist was too low down, but the shadow of the summit of the Plan was surrounded by a double or triple rainbow, the colours being very bright.
Our first thought on the top was breakfast (Louis actually offered us food!) and then we learned the names of the peaks – the most prominent among the Italian ones was the Grand Paradiso, and then towards Switzerland there was the Grand Combin, and right in the distance, almost behind the Ravenal and Mumancy, was the Weisshorn – I was so glad at last to connect up with last year's holiday. Louis then went to sleep! We got to the top at 7.30 and stayed in the sunshine until 8.15 when a little mist started to blow over. I thought the rest just long enough; we had time to take in the view and eat, and then sit and do nothing, but it wasn't so prolonged that I began to get impatient to get on. I was full of ideas I wanted to suggest to Louis, one was to traverse the Midi, another to pop up the Requin on our way down, and then there were other thoughts which I didn't dream of suggesting, that we were so near Joe's beloved 'Crocodile'. I kept quiet partly, I must confess, because I knew that the sooner we got down the easier would be the snow slopes and, without a rope above, I wasn't so keen on descending snow softened by the sun. There was another reason too. It seemed to me that this was a perfect day, of its kind, with the perfect guide, therefore we should leave the choice of routes to him, and so I kept quiet.
On the way down, when we came to the little arête, Louis pointed to the little chimney on the (true) right, and I expect I disappointed him by going down that way; apparently the proper way was to "Laissez Glisser" down the arête. This was the first time we heard this happy expression of his, we were soon to learn that it was his advice for getting down anything, rock or snow. There was a cold wind and mist by now, and the parties coming up didn't look at all happy. Firstly there were the two Englishmen from the hut, with their guide, and then the party with the French girl, Schmidt's party were having breakfast just below the rocks.
How I enjoyed the run down in crampons to the top of the Col Superior du Plan and, once we were over the col, we soon got into the sunshine again. Frank and I were going gaily down the morning's tracks, when the order came to take off crampons – that was bad enough, but I was literally horrified when I found that Louis intended going straight down the slope instead of traversing at an easy angle. I said to Frank that we must go back and follow in their footsteps down; Louis told us to go straight down where we were, and when I saw that he was glissading, I realised that we might as well. After the first little glissade, I realised why he was letting us come down that way on a steep slope, which had a bergschrund at the bottom. Never can snow have been in better condition for standing glissades. At first I believe I wished Frank was a little quicker, but it didn't really matter, it was so easy to control one's pace, and one could do it entirely with the feet so that one's hands were free for rope management. I chose a track to the right of Frank which still further facilitated handling the rope. All too soon we were down to the Bergschrund; Louis waited until we were across this and then continued down, but the snow was much softer by now, and I found it quite difficult to walk down. Whenever possible, Louis would glissade (usually sitting ones by now). "Of course I wouldn't tell you to do it if there was a hole", he said, when I was doubtful about glissading where he had walked down. Some way down we were trying to walk when Frank must have slipped and that pulled me right off my balance (fine sort of person I am to be at the top end of a rope, I know!). I couldn't get the point of the axe in, so I tried to break with the pick, but nothing much happened. Then the rope checked me and the surface became more icy and I stopped, Frank stopping just above me. He said afterwards that he found that it was the blade he was braking with; I expect that was a lot more effective in the snow that the pick. Louis then pointed to the icy surface below us; I thought at the time that he was saying what a good job we had braked before we got to it, but I now expect he meant that we could continue our glissade. However, we were very cautious from then on, we traversed away from the ice to Louis' track and then made steps very slowly down to the snow filled crevasse. It was icy after this and there was only one way of getting down it. I started with a standing glissade to save my pants and then prolonged it in the sitting position.
All too soon we were down, when we came to the little chimney, Louis couldn't understand why we should climb down when we could slide! and so we got back to the hut at about 9.45, and spent the rest of the day lounging about.
We set out again the same way, the four of us climbed on the same ropes and then came Greg and Charlie, and finally Gillie and Jean. The last two were the only representatives of the Carlisle crowd, and they soon got left behind and turned back.
The snow was much softer and we didn't need crampons. We continued up to the couloir from the Col du Requin and then started to traverse up to the right in a mixture of rock and snow of about the same standard as the Moine. If only the snow had been hard, it would have been grand to have done it in crampons. There was one little bit of rock where we went up and then traversed down, which I am sure isn't usually done, and then Louis got on ahead. The way at first was a little more definite up the crack and fortunately Louis called down to Schmidt below and I realised he had traversed to the right, otherwise I pounced on the least trace of a spore as eagerly as any boy scout. When I got to the shoulder I was puzzled at first until I found that Louis' rope was breakfasting about 20 ft down. We soon joined them. It was nearly as good a breakfast place as on the Plan. The distant view wasn't as extensive, but we had an interesting close up view of "une tour verticale de 40-50m de haut. Le rocher, de couleur ocre Claire, est coupé en grands pans abrupts". The Chimney Fontaine, the "colonnes" and the nose were all there. Eventually we left our rucksacks behind and started climbing again – we went along and then up the "petit couloir". Louis saw me taking in Frank's rope over my shoulder and told me to take it in round the rock. When I pointed out that I had my sling round the rock he was quite happy again.
The next move was along the semi-hand traverse, and then we could move all together again for a little way. The next little bit was vertical and Louis seemed to treat it quite seriously, so I hoped to get Frank belayed just beneath it before I started up it. Louis didn't seem to think that necessary, so I put Frank's rope over a very poor belay and started up. Frank said that he got a better belay lower down, in any case that little bit of rock was perfectly easy. There was a nice little platform at the top and we all watched Louis climb the grade III "fissure verticale". He went about it most deliberately, and used his hand to get his left vibram well into the hold, and then was soon crawling up the "gouttière". When all his party were up he called down to me and Greg translated, "Do you want a rope down" and I replied "I should like to try it myself first". This was translated to Louis and the reply was "It's difficult, you'd better have a rope down" and at that I made a dive at the rock. I could sympathise with Tony on the Petit Charmoz; it certainly does put you off to be told that a particular rock pitch is too difficult for you to lead! The left handhold was good, but I didn't quite fancy the foothold in nails, so I put a knee there and then found that the right handhold wasn't quite the jug I should have liked, so I put a right knee somewhere and soon pulled myself into the "gouttière" very disgusted at my methods. Louis waited until he heard that I was past the difficult bit and then went on. There had been no dangling loop in case I should need it as there had been on the pitch below, and then he didn't wait for me again until the top; it was sometime before I felt that relations were back as they had been before I refused the rope down.
I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the climbing; at first we traversed a little to the right, there was the "cheminée profonde" and then the "cheminée ouverte verticale, and then the "trois fissures-cheminées" brought us to the foot of the summit block. In places the climbing may have been made easier by the snow between the rocks shortening the pitches. We hoisted "ourselves in an oblique chimney, traversed the west side by a "lame", raised ourselves on another "lame", turned back to the south, and so onto the summit. Here Louis named all the peaks in sight; how he seemed to love them all. I started onto him about the Grépon, but he wouldn't commit himself at all. We waved to Schmidt at the breakfast place and then Louis started down.
He had been telling Margaret she should "sautez" down the (about) 15 ft from summit block. "Après vous, monsieur", said Margaret, and we all climbed down and then unroped, and Louis and Greg took all the ropes as well as the spare one and prepared the two abseils and then Charlie was the first to go down. Louis then beckoned to me and I had about 10 ft to scramble down without a rope – it was the most difficult 10 ft of the day. Louis used one half of 100 ft of full weight nylon as a lifeline and the other half I had to abseil down. There was barely enough rope to get me down to Greg, so I was glad I was abseiling with a sling. As soon as Charles had finished the second abseil, I tied onto the second lifeline and continued down the chimney, this time abseiling on 2 ropes – of different thicknesses.
At the bottom I found Charles on the right saying that there wouldn't be room for everything there, I had better abseil further down, so I went on over the next overhang. There was room to sit down, but I did feel alone down there, I know I tied onto one of the ends of the abseil rope and belayed myself on with my sling just for consolation. Eventually everyone was down and Louis directed the procession off along the hand traverse. He then recovered the second abseil rope (which necessitated my untying). I was interested to see that he put the one end in his mouth so as to be sure not to lose it when the rope came down. Eventually he sent a double rope down to me and told me to tie on one end, and I tried to get up. I began to wonder whether I should ever manage it. "Tirez" he'd say and I'd pull and he'd pull, but all that seemed to happen was that the nylon would stretch. If I hadn't remembered that I owned the nylon I might have asked to have tied onto some thicker rope, for the nylon seemed most inadequate as I leaned back on it overhanging a smoothish slab which ended in space! I tried the crack on the right, but there no finger holds, so I had to go back to the old position and, making a last desperate effort, I just managed to get my feet on the ledge, just as Louis started to say "descendez" – perhaps it had just occurred to him to put the rope round his shoulders, instead of just holding it in his hands. Once I was standing on the ledge, I could reach handholds over the top and it wasn't too bad after that. We did the hand traverse all in one long rope and then split off into our old parties and Louis was behind until just after the little crack. He would barely let me stay belayed until Frank was down, and it was soon after that that he got ahead and, to my horror, I found that instead of traversing in the snow which had been so soft, even in the early hours, he was going straight down it. Frank and I were quite agreed that we'd prefer to go one at a time here, the trouble was that the snow was too soft for more than a psychological axe belay, and there were very few suitable rocks. I didn't in the least enjoy that part of the climb. Louis' party seemed to draw further and further ahead and had reached the gully when we heard an avalanche coming. Frank shouted to them and Louis tried to hurry the party to the right, but they didn't make much progress, firstly because the snow was too deep for quick movement, and secondly because they were going right into the track of the avalanche. All three were immediately swept off their feet, but Louis, although he was head downwards, was able to brake for a second or two before being carried further down. Next he got into an upright position, and was able to brake once or twice like that, before they got out of sight. I know at the time, my feeling was that no Grand Jorasses, north face experience could help them then, but apparently it was only a very minor avalanche and Louis wasn't a bit frightened. It was Margaret in the middle who got the worst of it, even losing her axe.
Frank and I were even less inclined to hurry after this, and we went down one at a time to the snow. Greg had advised us to glissade in the track of the avalanche to avoid the crevasse half way down the slope, but we remembered the Bergschrund at the bottom and preferred to go cautiously. At the Bergschrund, Frank did a sitting glissade and told me to do the same, but to be sure to keep on the bridge. I went too cautiously and got a foot jammed through the bridge and had the greatest difficulty in getting it out. I kept poking the axe down to try to enlarge the hole – I thought that I'd dug a sheep out with an axe. I little thought that I'd have to dig myself out. I wasn't made any happier by the knowledge that this was one of our largest crevasses, and that, while Frank had me belayed, he was considerably below me, for I had decided that this must be a very weak snow bridge. The others were right out of sight by now, so we continued to take our time. At the icy part I was glad to find that we didn't have to descend the steps Louis had cut so far apart in the morning; we found by the tracks that the others had walked along the crevasse until the slope was suitable for glissading.
After the little chimney we varied the route by doing a sitting glissade straight down, but an occasional stone came through the ice to spoil it. Next there was a horizontal traverse in the snow back to the path down to the moraine. We got back to the hut about 1.15. The only other times I remember are that it took us 4½ hours to get up and then 1½ hours to get down the abseil.
Frank and I ordered soup, but when it came I was too busy discussing plans to go in to it, so Frank brought mine out to me – the only thanks he got was an order for salt!
Gillie and Jean wanted Louis the next day for the Plan and then Greg suggested paying him off. That seemed a great pity to me, not to make use of this man who was no ordinary guide, so I asked how many he would take on the Grépon (he'd refused to take us all). Eventually Margaret agreed to share him with me on the Friday for the Grépon and everyone seemed satisfied with the arrangement, Frank because he seemed to think that everyone else had a better claim than himself to the Grépon and Freda seemed to have lost all ambition.
Next we had to fill in Thursday. All along I had been saying that on this day we should be able to do the Dent du Géant guideless, but now that the time had come, I wasn't so keen, for that morning I had found my arms a little stiff, through braking in the snow the day before. It occurred to me that it would be silly to wear out my arms on fixed ropes the day before the Grépon, so I suggested the Midi instead. No-one was the least interested in it! I asked Louis about it and he admitted that the snow was level and much easier than the Glacier d'Envers du Plan. Frank remained unconvinced that we should go this way without a guide and Louis gave me a good talking to about saving myself for the Grépon. I know I should have suggested the Peigne, or something like that, but the others were so determined to return to Chaominix (although we had food with us to last until Saturday) that I again dressed in my wet and only partially darned trousers and removed the blanket I had round me and packed and hurried down with the others to catch the 5.20 train. At one point half the ice which people walked on had collapsed, the remaining half was so narrow and looked so precarious that I was glad of a hand from Frank (I was glad that Mr. Schmidt, who was so surprised the order in which we climbed, couldn't see me!).
We enjoyed the meal at the Deux Gares that night and then looked round the shops of Chamonix; when we looked at postcards, the Grépon became "it". I felt it would be unlucky even to mention it by name.
We also ran into the two English from the hut and the Aig. du Plan. They had been to the Col du Géant that day and were going up to the Albert Premier hut the next day.
It was a perfect day, cold at first – good crampon conditions I thought. My one amusement was looking at the barometer, it was falling all day – only very slightly, but very surely, then in the afternoon the angle steepened.
At 4.30 I went to the station and got my ticket and then waited for Margaret outside. I was surprised when Louis came cycling up (I thought he was up at Montenvers). I'll never forget him, in his check shirt and with his face all smiles, he tried to tell me that I was wrong about the weather. I wasn't so easily cheered. I said "Masi la barometre tombé" (although I think I realised by now that this wasn't a French expression, for no-one understood it). "Ce faire rien" replied Louis, so I voiced my great fear, "Peut être un orage dans la nuit". "Peut être". said Louis and changed the subject.
The whereabouts of Margaret became my next worry; I was glad that when I had gone to the station Frank had gone up to the camp. At exactly 5 o'clock Margaret appeared from the wrong side of the barrier, but the train didn't seem in any hurry to depart and she was able to get her ticket.
On the way up, Louis told us that we weren't staying at Montenvers but at the Hotel due Plan de l'Aiguille – with the help of the French boy in the carriage whose English was fair, Louis was able to persuade us that it would be cheaper than Montenvers.
At Montenvers, Louis met a couple of Swiss friends, they must have said something to Margaret and me before we realised, for Louis said, "Elles comprennent rien, elles sont Anglais". Of course we understood that alright, also the scorn in his voice! Fortunately, one of them spoke English, so we occasionally had things explained ot us. We had café au lait and Louis made a good meal from the food he had with him. Eventually the Swiss said to us, "One of you has a guide Vallot, you musts leave that behind". We then turned out all the odds and ends we had brought up thinking that we were staying at Montenvers, and I tried to forget that Louis didn't want me to know where I was going.
Eventually we set off, according to the book it was 2 hours to the Plan de l'Aiguille, but Louis rushed us along in an hour and ten minutes (Margaret didn't seem to think we had hurried!). By the time we got there I decided that whatever happened the next day, it had been worth it all for this walk. The light was fading all the time and as it got darker the hills over the Col de Voza way were silhouetted against a yellow sky. Just before the hut Louis actually stopped and let us look down onto Chamonix. "It's lit up just like a Christmas tree" was how it struck me. I had cheered up a lot; it was such a perfect evening that I realised the weather couldn't break before we set out.
Many people in quilted jackets were sitting outside and the double lot of nylon which Louis carried seemed to cause more than its usual sensation. We soon recognised Pez and Joe and began to feel at home. We realised that there were many more than the 35 people the place was supposed to hold, but we hoped that Louis would have some influence. It wasn't at all well designed like a C.A.F. but there seemed several separate buildings and we followed Louis through the kitchen into the dining room. Louis immediately started talking to a friend. Margaret and I were shown to seats, but we didn't know what to do about food. Joe soon appeared and started talking to us, although he should have known the snags! It passed the time to get things quite clear with him, and eventually he ordered soup and potatoes for us.
Another girl must have thought we were in great trouble, she came and offered to help us, we appreciated the offer but weren't in need of the help.
Eventually we were able to sit with Louis and have the soup and then the potatoes and corned beef we had brought. We finished with the inevitable tea made with the hot water.
Louis all the time was busy talking to another guide, who we found later was Lionel Terray and there was a Swiss girl and man with him. All the time there was a strange atmosphere in the room. Margaret and I had the feeling that we were causing some amusement, certainly everyone must have been watching us, for when I came to rearrange my crampons and discovered I had lost a strap, everyone in the room seemed to realise that I had lost it as soon as I did myself, and started to look for it, eventually it was Joe who handed it to me.
We must have been served right out of turn for Joe and Lucien had to wait until after our sitting had finished before they could get their meal.
We were ready for bed quite early (I hadn't slept well in Chamonix the night before for the suspense!) and Louis led us by the hand out through the kitchen, down the rickety steps, along and into a bedroom – the mattresses on the boards were harder than in a C.A.F. refuge. It seemed a great pity to turn in on such a perfect night.
We were called at 2.30 and found that the weather hadn't deteriorated in the least. It seemed much more of an adventure getting up by candlelight, than by the usual electric light.
In the dining room we had to wait sometime for the hot water and were ready by 3.15. Louis didn't seem in any hurry to depart, he seemed to be waiting for Terray and we started just behind the other party. Soon Terray was enquiring whether the pace was "vite" for his party. Louis had no such consideration for us! We then got in front. It was all right on the stones, but I didn't enjoy the ice; I thought it the worst of the holiday and we had to cross it in the half light without crampons. At the end I took one step and found I was on a firmer surface, so I put the other foot down boldly, only to find that it was on ice and was lying on it. I wouldn't have minded scratching my hand on rock or in some more worthy cause, but I felt very ashamed to have slipped on the edge of the Glacier de Blaitière. Next there was more moraine and then the Nantillon Glacier. This had the surface of a normal glacier and it wasn't very difficult to traverse it to the flat stone where Louis told us to leave a rucksack and put on crampons.
I don't know why I found it so much more difficult to put on crampons on a rock than it usually is on snow. Margaret had difficulty with her patent fastenings and eventually Louis hammered them home for her. Then we set off up the glacier, this time going right up, not turning off to the Col de Bouche. Before long we had to wait for Margaret who lost a crampon. We thought Louis couldn't blame her for that, as he was supposed to have fastened it for her. We went on a little way and then one of mine came off! I was so ashamed, I had only myself to blame and I thought what a pair the guide will think he has got for the Grépon. I was frantically trying to put it on again before Louis should notice what had happened when Louis turned round and told me that I didn't need it, we had nearly reached the Rognon, and then we roped up, Louis tying me in the middle of the rope. I was quite impressed by the first slab – the tight rope made me, in my hurry, use a doubtful looking stone as a balance handhold; there was a grunt of disapproval from Louis. The rest was just easy scrambling which brought us again to the snow and we again put on our crampons. Louis had on his quick fastening ones in no time, but even when Margaret and I at last had ours fixed, he seemed in no hurry to go on; he was too busy talking to Terray and waiting for that party. Mostly Margaret and I felt right out of it, but occasionally things brightened up a little, for instance the Swiss girl with Terray spoke very good English and even Louis at one point started saying, "Today we speak always in English" and then continued trying to make polite conversation with Terray – such as "And which day is it, Lionel, that we return to the school?", but it didn't last for long.
Once we started, Louis raced us along and we left Terray's party far behind. Soon we came to what I decided was the bottom of the Charmoz-Grépon couloir and Louis stopped, but it was only to tell us to leave our axes there, and then he started on up the glacier again. I thought perhaps I was mistaken in the couloir, so I said to Louis, "Ou est le Grépon?" – he pointed to the Aiguille I expected, so I said "Ou est la voie normale", so he pinted to the col we were making for and said that it went up from there. There didn't seem anything else I could say for we had been warned that the traverse mightn't be possible.
Louis stopped occasionally to shout "Toni" down the glacier; eventually we found that Toni was the English speaking Swiss who we had seen at Montenvers the night before. At the col we took off our crampons and started up the rocks. Soon we got into a slight wind, so Louis stopped and put on his quilted jacket, and then tied the rope on round his chest, fastening it in position by other ropes over his shoulders. The rope looked business-like, but the jacket didn't. I thought, "He'll never do anything good dressed like that" – when we removed our crampons I'd asked him where the Mummery Crack was and he'd said that we couldn't see it from there. The way at first was over loose rock, and there were no scratches at all, then we came to scratched slabs which were very easy; those in vibrams could just walk up them, but Margaret and I, in nails, preferred to use our hands and the other parties (who had caught us up when Louis started to dress up) overtook us here, and, just as I thought we were going to be left right behind, we all stopped for breakfast. The conversation was all in French, which suited me, for I could think in English what I thought of all guides. Although we were climbing rocks, they were most uninteresting and it didn't occur to me that they would improve – I knew that the route "C.P." went up this way, but that had a higher tariff than the ordinary route, therefore Louis wouldn't be taking us up that, we must be on some very easy way that no-one bothers to do normally. And I thought it was all because Louis preferred Terray's and Toni's company to ours.
Eventually, we set off again, but soon stopped on a terrace where we were told to leave our rucksacks. I wonder why we didn't breakfast here, was it because the other place was more sheltered, even if there was nowhere comfortable to sit? or was it because Louis was keeping this view of the west face up his sleeve? I had the best of it, carrying the rucksack, for I could leave it here. Margaret had to take the spare rope all the way. After Louis had made one of us take the rucksack and the other the rope, I was amused to see that Terray took his party's odds and ends in his rucksack and also their spare rope! – a nicely brought up guide! I was sorry to leave the rucksack behind for I knew there was no possibility of a traverse after that (the axes left at the bottom of the couloir had raised my hopes).
After this, the climbing started, and I began to think we must be on C.P. after all. Louis told me to wait where I was while he went down a vertical wall for about 6 ft and then, in his vibrams walked nearly up the arête. At the top he traversed about 10 ft, and then told me to come on. Terray had my rope while I went down (I was interested, if annoyed, to find that he held it as tight as Louis would have done). Then I looked about for holds on the "block coincé" – it reminded me of the one on the Plan, but either the right foothold wasn't as good as on the latter, or else I didn't have the same confidence in my nails as I'd had in my crampon points, for I preferred to use my knees. I felt I was letting Louis down in not doing it daintily, for when someone pointed out to him (before I started) that he could give me more help if the rope was round the block at the top, he'd said that it wasn't necessary. The traverse at the top was reasonably delicate and satisfying, and then I got a view of the sort of chimneys which confronted us. It was beyond my wildest dreams and I thought what luck that it was just my sort of climbing, too. The Swiss tied the end of their rope onto Margaret for the traverse and helped her get up the block using feet instead of knees! – except for occasional times like this, Margaret had to follow on just a few yards behind me, and if I stopped to take in her rope over my shoulder, Louis would get quite impatient.
The order to me was "attendez: and then Louis started up the first chimney. I was told that the Swiss had photographed me on the last pitch and that reminded me that I had a camera and I took Louis in the first chimney – I don't know whether he knew I wasn't paying out his rope, but at that time I still thought that guides didn't like you interfering with it. If only I could remember all those chimneys separately – Louis soon had his jacket off and left it behind, and then we started to go down, along an unscratched way, with loose rocks (an east terrace). I didn't mind for I knew that the further we went down (actually it wasn't very far) the longer would be the climb up and also the further we went to the left the more vertical seemed the cliff, and the further we were from the rib where that morning I had (quite erroneously!) decided there was an easy way. There was one little slab which I decided was the most difficult move of the whole day. I didn't like trusting my nails on only the general roughness of the rock, but it proved quite adequate. After climbing one chimney, Louis started to pull in the rope when we found it was jammed down a crack. It was too narrow a crack to get into from the outside, but there was a hole behind, which I found I was able to descend after I'd taken off my jacket. My legs had to come out of another hole on the face of the mountain, and apparently the others didn't know what was happening. The Swiss girl kept telling me afterwards how sorry they were for me, she thought I'd fallen down the hole. From the bottom I could get my hand into the crack with the rope, but I couldn't release it, partly because my arm had to go round several corners and there seemed little power in my hand in such an awkward position.
I then found it would be difficult to get out, partly because I was trying to keep my bare arms away from the rough rock, but Terray came up and pulled me out, and then started tugging at the rope – I didn't envy Margaret for it was her nylon – but eventually he freed it, and we were able to continue. There was one other chimney I remember, for Louis found it strenuous as he missed the foothold on the left. And so to the final problem, before I knew where I was Louis had me belayed to a most inadequate flake of rock and put a karabiner through the belay and told me to pay out his rope through this. I know I thought the stance wasn't very good for something so serious that a guide wanted his rope paid out, but I decided that it anything happened I should have to jump to the right and rely on the belay so it didn't really matter. Louis was up very soon and the Swiss were saying that there were only 30 more metres to the top. My orders then came down to tie on the rope as far up as possible to leave more for Margaret, so I promptly started taking off my old loop before I had put on a new one. Toni started saying "Now do you know how to tie yourself on" and then "Now are you in a good position before you take off that rope" – I decided I wasn't and moved up to slightly better footholds before untying. I'll always be grateful to him for saying this – not that I think I'd have fallen off if he hadn't, but because before, I hadn't appreciated the position. I then realised that it must be the most exposed stance that I'm ever likely to unrope on. I was soon tied into the new loop and was untying the other two and putting the karabiner into my waste loop.
Then I started on the "crux of the climb" – the "surplomb" was a slab with handholds on either side and Louis had walked with his feet on the slab – I didn't fancy this method, I put my boots on the wall on the left.
When I first got up to the overhang, I found the handhold on the right, but I wasn't quite high enough to get one on the left. It was at this moment that Margaret asked whether she could come further up before I went on, she asked me about the ledge, but I said "There's nothing here at all" – I'm afraid I was referring to the overhang, not the ledge beneath – but I only thought that for a moment – I realised I'd have to move quickly on this part, but then a jug handle materialised for the left hand and it was alright. "Elle trouve les pris au gauche" Toni told Louis and he directed Margaret to the same footholds. Louis then watched Terray and was pleased to remark "Il le grimpe comme moi".
That brought us to the top of the ridge. I was interested to look down the east face, certainly it was much longer than the west, but the angle was so gentle in comparison – more like the Idwal slabs we thought. Louis pointed the different parts of the Grépon, the Gd. Gendarme, Rue des Bicyclettes and then the south and highest summit which we were making for.
Eventually we set off again through the Boite aux Lettres and then Louis asked me whether I wanted to finish by the Venetz or Lochmatter routes. I didn't know which was the hardest, so I said I didn't mind. I'd no doubt but that he'd pull me up – whichever one we did. Of course, at this he had to pretend to be most indignant and swear he hadn't pulled at all, yet he still didn't get me a slack rope for the top part.
If nothing else, this tight rope is bad for his profession. Most likely it was that which made the climb seem so easy and gave me the idea I could have led it myself – the rock wasn't scratched and hence tricounis gripped perfectly on it, although the Swiss kept saying that iron instead of steel nails would be better. Louis made for the Z and then hesitated and then Toni's friend just darted up the crack and Louis followed. I hesitated at first, to find the best way of tackling it, and then found that the chief difficulty was in avoiding Toni's hands – he wanted to hold my feet on, but I didn't consider that necessary. On the top, Toni started telling me that it was an Englishman who first climbed it, so I said yes, but he also had to have a guide to pull him up" (not that that is what I think of Mummery!). I spoke in English thinking that Louis wouldn't understand, so I felt very silly when he asked Toni what I had said. Louis didn't seem to trust what I said after that, for instance at the bottom Toni made some remark about my climbing and I replied that it was descending the snow that I hadn't liked, and again Louis wanted it translated.
After we'd all admired the view, the rope was fixed for the abseil, the sling was put round the Madonna. Margaret was first down and, despite the numerous instructions from everyone (they seemed contradictory to me), was able to find her way into the balcony.
My turn came next. I don't think I'll every enjoy the first few feet of an abseil, but after that I was sailing down merrily when my lifeline stopped me, but unlike on the Nonne, there was no little ledge for my feet and I just had to hang there until (I suppose) the rope was untangled. Apart from this it was a grand abseil, so unlike the one on the Requin where the walls of the chimney kept getting in the way. My only regret was that I didn't have time to see the way up the Knubel Crack. We all had a lifeline except Terray, the last down, and Louis most conscientiously brought in his climbing rope round a rock. From the Breche Balfour, the way down was simple. When we came to the first chimney of our route up, Louis made Margaret and me climb down it and then he and all the others abseiled down the slab.
Margaret and I waited after the little traverse for Louis and he said to me "Assurez", so I put a belay on for myself, but still wasn't happy, he wanted me to take in his rope as he did the traverse! Margaret and I "Se laissant glisser à cheval sur la crête de la block" with the aid of a tight rope and then Louis left the rope between himself and me round the top of the block and everyone else was allowed to slide down that. In preparation for the ascent of the vertical wall, I was examining the handholds, poor Louis thought I was trying to climb it in front of him and wasn't at all pleased, for of course he had to give me a tight rope for that! That brought us to the terrasse C.P. and our rucksacks. As on the way up, the other parties overtook us on the easy slabs that followed. For the first time I came in for Louis' bullying – his continual "debout" and "sans main". At the bottom we took a route slightly to the left of the one by which we had ascended, and it seemed much firmer.
The snow at first was gradual, but I didn't enjoy the steeper parts – I could have done with a tight rope then, but Louis at times would go right down to Margaret to show us how to kick steps. It wasn't so bad after we had collected our axes. I can't think why we had to leave them at the bottom of the couloir, unless he thought it would be good for us to descend the first snow without them, and yet he took that snow reasonably seriously for he wouldn't let me glissade at one point where I thought it possible to control my speed with my feet.
We were soon down the rocks and then down the final snow to the other rucksack. The last part we did as a sitting glissade. I closed up on Margaret, but we didn't go fast enough for Louis, he would come down and try to push us on with his feet – it would have been a good idea if the crampons in the rucksack on my back hadn't by then worked round so that they were sticking into me! After we unroped, Louis got on ahead, but I was beginning to know the way by then. I enjoyed running down the path at my own speed and then taking the shortcuts, and I found Louis and the Swiss waiting at the bottom. We stayed here some time and had another meal before sauntering along to Montenvers where we arrived at 3 o'clock (I remember also that we got to the top about 10.15). There would have been time to have caught the 3.20 train, but we seemed to have no chance of settling up with Louis. It was interesting to get at the guide book for "Charlet variant" kept coming up in the others'; conversation.
Eventually Louis made up his mind about the tariff. He thought that as we were paying for this one day, he had got out of the day rate idea, and suggested that we paid 7,000 fr. which he said was what Terray was receiving. Fortunately Margaret reminded him that we were paying him 2000 fr. a day, plus a third the tariff of the peak (for we hadn't 7,000 fr. between us). After a further consultation with Terray he decided that the route was worth 8,000 fr., the same as the face climb (I didn't realise at the time that it was the east face route which had that tariff!). We had plenty of time for the 5.20 train and travelled down with the two Swiss of Terray's rope.
The weather that day had started perfect, but had then gradually clouded over and in fact we had had a little rain while coming down the Nantillon Glacier, but then, at 2 or 3 o'clock it began to brighten and I became very envious of those who we left at Montenvers – Louis for his Arête Sud du Fou, and Terray who was going with the Dutch lady and Pierre Maurice to try to make the first ascent of the season of the Aiguille Verte. Half a dozen times I had nearly asked Louis' advice as to whether Margaret and I could try the Grand Charmoz, but I hadn't quite got the courage, partly because I knew he'd disapprove and partly because there was the problem of letting Freda know – it would mean walking up again as the last train was at 5 o'clock.
That evening I went up to the camp and cooked myself macaroni cheese for supper and then we pleased Freda by going to the café for ices. I'm afraid that Margaret and I didn't quite appreciate the girls' band.
This last lovely morning I spent wandering round Chamonix, buying a few things for the journey. I seemed to eat about half of a thick loaf of bread getting it back to the Chalet. I ran into Joe who wanted to know what we had done and then wished me Bon Voyage. I rather made up for lost time in the buying of patisseries and I didn't save a single one for the journey.
When I came to pack, I realised that even if I had caught the 3.20 from Montenvers the day before, it was doubtful if I could have caught the Paris train, there were so many odds and ends; I had to use my water bucket as a container. A French friend of Toni Nicholson helped me, whatever I started to do – if it were to undo my primus, or fix my crampons on, he'd decide he could do it better than me (and he was right too!).
Eventually I was ready and got my things to the station in plenty of time for the 4.16 train. At St. Gervais we looked round the town, but weren't impressed. It wasn't until afterwards that I found that we didn't get any further than Le Fayet. We had ices and bought a little jambon for the journey and then returned to the station to be ready for the train. When it did arrive, practically all the seats were booked, but Freda, Margaret and I managed to get in a carriage together. Despite my corner place, I soon found the seat very hard and uncomfortable. I wished I'd travelled Friday night for then I'd have slept through anything.
At Paris we again found an interstation bus to take us to the Gare St. Lazaire, where we found unreserved seats on the 9.25 boat train.
We passed the time in the train by making tea on Freda's primus. At Dieppe we found the boat was the Arramanches again. As soon as I got on I started to queue for a meal. I had been eating all night, but I seemed in a perpetual state of hunger on that journey. The French food wasn't very satisfying and I started again on my bread and cheese soon after I got on deck.
Although we had been half an hour late leaving France, we arrived on time at Newhaven. Then began the most trying hour and a half of the holiday – queuing with full kit to get off the boat and through the customs. I had learned wisdom at the customs and only declared my half bottle of cognac. I thought he was going to want to see my camera, which was deep down in my pack, but when he saw that my camera case was being used as a handbag he seemed satisfied.
I left my kit on the platform ready for the Brighton train and went back to the port to try to get a cup of tea, but the queue was too long and before I had got any I heard my train coming. I found I couldn't run very fast in my sandals, so I took them off and continued barefoot – much to the amusement of those watching me. When I came to get into the train, I dropped one of the sandals onto the line, but fortunately there was room to drop down between the train and the platform and recover it. I was glad to see the porter stagger a little with my rucksack as he handed it in. I'd been staggering with it for so long, I most unkindly thought it was time someone else had a turn.
I caught the 9.06 to Tamworth for tea in the tea hut and then the 12.07 (which was on time) to Crewe. I got in the waiting Welsh train and eventually Frank appeared from the 10.50 from Euston. We talked and then dozed to Llandudno Junction where we put our packs in the 5.55 to Bettws. Our next mission was to find Freda, Don and Tony, who we thought were waiting somewhere on the station. We eventually found them in the first train; Freda seemed awake and Tony soon woke up, but we thought that Don would never come to. The two campers were in their sleeping bags; it was a pity to disturb them, but eventually they came into the second train. At Bettws we passed the time, as usual with the weighing machine, my pack came to 36 lb this time and Frank's to 46 lb.
At Capel we started what I always think is a weary trek along the road. I think that Freda was dissatisfied with our pace, apparently she usually gets to the hut by 8.30; this time we didn't get there until 9. o'clock. We passed the barn on the left – no halt for breakfast this time and then, at Pen-y-gwryd, we had to lose all the height we had gained and dropped down the old road to the power station. I was very glad to see the Pinnacle Club hut at last, and, when I saw the library, I thought that I wouldn't mind a wet day there! The other three pitched their tent on the first level and dry stretch of ground above the hut and Freda took them up a pot of tea. Back at the hut Mrs. Jeffries made the porridge – of the Scottish variety! and then I finished my breakfast on sausage and egg.
Eventually we were ready to set out – Freda, Pat and I went up by the pipeline and then along the track to the foot of Lliwedd where we waited for the others. Evelyn and the only other climbing "Pinnacler" went on to another climb and Freda and Pat seemed determined to climb Central Chimney which left me with the three visitors to the club. I suggested that Frank and I should try the Rocker route, but Tony wouldn't hear of it and eventually I roped up with him and Don took Frank. Tony and Don wanted to do Avalanche, but I wanted to do a fresh climb and in the end we started on 'Roof Route', following Freda and Pat up their first chimney. Like Freda in front, and Tony and Don behind, I was most impressed with that chimney – I put it down to the time of the year, the holds were there, and good, but one had to lean right out on them to make the best use of them, and I hardly had the confidence to do that. Tony then took over the leading, and some of the slabs still impressed me. Eventually I was confronted with a slab which I recognised as Route II (about the only thing I can remember about that route!) – so Tony descended a little and led the slab on our route. There was one other place where I took over the lead; Tony was finding the way to the right rather difficult, so he brought me up to a convenient stance and then, as I maintained it was easier to the left, he let me go up that way, and for once in my life I was right. After that, the climb petered out on the Great Terrace, where we met Pat and Freda, also Paul and Eileen and had a belated lunch. Next Tony said he'd like to finish the Horseshoe, and Frank was the obvious companion for him, which left Don and me both longing for some real climbing. Another party came up and continued on Red Wall, and seeing them quickly over the most difficult part gave Don enough confidence to start on it. Don went up to the belay and I found that even that was trickier than it looked. Don was sometime before he'd trust his tricouni on the smooth hold on the "crux of the climb", but once he'd stepped up on it, the difficulty was over. I don't remember anything else about Red Wall; our next difficulty was to find the start of Longlands continuation above the gallery – eventually we found a pitch starting with a sort of chimneying move, which I found rather difficult. After that, there were no really outstanding pitches until the last, although it was all delightful climbing. The holds seemed to me to be the very minimum size for a tricouni and, of course, the handholds weren't exactly jugs. I was glad to have a rope above me, for while the moves were all perfectly possible it seemed to me that if one of those minute holds on notoriously rotten rock gave way, my other holds wouldn't be sufficient to keep me on. The Roof Route had seemed to me to be rather broken and grassy, but after the terrace we were in the mist and didn't realise how broken the climbing was; in fact, it seemed a real "mountaineering route". When we first got into the mist on the Red Wall, we looked down onto the terrace and all we could see was a hand turning over the pages of a guide book, the rest of the body was obscured.
Now to the last pitch. Don got up the first part to the right easily enough, but after a look at the final move to the left of the slab he retreated and put on a running belay half way up. Eventually he made the move and it was my turn to start the pitch. I thought that the first easy move was going to defeat me. I stood on little holds and found that the jug which Don must have used was a good six inches too high and I was sure that this pitch was the one exception to my rule that there is always an intermediate hold for intermediate sized people. I just stood there fiddling with the holds and wondered who'd give in first, whether Don would get impatient and pull me up or off, or whether I'd get tired on those footholds. Neither happened, for I suddenly started to take an interest in my handholds. I realised that one of them would make a fine sideways pull, and there, just where I wanted it was a "sideways press" for a tricouni! That took me up to the "hardest move of the climb" – I fiddled round on the holds, but eventually had to use them, as Don had suggested, and found that the lower move had been excellent practice for this one. Quite pleased with ourselves, we coiled up the rope on the top of the East Peak, and then set off down. There was no view over towards the sea this time, but half way down, we got below the mist.
We reached the hut just as it was dark and Don had a cup of tea before going back to the camp to cook with Tony and Frank who had got down first. I found that hut rations were rather different from camping ones; I fried my steak, but potatoes, cauliflower and celery from the communal pot went with it and we finished with plums and cremola.
The campers came in later, and we sorted out the photos which Frank had had printed for Freda and Tony. Some of the others were also glad to see the snaps of our holiday.
We hadn't altered our watches, hoping that we'd get away a little earlier like this, but I'm afraid it was 10 o'clock by the new time before we set out. Mrs. King was taking Freda, Pat and the two Dorothys round to Tryfan and this left me to walk with the campers. I was ready first and started up on my own to take my time on the road. The others were at Pen-y-Gwryd almost as soon as me and we set off up the Miners Track. Don took my rope and I could just about keep up without that. We were in mist at the top, so when we got onto the flat, marshy ground, I insisted that someone looked at the compass, but this time there was no need, the track was cairned all the way and we easily found our way down towards the col before Tryfan.
We started traversing long and up Tryfan, but found we were too low for Heather Terrace and had to cut up – arriving on the terrace at about Central Buttress. We had our lunch somewhere near North Gully and left our packs and went down to show Don and Tony the start of Grooved Arête. Frank and I then went back to our North Buttress. I started up my usual way, the left hand groove; I found that before the final move I had to warm my hands, for the water on the holds was chilling. After that, Frank did all the leading. We were amazed how soon we caught up other parties who had started before we had begun lunch. We filled in the time waiting for them at the foot of the Terrace Wall by traversing and speaking to Tony and Don on their climb. Eventually we reached the beginning of the traverse onto Belle Vue Terrace. We shivered here for ages, waiting for a rope of 4 in front of us; they must have all been beginners, later I heard their leader say, "Now I haven't had time to ask before, but did any of you come off?" At last we could wait no longer and went up the gully and round to watch another party finish Grooved Arête. We couldn't see any signs of Tony and Don and it was still very cold, so we hurried on to the top of North Peak, and then to Adam and Eve. We were still roped and I considered it a real mountaineering problem to keep the rope orderly in that wind. Frank found it quite satisfying to climb from Adam to Eve in the conditions obtaining, and then we went back to the top of the climbs. There were still no signs of Tony and Don, so we went down the gully and finished our climb. Just before Frank reached the half way stance on the traverse, the wind tore at the rope with enough force to have torn off a climber delicately placed; fortunately our climb contained Tryfan jugs at their best. Frank found the exploration of what I can only visualise as a calm, sunny terrace, quite a hair raising experience, in its wet and windy condition. I didn't trouble to go on it. We were soon up the rest of the climb and down the gully to the rucksacks. We found Tony and Don's gone and scratched on a piece of rock on mine was a message "gone home". Frank thought I ought to keep my note as a memento!
We went down Heather Terrace and then to the right (looking down) of the Milestone. My boots didn't seem much good scrambling over the boulders and I later found that two of my tricounis and all the nails in the centre of the sole were missing.
It was nearly dark when we reached the road, and we arrived at the hostel at about 6 o'clock and found that there was plenty of room. We at once put on the kettle and had the inevitable tea and cake (famous English 5 o'clock tea which had amused Chamonix) and then started to cook our supper. The soup was good, tomato with dried carrots (well cooked this time!); next we had our fried steak with pom and finished up with the usual fruit and oatmeal concoction, not to mention more tea.
Then we sat round the fire with our fellow hostellers; there was one who had been to Zermatt this year, and I had quite a lot to say to him. I showed him Frank's Chamonix photos too (I had Margaret's copies). The others were mostly younger, but they were climbers and you could tell that "The Alps" were their ambition.
Altogether there was a grand atmosphere, of the sort you'd expect at Idwal Cottage.
Frank and I set off about 10 o'clock to ascend Pen-yr-Olen-Wen. One of the hostellers had told me that the usual way up was to go right and strike the ridge. We started traversing a little right, but not very far and at first there were heather and big boulders in the way. Later we got onto gravely gullies and the way was straightforward up these, but it was the steepness of the slope that got me, with my pack. It reminded me a little of the pathless slope from the Mer de Glace to the Petit Charmoz, for we had carried packs up there, but I could only think that an axe to lean on was a great help there. I think it took us two hours to get to the summit, and I imagined that from there it was just a glorious run down to the coast, but far from it, whenever the way was even slightly uphill I'd find myself lagging behind Frank, although his pack must have been about twice as heavy as mine.
It was a misty day, but I was so glad we weren't quite without views. We saw the top of Tryfan, but the Glyders were in mist – I thought this an improvement on the complete view to the south, for I so hate to see Tryfan dwarfed by the ridge behind. Frank was very thrilled to find the steepness of the drop to the north. We continued on to Carnedd Llewelyn for lunch. We found it soon got cold when we stopped and were glad to get moving again. We followed the ridge over Foel Grach and Foel Frâs; Frank was pleased to find the cairn on the latter, as, apparently, the Firbanks hadn't succeeded in doing so. The mist cleared again as we were going down before Drum. It was just the right place for another view, firstly we could appreciate how extensive was the moorland, secondly there were exciting little conical peaks on the right and thirdly it looked a grand range of hills parallel to the coast; also we could see right out over Anglesey.
After Drum we meant to drop down the footpath running northwest, but we eventually reached the Roman Road, practically at the Bwlch. From there, we struck northwest, but there wasn't much sign of a pth. At one point all I could see was mist and rushes – I thought that if a film producer could see it, he'd think it a fine setting for a man hung and so to the outskirts of Llanfairfechan at about dusk. Frank chose the higher road, which gave us a good view of the town. We were in plenty of time for the 5.15, but we decided that it would benefit neither of us, while the 7.44 would take me straight through to Manchester. We left our packs at the station and I went back to the town for tea and then cooked our supper in the waiting room (I was glad that the primus which poor old Frank had been carrying for the last few days had come in useful at last). We had bacon and beans with pom – but I'm afraid I again made the pom too slack for Frank to enjoy.
The train got me to Manchester in time to walk across to the other station and catch the Derby train. I eventually reached Nottingham at about 4 o'clock and had a couple of hours sleep in the waiting room before making my way home.
It wasn't actually raining as I caught the 9.06 to Tamworth, but it was rather a wretched evening as I walked to the station. At Tamworth it was a lovely, cloudless, moonlight night, so I was most surprised to find it pouring at Crewe. The journey continued like this, a beautiful sky at the Junction and heavy rain at Bettws. I was surprised to find that it wasn't raining at Capel and the road wasn't even wet. I started to walk up the Idwal road, but before I had even got organised on the correct side of the road, according to the rules of the hitch-hikers' union, a car came along and drove me as far as Dol Llech. This just suited me, for it left me with a long enough walk to take in the scenery (the best views were back towards Capel, where it was quite clear). I got as far as Glan Dena, but hadn't the courage to go in, sitting on the doorstep instead, reading a little more of "The Night Climbers of Cambridge". I suddenly began to wonder whether anyone else had turned up and thought that if they hadn't I had no right to be there, as I hadn't a little card from Cyril this time. After about half an hour two other people in the hut saw and asked me in. They couldn't have been nicer; they left me with their tea pot, and I had innumerable cups of tea until the Polaris began to stir about 9 o'clock. They seemed to expect sympathy from me because they hadn't been to bed before 2 o'clock that morning! There were Freda and Bernard, Stan and the two Johns.
After the porridge I quite enjoyed my sausage with the mixture of tomatoes, snook and onions, which had so annoyed Freda.
Eventually we set off up to Heather Terrace, and I was interested to find out how my vibrams fared. They were lovely on dry rock and on one piece of rock over which water was flowing, it seemed to me that I couldn't get them to slip if I tried.
We left Freda and Bernard at the foot of North Buttress and went on to South Gully. I said I preferred Pinnacle Rib to Gashed Crag – I seem to do G.A.P.R. and G.C. alternately and it seemed to me that it was the turn of P.R. John H. hadn't done it before and we led through, at first. It was my turn for the yellow slab, but I generously (or otherwise!) gave it to John. All the rest of the climb had gone beautifully in my new footgear, so I was surprised to find that my vibrams wouldn't fit on the hold at the top of the yellow slab – as I tried to pivot round on that toe my boot more or less bounced off the hold. It may have been that the sole was so thick that I couldn't get it far enough on the hold. We both thought it a delightful climb and got up fairly quickly to the last pitch. I pointed out to John the last chimney, but he remembered doing a very pleasant climb further to the left on the wall and he led up this and we joined Bernard and Freda at the top and had lunch. Stan and John were still some way down their climb, so, Bernard and Freda started for Bristly Ridge, John and I went down to look at our last chimney. John told me that it was my turn to lead. I got up the first pitch alright – at least I decided it was the end of the pitch when I saw what was to come. I had a try and so did John, and then I had a final try. The first time I decided that I was defeated by the fact that I was too exhausted by the time I reached the handholds, the second time I realised that it was the technical difficulties which were proving too much, at least with the rocks in the present condition; the right handhold was very slimy and I couldn't get my right foot, doubled up beneath me, to stay in its hold long enough to move my left foot up to the next hold, so I had to go down again. It was a pity, for that pitch will remain a challenge until I try it again and either find the rocks drier, or else have the confidence given by a rope above.
There was just time for John and me to get the view from the North Peak before setting off with the others for Bristly Ridge. It was years since I had done it, perhaps I was a little disappointed with the quality of the scrambling, but I certainly wasn't with the situations – it was fairly late in the afternoon and with the mist not far away there was definitely an air about the tower. We continued on past the February campsite, to the top of Glyder Fach and then to the beginning of the Gribin Ridge where Freda and Bernard joined us from Glyder Fawr. We got some way down the Gribin when Stan wondered whether there'd be a scree run down on the left and I joined him and John H. I seemed much slower than the other two; I don't know that it was entirely the boots.
Eventually I lost them and soon afterwards I cut down on the easier ground to the left and this brought me to the easy way down the Gribin Facet. It was pretty dark by now, so I hurried on down to Ogwen Cottage for tea, where I found that I was in front of the other two.
That evening in the lounge, Stan, John H. and Clive talked "Oberland" the whole time.
As I was afraid it was 5 to 1 in favour of the Carnedds – but as soon as we started, the ratio was 6:0. We started up by the Afon Lloer and then by the east ridge to Pen-yr-Olen Wen. The best view was when we first got up to Ffynon Lloer – it seemed a lovely little lake with crags behind going up into the mist. It was the conversation on the way up which amused me, mostly about advertising, but just occasionally "Hamlet" – Saturday's topic, would crop up. We continued round to Carnedd Dafydd and on to the next little pip, where John D. and I decided to turn back. We were able to cut more or less straight down the hillside to the hut, where, fortunately, the back door was open. After a cup of tea, we set off down the road to Bethesda, stopping to lunch off malt bread half way down.
At Bethesda we just missed the 3.35, but fortunately there was a 4.05 which got us to Bangor in time to patronise the refreshment room before catching the 5.19. At Crewe I was in nice time for the 8.50, but poor old John had to wait until after midnight for the next London train. I expect I was in Nottingham before he had left Crewe.
I travelled by myself, catching the 9.06 from Nottingham and changing at Tamworth and Crewe. I had a seat to myself in the last train and was quite sorry to get out at Ulverston. I waited a little while at the station, but not very long for I didn't know the exact time of the bus, and also I didn't know whether I remembered the way to the bus stop. Actually, I had no trouble with the "route-finding" and the bus wasn't until 7 o'clock, so I had an hour to wait. I was sheltered from the pouring rain, but I got colder and colder, and I couldn't think why I had come! However, once I got in the bus it wasn't so bad. I finished my night sleep, and then found the weather clearing up and, at Coniston, Freda was waiting for me – she had stayed on the train and the connection at Foxfield had worked out, for a change. She was staying at the hostel, but thought she'd have breakfast at the Black Bull. Mrs. Robinson was expecting me and breakfast was ready almost at once. We were soon joined by Mrs. Standring (representing the L.A.C.) and Peggy. Evelyn was first down and presently Douglas Milner (for the Rucksack Club) arrived (he remembered seeing me at Crewe a year before).
Peggy and I were sleeping out and eventually we found our way to Mrs. Tyson's where we joined before changing and setting out with the Dow Crag party. It was a perfect morning, so wonderful to me because of the contrast to the rain at Ulverston. When the crag came in sight I hoped I could get a little practice with a camera, but my film jammed. It was such a pity for the low January sun seemed to show up every route – it was rather like a Heaton-Cooper drawing.
Although it was such a good day for views, there was a cold wind and a sheltered climb seemed a good idea. I was left to climb with Frances and she turned out to be a splendid companion. We started up Woodhouses – Frances had a little trouble in entering the first open chimney, but had no further difficulty in the climb. I took my time over the wriggly chimney, and a handhold was iced and I had to get the feeling back in the hand which had tried to use it, before proceeding. After the climb we came down Easy Terrace to the cave for lunch. We were the first rope down and got cold waiting; some other climbers in the cave thought I looked in need of a spare battle-dress top and I was very glad of it. Frances and I set off with our rucksacks up "C" before the others were ready. We hurried up it, trying to keep warm (I chose the easiest variant every time) and at Easy Terrace we unroped. Really, the most interesting part was at the top; it was only scrambling, but all the rocks were covered with black moss which was frozen and had little icicles attached. We got to the top and into the sun, but didn't stand still looking at the view for long. We hurried down to Goats Hause and onto Old Man. The sun had gone by now, but it was lovely – there was a sprinkling of snow underfoot and the sky was still practically clear. We cut down to the track which we reached just before dark, but we were back at the Bull before the tea was removed. There was plenty of time to change (I'd actually taken a dress to a climbing weekend!) before dinner. The turkey etc. was almost worth coming all the way to Coniston for, and then the speeches began. After "The King", Bray "welcomed" the guests and other clubs. Her speech was entirely made up of quotations – she didn't mention the clubs or guests by name, but it soon became obvious who she was referring to. She dealt with the L.A.C. and L.S.C.C. together – they were made into real heroines. When she came to the A.C. she gave the impression that they were a lot of doddering old so-and-sos who needed several guides to tow them up their climbs. I was watching Colonel Westmoreland (A.C. representative), but there wasn't a ghost of a smile on his face.
Mrs. Standring replied – apparently her speech was shorter than she had intended for her house had been burgled just before she came, and among the things missing was an attaché case containing her original speech.
Next Milner proposed the Club and President – causing a great deal of amusement (he seemed very much in awe of the Club). Finally, Evelyn replied.
Later in the lounge we saw the Pinnacle Club and L.S.C.C. slides. Milner worked the lantern and repeatedly he'd tilt it, saying he was correcting the angle which the P.C. had exaggerated in their photos!
Peggy and I, Frances, Horatio, together with Molly Fitzgibbon and Ruth and A.T. Hargreaves, had breakfast at Mrs. Tyson's and then joined the party to the Crag. It felt much warmer than the day before, as a lot of the wind had dropped, but it had frozen in the night; there was a lot less water on the path. I was to climb with Peggy – we hoped to do Giants Crawl, but there was a sheet of ice right across. We started up the first pitch as the Hargreaves were looking at it, but A.T. had to retreat through the lack of an axe and we then followed the Hargreaves who found a moderate way of East Buttress. There was a difficult corner at the bottom and I'm afraid that A.T. helped us. There were good holds over the top, but my hands were so numbed by the cold rock, that it was difficult to pull up and Peggy gave me quite a tight rope (we were leading through). We were in the mist at the top, but joined Evelyn and Horatio, and the six of us walked over to Levers Water and down by the copper mines, in plenty of time for tea.
Next I changed and packed and had my early supper, and Freda and I went out to catch the 7.15 bus. By the time we got out, we found the bus already full and a queue nearly large enough to fill another bus, waiting. I explained to the conductress that we had a train to catch but two others from the Black Bull told us not to worry for they would get a car if necessary. Actually we were allowed to crowd onto the bus and caught our train alright. Freda came to Crewe as there was no train from Preston to Manchester (she had to pay extra for the privilege) and then I went on to Birmingham to spend a few hours (as a variation to Tamworth) and got to Nottingham about 7.30.
I caught the 4.10 to Derby and Crewe on my own. I had three hours to spare and spent them in the town, firstly having a meal and then wandering around the streets. I was very surprised when Don got off a bus just by me, but I was pleased to see him for, while I knew for certain that Tony was coming, I wasn't sure about Don. We wasted an hour or so at the pictures – the newsreel showing skiing at Chamonix was very thrilling, but we weren't so very disappointed to have to come out before the end of 'Springtime in the Rockies'.
Back at the station, we found Tony who was beginning to wonder what had become of us. The train arrived on time and we were able to find a fairly empty carriage and settled down for a good sleep before the first stop at Perth.
Soon after Perth, we went along to the front of the train and waited until breakfast was ready. As usual it was a lovely breakfast – served just as we were getting excited about the patches of snow – and I was promising them so much more in the Cairngorms. We were back in our old carriage when we passed Kingussie and I got very depressed not to see any snow on the top of the Sgoran Dubh Ridge, as there had been the year before – and as we continued on to Aviemore we could see that the north sides were also bare except for a few gullies.
When we got out at Aviemore, we were too upset to get our taxi to Loch Morlich as we had planned, instead we started to walk. It was a glorious sunny morning and the frost was very thick, but that was no consolation. My trouble was that my pack, containing rope, tent, stove and four days' food, together with my skis on my shoulders came into the class that I cannot carry continuously without occasionally resting my shoulders and the others had no such trouble. Eventually, we reached Loch Morlich and the others asked if that was where we were camping. I said yes, for I didn't feel capable of carrying my pack any further, although I had intended to camp further on. We walked round to the southwest corner of the lake, the ideal campsite seemed to elude us, but we eventually put up the tent under some trees. At first I thought we were sunk, as I could find no stones for the guys, but I soon found that logs made a good substitute. We made ourselves some tea and then set out in a beeline towards the snow we could see in Corrie Casse. We didn't choose that route again. It was lovely through the trees, but the heather on the ground and the undulations made it rather hard going, besides the corrie seemed to get no nearer. We had a considerable drop to cross the river, and wished we'd been able to pitch our camp there. Eventually, we came to our first patch of snow and found that it was frozen solid, and wouldn't be any use for skiers of our ability. We decided to leave our skis, both because of the condition of the snow and because we were making such slow progress with them on our shoulders. It really was a good place we found for them – on the sheltered side of the block. In the snowless conditions we had no trouble finding it even in the dark and I really believe that even if a fall of snow had covered everything we should have been able to recognise the place again by the contours. Certainly it wouldn't have been so easy in a blinding snowstorm.
We continued up, still carrying axes and rope; eventually we reached the tongue of snow and confirmed that it would have been useless for skis. I was interested to try my vibrams on snow. They were grand on rough snow, no matter how hard it was frozen, but as soon as the snow had a glazing of ice, they were quite useless.
We had a little to eat when we got to the big boulders, and then made for the steep snow at the head of the corrie. Don found some clear ice and started to cut his way up it; I joined Tony on the snow at the side – I cut a few steps of my own, but I must confess I preferred to use Tony's. Eventually we got onto the ridge which we followed up to Cairngorm. It would have been worth giving the view quite a careful study, on such a lovely afternoon, but I'm afraid our one thought was 'snow'. To the west, there were some fairly large patches, and we decided to investigate. That before Cairn Lochan wasn't much use, so we went round to the next lot which continued, more or less to Ben Macdui; this was patchy, but we thought that if it softened at all it might be worth bring the skis to it.
It was quite late by now, but the others were by no means prepared to call it a day, they proposed to rope up and cut their way down a snow gully, and then make their way round the hillside and back to the skis. I ran back from the edge and, saying "see you over there", I started up over Cairn Lochan, to get back to the skis that way. It was late and a third on the rope would have slowed them, besides it wasn't possible to belay properly in that snow, none of us had tricounis, and I remembered the time on the Pen-y-Gwryd track when I had felt such a liability to my party. I enjoyed the walk back, my vibrams were superb on the granite boulders and I got back to the block just before the light went. The first ten minutes of the wait I also enjoyed, watching the distant red hills, but then I began to realise the folly of my decision to split the party, as the others didn't come back. I passed a little time tying the skis together and weighting them down with stones, for there was a considerable breeze.
I spent an hour close to the skis and then went to the top of the ridge to the west, but realised I would most likely miss them if I went any further and returned to the skis. I wrote, by the light of the moon, in red lip salve on the inside of a chocolate wrapping, "Have gone back to camp" – put it under a stone on the skis, and 1½ hours after I had first reached them, at 7.20, I started down. I soon picked up the path I had noticed in the morning, on Cairngorm, and it would have been a wonderful walk in the bright moonlight if I had had a clear conscience. I thought I had better get back to the tent as soon as possible, for I had earlier volunteered to rearrange the skis if they liked to go directly back to camp, and I realise that my parting words, "See you over there" were very vague. I was finding it enough of a worry to have the two of them missing and I thought I didn't want them to think I was missing, for I was on my own. All the way down, I found the lights of Glenmore Lodge rather comforting, for I'm afraid my mind was running on to search parties.
Eventually I reached the end of the wood and entered the open field and looked for a way through the wood to the south of the loch. Soon I came to a road which I followed for some way, but when it turned due south I retraced my steps and went down to the river which I followed round to the Loch. The shore of the loch was by no means direct, but it seemed the only way, any woodland tracks soon petered out. The only hazard was the diagonal stay to a post of the fence which I ran into without seeing, and by about 9.30 I reached the tent, which, as I had feared was deserted.
I had my plans made and the first thing was to get on the tea, either for myself, or for welcoming the others back – and the light in the tent produced a shout from the other side of the lake which put my mind at rest. They arrived just as the tea was ready, and told me their experiences; how they reckoned they had cut down 1000 ft, but that they had improved, so that at the end they were less tired after 100 ft of cutting, than when they first started. I don't thing I binded, I realised too well I owed them an apology for splitting the party.
We weren't up particularly early as we hadn't got to bed before midnight. We left about 10.30 and tried to find a way through the wood, but the paths didn't seem to go in our direction and we ended up by forcing our way through the heather. We followed the Cairngorm track up until it nearly reached the huge boulder, when we branched off to the right on the path which took us almost to our skis. We picked up our skis and set off up the spur to the west of Corrie Cas. I was in front and traversed round the side of the summit, the way I had come the night before, but I don't think the others thought it was the best way.
We contoured round Corrie Lochan and left our axes and rope by the spring, and then put on our skis. I was very pleased that I seemed to have remembered the little I had learned the year before. I thought Tony did very well considering that it was the first time he had had his on, but he didn't seem particularly pleased with his progress.
There was a fairly long run-out at the bottom and we'd gradually take off from higher up the slope, but Tony and I never ventured as high up as Don. The snow was rather icy, so we went over to the next slope where it was better. Here I did a little traversing, but the others found that their unedged skis wouldn't hold to the line they set.
As we'd walk up again by our tracks, I wouldn't be ashamed of mine, my two skis would be close together and you could see that I was perfectly steady. The others had much more trouble in keeping their balance and yet Don at any rate could do a longer schuss than I, without falling. We tried some of the higher snow, but it was more suitable for skating than skiing. At one place where I was walking up in my vibrams, I came to an iced patch and had to have a tow from Tony, for my boots just turned round and slid down again on that surface. There was quite a high wind, and it would blow us along on the level.
Eventually we made our way back, and when we got to our original slope we were horrified at its "iciness".
Thee was some suggestion of leaving our skis higher up, but I got my way and we took them down to the block and then continued down the path.
This time we didn't turn in by the loch but went up to Glenmore Lodge, which had the lights on in all the rooms, yet seemed deserted. Peter let us in and we asked if there was any hope of transport to Aviemore for Tuesday. He fetched the Rev. Clarke and they agreed a lorry might take our skis, but not us. We chatted for some time; thanks to Arthur's visit a fortnight before, the 'Polaris' were not unknown. When we described our icy snow, we were told "so you weren't skiing at all". Once again it was after 9 o'clock before we started preparing our supper, but perhaps it was as well we didn't turn in too soon, for Tony and I didn't feel a bit like sleep. The wind was a great worry, remembering the fate of the pans in the Alt a Mhuilinn. I brought them all in the tent before they could blow into the Loch, and then spent the rest of the night worrying about our skis, which, I was sure, were inadequately weighted.
We set out at 10 o'clock and went along by the shore of the loch and then up the familiar path. We knew skiing would be out of the question, and would have preferred a different route, but we were very anxious to see how the skis had fared after the rough night. It was a real battle to get up the path, and it seemed never-ending, firstly because we were making slow progress against the wind, and secondly because I was nearly sick with anxiety, expecting any moment to see a bit of matchwood which had once been a ski, for it didn't seem possible to me that they had survived with just the few stones on them.
Don was a little ahead and when he turned round and nodded when he could see that the skis were all right, it was nearly as great a relief as when they had called across the lake to me on the Saturday evening.
We left the skis and continued up the usual ridge to the west of Corrie Cas. The wind was right against us and there seemed to me to be two ways of making progress – either to track to and fro, or else to dig in my axe in front of me and heave myself towards it. We started towards Corrie Lochan, for Ben Macdui had been our objective. We realised it was out of the question in these conditions and went back towards Cairngorm. With the wind behind us, we felt we were running downhill as we mounted the slight rise to the edge of Corrie Cas. Soon we had the wind blowing from the side and we banded together as 30 stone was less at the mercy of the wind than three separate 10 stones. The Cairn at the top was nearly a snow man. Visibility had been nil for sometime and everything (including ourselves) was becoming iced over by the frozen mist. We set off down the ordinary way, but soon forked to the left and made for the skis. It was snowing by now, but this turned to rain lower down. We found that our difficulties were just beginning when we had to carry our skis in that wind.
We again called at Glenmore Lodge, but at 4 o'clock only Hamish seemed to be at home. We found him round the back and, by the time we got into the kitchen, tea was ready. We waited, drying ourselves by the fire until Peter got back. He greeted us, "By the way your tent blew away". I had visions of all our bedding being in the loch, but Peter, apparently, had been able to fix it for us. We talked climbing until Peter was called away for supper, but he appeared again, just as we were picking up our skis, telling us that he could take them to Aviemore that evening on a forestry lorry.
Comparatively it was an early night, but we packed everything into our sacks before turning in, for it was a stormy night.
Peter called just as we were thinking about breakfast. He, very tactfully, told us of a better camping site; he also said that our skis were at the Grampian Hotel.
During breakfast about 2 inches of snow fell, but it wasn't nearly enough to make a surface on the heather. We packed, took down a very wet and heavy tent, and set off for the road. Just before we left the loch, there was a break in the sky and it stopped snowing and in no time the sun was shining. Under these conditions it didn't seem as bad being parted from our skis, for the snow wasn't even deep enough on the road for their use.
The views were unique in my experience – the new snow on the trees and heather added to the charm of the forest, I thought, for there wasn't enough to hide its usual colourfulness.
We had to stop repeatedly to look at the hills. They were quite white with the new snow, and at times, a dome, or a ridge would glisten I the sun, but more unusual was the "steaming" appearance as the wind blew the new snow off the ridges. The entrance to the Larig Ghrue was most impressive – filled with stormy clouds, with the sun somewhere behind.
Eventually we reached Aviemore where we left our packs at the station and visited the "Pot Luck Café". We then thought we'd call for our skis before seeing if we could hire bikes for a ride round Loch an Eileen way, to fill in the afternoon. At the Grampian Hotel, we asked if they knew of any grass slopes on which we could use our skis. The man replied that there were only the lawns of the Aviemore Hotel. I said that I didn't imagine the people there would approve and was told that he managed both hotels and that we were quite welcome to use them. We very disappointed to find the snow hopelessly slow, but a little white wax worked wonders with them. My skis were faster than either of the others; later we changed over – I preferred Tony's – the slowest! There were various amusements, going down the steep banks was one, I could never keep my balance at the end with my own skis, but it wasn't so bad with Tony's. On the sloping ground to the side it was possible to do stem turns.
Later the school children arrived. We felt that we ought to stop them running up and down the banks. They were very interested in our skis and wanted us to have a race. Of course, Don won easily, his skis were slower than mine, but he didn't sit down!
It had been a lovely afternoon, between the occasional snow-showers, the sun had been shining on nearby hillsides. The snow got much faster as the day wore on. Eventually I managed to persuade the others that we should think of the train, and we went back to the station. There were two trains in. I enquired after the Edinburgh train and the man pointed to one of them and told me that I had 5 minutes. I hardly believed him when the trains started to pull out; however, it came back again into another platform and we got into a 'Waverley' carriage.
We had time to change before they started serving dinner and then, back in the carriage, we had an interesting journey with our Scottish companions, the conversation ranging from gaelic names to nationalisation.
We were in at Waverley in good time, where we left Tony to get his L.N.E.R. train. Don and I caught the 9.50 and had a carriage to ourselves.
I had a wonderful night's sleep; I didn't even wake up at Leeds and it wasn't until we left Sheffield that I realised we had changed direction. I got back about 6 o'clock – time to have a bath and start unpacking my rucksack.
I caught the 7.11 from home. Frank came to the station with me and I was able to show him my skis, which I had left at Preston Park the night before. The train was in on time at Victoria, where I left my luggage and tried to get a ticket to Dover. At the ordinary booking office they told me that I couldn't use their ticket for the boat train. I had to go to the continental booking office where I found that one paid single fare both ways for the privilege of travelling on boat trains. Next I met Stan and John and we wasted time until about 8.45 when we made for the Dover train, only to be told that we must register our skis, as they aren't allowed on boat trains. There was only just time to do this, but we got on our train at the last minute and travelled in comfort non-stop to Dover, having coffee on the way.
The customs were no trouble and we boarded the Invicta and then watched our skis come on board from the luggage from the Golden Arrow. Later we spoke to the baggage clerk; he wouldn't let us have our skis, but he promised to tie them up a little more securely.
It was certainly a joy to travel on the boat this time of the year compared with the crowded summer months. There was no queuing for a meal, the dining room was practically empty.
To anyone used to the Newhaven crossing, it seemed no time before we were at Calais, and through the Douane, and finding our booked seats in the third class carriage of the Basle train. I had forgotten that at this time of the year it is necessary to put one's watch on an hour in France and our train left an hour before we expected. We were sitting in another carriage at the time, but fortunately it was in the right train. Our first stop was Valais Ville and I was a little irritated to find that so many people got in. People were getting in and out all night, and I found the journey very tedious. When I have gone through Paris, I've always longed for a train which went straight through, but after this I realise what a blessing it is to have a break in the evening before starting an all night journey. Quite a lot of people got out at Strasbourg, and we had a fairly quiet run to Basle, which we reached at about 6 a.m. We were some of the last through the customs, but we caught a Berne train at about 7 o'clock. I remembered the breakfast we'd enjoyed so much in the Swiss part of the station, on the way to Zermatt, but there didn't seem time for that this time. We'd made tea in the French train, but we made do with oranges and chocolate on the Swiss one. It was rather a revelation to see the Swiss people on a sunny Sunday morning in February, they were practically all in skiing kit clothes which I had only seen before on winter sports posters. For the first time I began to wonder about my own clothes.
It was fortunate that the man sitting next to us told us to go on to Interlaken Ost, otherwise I think we should have tried to change at Interlaken. Our next train was labelled B.O.B. and we got in the Grindlewald portion, which seemed to worry the ticket collector, who said we'd have to pay extra to go that way. It was a glorious sunny morning, but I was disappointed with the small amount of snow (I had visualised the whole of Switzerland covered at this time of the year) and was too keen to arrive to really appreciate the country. At Grindlewald we left our packs at the station and walked through the village, trying to find Hans Burgener. Eventually we found a shop where they knew him and phoned him up on the nursery slopes. We agreed to meet him at 2 o'clock at the station. The shop proved useful, we were able to get a few odds and ends such as chocolate, butter (a whole kilo), macaroni etc. We called in a restaurant on the way back to the station and had lunch. I was introduced for the first time to the Swiss method of keeping food hot – the dish is placed on a grid which has two night lights underneath.
Back at the station, we met Hans and gave him the photo Jack had taken of him, and discussed our plans with him, but he wasn't the least bit interested in such odd English people.
Next we enquired about our skis and learned that they had arrived on the last train, and Bob (as I thought of him from the railway's initials on his overalls) let us have them. We got in the next train for Kl. Sheidegg (W.O.B.'s railway this time) – it wasn't very full when it left Grindlewald, but at Grund it became packed with skiers.
At Grindlewald we had been rather depressed by the well dressed skiers who would ski down the village street, but at Scheidegg it seemed even worse. We did not want to do anything so odd as to pitch a tent while there were so many people about, so we left our packs at the station and started to try out our skis. We decided there were less people about on the Lauterbrunnen side of the hotel, so we started down what was to become the very well known Wengen track. I fell down right at the start, onto the muddy grass which had been stripped of snow. I fell down about twice more on the track and then found that Stan was no happier than I and, when he gave up, I followed him. I thought that what looked like soft snow to the left would be much easier, but was disgusted to find that the surface was breakable crust, and I could do nothing in it. I had several runs down; I felt that by just straight running on an uneven surface it would make me a little more at home on my skis, also it filled in the time nicely, until the crowds had gone.
Next we left our skis at the station and shouldered our packs and set off down by the left-hand Grindlewald track – we went between the two chalets and then between the two posts (we didn't realise at the time how glad we should be of the latter as direction guides, before we struck camp), to the little summer chalet, the farther side of which, we considered offered shelter for a tent.
Stan got out the tent, and we put it on a flat piece of snow, and pegged down the groundsheet, but the guys were more of a problem. We tried stamping down the snow, but it wouldn't consolidate at all, so we had to use ice axes and, in addition, a piece of wood we found by the chalet. The fourth guy was attached to the chalet. The axes didn't feel too secure at first, but after the first night they froze in, also the groundsheet froze to the snow.
Next we had a meal; I know I used as much of my own food as possible, for instance I opened my tin of corned beef. I was under the impression that Stan was eager to try out his carefully planned diet. I didn't know that the whole fortnight would go by without my even seeing the outside of a tin of pemmican!
After supper we went up to the hotel to enquire about the ski school. From then on, frozen boots (unless I thawed them with the stove) and metal sticky to the touch, became commonplace – in fact they were inevitable as soon as the sun had gone.
Soon after we had the tent up, some Swiss had come down to us, but they seemed to speak only German, and we hadn't got very far with them. Then, when I was outside an hour or so later, we had a second visit, only one of the three spoke, and his sole English seemed to be "Beds – no money, beds", but we weren't tempted. We were very grateful for the offer and hoped that he understood a little of our apologies for not accepting.
At the hotel we met Fritz who seemed to organise the skiing and he introduced us to Marcel, who, we gathered, would be our instructor. We arranged to meet again at 10 o'clock the next morning.
We crossed the railway line with Marcel and then he stopped at the top of the Grindlewald run and asked us whether we could side-slip. When we said no, he told us to carry our skis down to the nursery slopes. I was very puzzled about the side-slipping for I couldn't see that it would be of any use on that run.
I was very pleased with the class; it wasn't too advanced, and yet it wasn't for anyone who had never worn skis before.
The first thing we did was a simple traverse, first to the right and then to the left, and next we tried traversing and side-slipping at the end. We weren't very brilliant at this, so we spent quite a long time trying to side-slip down one little hummock. Eventually, after more traversing and side-slipping, we tried uphill christies. I'd occasionally keep my feet when doing them to the right, but never to the left, and I realised that my left foot was very much better than my right. Half way through the class, the English lady made an appearance, this was to become a daily occurrence. Before he left us at 12 o'clock, Marcel said that there was nothing easy in which we could join that afternoon, but that we could discuss our future plans with him in the evening.
It wasn't far over to the tent, and that first mid-day break was typical of every lunch time that first week. We bought our sleeping bags out and hung them on the chalet where they dried in no time in the hot sun. We also brought out all our cooking pots and pans, and found that snow soon melted in them. We made plenty of tea on the primus and I usually had cheese, and them jam with bread and butter to eat. Finally, we'd put things soaking for the evening meal. I believe this first day I cooked potatoes I had bought in Grindlewald.
In the afternoon I went back to the nursery slopes again and practiced, always with the right foot. I practiced so much with this foot that finally I found I could do nothing with my left foot. After the sun had gone, I started down the Grindlewald track. It seemed a desperate adventure, I know when it seemed too steep I'd side-step down the hillside, so that I could take it at an easier angle. I little knew how soon I'd learn to apply the side-slip to these places. It was very tantalising to see the sun on the more gentle, tree-studded slope, and I longed to go down there, partly because I was finding the fun difficult and partly because I thought that the walk up without skis would be difficult; I turned back and had another practice on the nursery slope and finally I went over to the tent, sure that I had learned nothing all the afternoon.
After supper we went up to the hotel, where Fritz told us that Marcel was in the Gast-stube. We went in there, noticed that Marcel was playing cards, and ordered coffee. Soon Marcel came over to us and heard our plans of having a week's tuition and then a week's tour. He said that we might as well have six full days' tuition, for we could use our tickets in the morning or afternoon.
The morning was again true to type, we started by doing simple traverses, then the traverse and side-slip and the uphill christy. I had been amazed the first day that he had started us on christies before we had tried to stem; therefore I was pleased this second morning, when he got us to do stem turns, and finally, right at the end, the stem-christy.
I got a little more used to his directions in 4 languages. These first mornings he would describe everything first in English (Stan and I knew less than the others) and then he'd direct us all, individually, in our own language. I soon realised that he didn't have to be an expert in each language for this. When I did manage to bring off a turn, I knew perfectly well what he'd say to me "nice springy position" – while at the same time he'd bend his own knees. Another favourite expression of his was "nice traversing position" and we were soon to see the point of this, for if the traversing position was correct, at least it was impossible to start a stem-christy badly.
When we stopped at 12 o'clock, he said that he was going to Wengen that afternoon; how thrilled I was when he said that he thought I might come.
My unreliable watch got us to the hotel soon after 1.30 and we spent our time looking round the bazaar etc. until Marcel appeared. I had expected a big party, and therefore I was very pleased when I found that the only other person was the fair-haired Swiss girl.
We walked past the people eating outside the buffet and crossed the railway line in our skis, as though it were an ordinary everyday occurrence to go on a ski run. but I still didn't like the look of the beginning. This made me even more pleased that I didn't fall over on this part (I followed Marcel's example and side-slipped into the track), even if I did once or twice afterwards on the first part, where the track was too fast for me. We duly stemmed round all the corners and there was nothing really of note until I came to the railway bridge. I was stemming round the turn, until I saw that there was an uphill part after the railway and I think that I thought I'd get further up this if I schussed this last part of the run. I landed on the snow with my skis against the sides of the bridge and a warning from Marcel (who was just behind me) always to keep the stem position until my skis were pointing in the direction in which I wanted to go. The ground was fairly flat there and it was some time before I managed to get to my feet.
We were soon past Wengenal and crossing the line again and starting down the track to the Bumps. I was never very brilliant on this part, Marcel would set an example of beautiful stem-christies, but on this first run I had nowhere near mastered that turn and I'm afraid I usually used to take the line of least resistance, which was to sit down. After this part, we took the wood path and I thoroughly enjoyed this part. We stemmed most of the way and it made it quite easy; also on my second day I wasn't such a snob as to look down on stemming as I did later (although it was all I could ever do on these tracks through the woods). Presently, we came to more open country and the paths fortunately retained the snow after the bare patches to the sides got larger. There were a few ruts at the end making it impossible to stem and I was going too fast to keep my feet over the bumpy ground and so I went down yet another time.
We didn't have far to walk after we had taken off our skis, and then we were able to leave them at the rack at the station. Marcel and the girl caught a train back at one, while Stan and I did some shopping.
We loaded ourselves up with bacon, pork chops, boiled ham, dried fruit, and cheese, not to mention the mundane but necessary bread (a bakery seemed more difficult to find than any other shop).
We caught the last train back, the 4.55.
The morning may have appeared true to type; I expect there were rainbow colours in the wisp of cloud over the Mönch before the sun appeared, and once it did shine on the nursery slopes we were all taking off our spare woollies, while over on the chalet it would be drying our bags which we'd hung up after breakfast, and also melting snow for us in the various containers in which we had placed it. But that is the only similarity the day had to the others, for I became most depressed about the skiing. Marcel had quite a good class and he got onto stem-christies very quickly and I don't think I could do a single one.
Eventually he told me just to try to do stem turns and even that seemed beyond me. Stan soon gave up and went off to practice on his own.
That afternoon Marcel was going on the Lauberhorn and he said there was nothing easy in which I could join, I'd do better to rest. This was difficult advice to follow for I felt I had boundless energy and the one thing I wanted to do was ski, which didn't tire me in the least. The trouble was that I had an idea if I did too much I only deteriorated, and the Wengen run the day before hadn't improved my skiing in the least. At 2 o'clock I went back to the nursery slopes for a short session and then found Stan back at the tent and we made our way on foot to the top of the local viewpoint (point 2723, I expect). The ridge was becoming more and more bare and the sight of the exposed heather made me think of the comfortable bed we'd had in the Cairngorms and gave me ideas for making the present tent more comfortable. We walked down the Männlichen Trail to Scheidegg. This had always fascinated us and, despite Marcel's "It's easy when you can do stem-christies", I hoped to carry my skis up it before I left. Next I collected my skins from the tent and started down the right-hand Grindlewald track – how easy it had become – and I still remembered how desperate it had seemed a day or so before. I don't suppose I shall ever enjoy that part of the run so much again, as the first time I could apply the side-slip to it. I went some way down – a solitary Swiss passed me once, when I fell. He stood looking at me for some time and eventually addressed me in English – he thought I had lost my way and was looking for Scheidegg, so I explained that I was having a short evening run.
When I thought I'd gone far enough, I put on my skins and started up. I was disappointed in these for various reasons. Firstly I had always thought that it was possible to run down in them, I thought they'd only slow me up, and secondly it was impossible to traverse in them, and it was hard work always to walk straight uphill. As I was going up, I passed Stan on his way down. How I envied him, it seemed to me that it was my destiny always to walk the steepest way uphill and never enjoy the delightful little runs down which he was having. I went well up by the railway line and then took off my skins and had a last run back to camp. I then went over to the bare hillside and twice picked as much heather as I could carry and brought it back to the camp. Stan lifted up the whole of one side of the tent and we put the heather underneath the groundsheet, and then replaced the guys.
That evening we again visited the gast-stube, but were rather annoyed to find that practically all the tables were reserved. The ski decorations had been taken down, and all there was instead were a few wood horses round the band. We asked the waitress what was on that evening and she told it was a "horse-dance", so we didn't stay long after we'd finished our small bottle of apfelsäft.
The class seemed a little more elementary and Marcel spent quite a long time on uphill christies before he got on to stem-christies and I felt a little more encouraged. He said we could go with him in the afternoon when he was doing a run from the Eigergletcher. He told us that it wouldn't be far to walk, instead of catching the train, but Stan said that we should train up just to show that we had money for skiing.
The ticket collector on the train seemed to recognise the two hard up English people, for he handed us back our tickets.
Again there was only one other girl in the party – this time it was the pretty one in the red smock. Soon after the station, we traversed right, to the punchbowl ; we had to side-step down at first, for the snow was rather scanty, but then it was just a case of side-slipping. It was so nice not to be the worst in the party, but that didn't last for long; the other girl was much better when it came to turns. I suppose it was just the exposure she felt at the top of the punchbowl. There were some grand runs, contouring along easy lines – in fact at times I'd feel it was my dream in turquoise come to life, except that if I didn't think I was gong to stop, I could always christy round a hummock (or if I couldn't christy, I could always fall, which perhaps happened more often). I still could make nothing of stem-christies away from the familiar nursery slopes.
At Salzegg I was afraid our run had finished, but no, we continued on down the Grindlewald track. My skiing was by no means brilliant, but it seemed a really thrilling run to me. I could make nothing of the open (stem-christy) type of country, but the tracks through the woods still needed stemming. The drop on the outside of these tracks was steeper than on the Wengen run, and I was far from reassured by the sight of the first-aid sledges which were placed at frequent intervals along the track.
I particularly remember one turn – the other were in front and had waited, but I was following Marcel and he stemmed round it and I did the same, although without Marcel's example I should have thought it was much too sharp and icy for me.
We stopped for a cigarette half-way down and then continued to Brandegg – the last part was rutted and bumpy and, as usual, I sat down just in front of the café. We took our skis off here and were sorry to find that the run had finished. The other girl insisted on paying for the milk which we drank while waiting for the train.
I can't remember anything distinctive about the lesson, except that the sun didn't come out, in fact there were a few snow flakes, but they didn't come to anything and the sun was out before we started on the Wengen run. We were glad to repeat this run, for we were short of fuel. I took our two bottles in my rucksack.
I still enjoyed the run, I fell near the beginning and Marcel said to me, "That wasn't really necessary you know" – that's the nearest he ever came to binding at me, and I deserved so much more! Apart from that, I was able to side-slip down this first part, instead of stem, as I had done the time before. Again at the bumps it was more of an event when I did a turn instead of when I fell over. We took the same path through the woods, but it seemed quite tame compared with the Grindlewald woods. The snow was going rapidly from above Wengen, and we had to carry our skis a little further.
We went in one sports shop looking for paraffin (or petrol, which they understood a little better) and they directed us to the Co-op – we passed the shop once, but a French-speaking girl directed us back to it, we hadn't recognised the German name "Konsom". We also bought more bread, pork chops, cheese and fruit and then caught the 4.55 back.
There had been a slight fall of snow in the night, but the morning was lovely and this was the day of days for me. I thought of Andrew Irvine's words, "I don't think anyone has lived until they have been on ski". How I longed to put back the clock to start my skiing at a more suitable age, and I really wondered whether, by summer mountaineering, I wasn't backing the wrong horse.
As usual the day began on the nursery slopes and occasionally Marcel would actually say, "not bad" to my efforts. My stem christies actually seemed to be coming off regularly instead of as a fluke.
He announced the Lauberhorn as the afternoon's run and, when he said that I could come, I thought he must have noticed that I was improving.
At 2 o'clock we started to queue for the ski lift and Marcel let us have half-price tickets. When it came to my turn at the lift, the two girls behind me wanted to go together, so Marcel got another man to come out of the queue and join me. I had been dreading the "anchor" coming, for the start didn't look too straightforward, and I knew that if there was anything wrong to do I'd do it. Marcel started to shout at me in German and the thing was collapsing, fortunately, just in time he thought to say in English "Don't sit". I stiffened up and it was alright. The man with me was quite helpful, and told me what it was like at the top, but I never got used to that.
We waited some time at the top, until everyone was up. We had been watching other people start the run and I began to doubt whether I was up to the standard. Marcel didn't take the first part direct, he side-slipped to the right, avoiding the bare patches. Once we had started on the run, there was a glorious long traverse to the right (my best side, and the side we seemed to use most), part of the way we could side-slip, but at other times we'd get in ruts and have to go directly along the wonderfully fast track. Next, we traversed back a little way, but on the whole, stem-christies were called for. What a joy it was to find that they were as easy on an unknown slope as they had been on a familiar nursery slope (I say they were easy, but of course I took them very slowly and I did fall down occasionally!). This brought us to the top of the punch bowl, where we waited to let the racers go by. Most of them took direct the slope on which we had done so many turns – quite a number didn't seem to check at all until they came to the control, round which they christied. It seemed quite incredible, the control they had at such a speed. I was surprised to find that even racers could fall, and some didn't seem too happy on the punch bowl.
When Marcel decided we could go on, two of our party fell head-first down the punch bowl, to the applause of those watching from above. After this, Marcel had difficulty in persuading some of the rest of his party to start on it. I took much too cautious a line on skis edged far too much. It was the slight dusting of new powder snow which put us off. The run after this was rather delightful, a few turns but, on the whole, it was straight running and almost too fast for me.
Marcel suggested another run; the crowd for the ski-lift had thinned. I went up with a young girl this time, but I still fell down at the top. The run down was without incident, there were no racers to watch this time. I didn't carry out my resolve to tackle the punch bowl really courageously this time. At the bottom, the others decided to call it a day, but Stan and I had nowhere near had enough so, when they had gone, we went back to the lift and paid full fare to go up again. We disgraced ourselves at the bottom by sitting on the lift, which collapsed. I could never relax on the way up, the arm I was hanging on with would be quite tense the whole way.
There weren't many people about and I was rather amazed to see the men packing snow onto the bare patches with shovels. I remember I fell down once on the first traverse, and then we seemed to get on the Wengen-alp track and we had to break the continuity of the glorious downhill run to traverse to the left back to the Scheidegg run. And so back to the Punch bowl and to the finish of the run. At the bottom near the lift, I fell down for the last time, and thought that the men would be annoyed that I'd made a hole in the track, but they said they'd fill it in before the next day.
There was an icy wind all day; we had our lesson in the morning and I began to think stem-christies were quite easy. In the afternoon we caught the 2 o'clock train to the Eigergletcher again. I had a camera with me, but I soon realised that a photographer ought to be one of the fastest skiers in a party, especially if she has a camera which takes some time to unfold.
The Jungfrau fascinated me with the sun gleaming on the ice on the lower part. I wasn't surprised that the photo was no good, for I had the camera balanced on a little post and shielded the lens with one hand and took the photo with the other, and all the time I knew the party were moving off down.
At the next halt, I managed to get one of the Lauberhorn with Marcel as a foreground, and at the bottom I tried to get the Jungfrau again. I had forgotten about the sun, and the horrified French speaking man shouted "Le soleil". We soon found that the cold wind was affecting the snow – making breakable crust. Marcel had a look at the Punch bowl, but decided to take an easier route and we side-slipped down to the railway near Fallhoden.
By this time, I considered myself quite an expert at side-slipping. I'd side-slip fairly steeply down and then Marcel would say, "Now side-slip backwards", and set the example himself. I never began to master that. Marcel encouraged some people to stem-turn on that slope, but I'm afraid I only kick-turned. I wasn't exactly brilliant on the lower portion of that run, so I was rather pleased at Salzegg that the "order" came to repeat the run. We were preparing to walk up the line to Sheidegg when a train appeared and took us up. We came down the same way again, but this time I thoroughly enjoyed the lower part of the run. I got on ahead and chose my own way, contouring along the hillsides and stem-christying as easily as though I were on the nursery slopes. I started to walk up again to have an extra run on such an enjoyable slope, but the others soon appeared.
Marcel then took us on down – I was quite pleased to run down this part for a change, the evening before, after our usual last try on the Grindlewald run, we'd plodded up this stage to walk back along the railway. Further down the snow seemed in even worse condition, I don't know whether it was because the snow was originally softer lower down that the wind produced a surface of breakable crust.
I found it impossible to side-slip down the first hillside. I was reduced to doing lots of shallow traverses, connected by kick-turns. When we got down to the ordinary Grindlewald track, we were still rather slow and Marcel was the nearest I had seen him to not being master of the situation, "I knew it was like this down here and I shouldn't have brought you", he once lamented.
In one little gully, two people fell to the bottom and it was here that the man of the French-speaking couple took off his skis. I wasn't altogether discouraged for, if I was finding it difficult, some of the more experienced people, who had done so well on the Lauberhorn the day before, were finding it even more difficult. I got left behind at one point, the point of my ski got caught underneath the snow and it was some time before I could back and release myself. Soon after that, Stan and I got ahead with one or two of the others. We branched off on the Alpiglen Track – I can only remember two bridges of that part of the run – and all too soon came to the railway, where Marcel from behind told us to walk down by the line, as the last train was almost due. Most of us caught the train which started off from the station, but when the driver saw the rest of our party hurrying down the line, he stopped and let them get on. This amused me very much and made me wonder why they put the notice in three languages beginning "trespassers will be prosecuted" on most of the posts by the lines.
That evening we sorted out our food, so that we should have enough for three days for our glacier tour. We planned to take down the tent in the morning and catch the 10 something to the Jungfraujock.
Later we went up to the Gast-stube. There was another "horse dance" and this time we stayed to see the race on the green cloth course they laid on the floor. We weren't altogether in a cheerful frame of mind, for there was a little snow falling as we came up.
Among the new arrivals was a Scotsman in a kilt, with a couple of friends. One of them came over to us before long. He could see that we were English and had been there some time! Soon he produced a bottle of Scotch out of his coat pocket and insisted on giving us some. I was quite pleased to finish Stan's for him.
As we had feared, it was still snowing in the morning and we had to agree with Marcel, who greeted us with "It's no weather for high mountains". I joined the class again on the nursery slopes (I was pleased to find that snow didn't put the Swiss off). We'd gradually enlarge the area we had beaten down, but Marcel seemed able to christy into the soft snow as easily as he could on the hard surface. I found it much more difficult – Marcel didn't seem surprised, he said, "You may have been able to get away with it on that hard snow with your straight knees, but you won't here". There were quite a number of new faces, but they didn't seem to find stem-christies very hard. I could only do them one way. I was rather surprised to find that there was another, more elementary class.
At the end of the class I received an invitation to join the run to Wengen in the afternoon.
At 2 o'clock, Stan and I set off with a large party – I never really found out who was in our party and who wasn't. The first part of the run was very disappointing; it was necessary to pull along in order to move at all on parts which had seemed quite desperate less than a week before. I was rather ashamed when a ski came off, but I fastened the cable under the second little catch, and thought I had fixed it. At Wengenalp, Stan and I waxed each others skis to try to make them a little faster, and then we set off after the others. I remember I was particularly unhappy at the bumps. The snow seemed blowing into my eyes and I couldn't see where I was going, nor what sort of ground I was approaching, nor could I turn in the soft snow. To crown it all, my ski came off again and it was some time before I could know the "sabot" of my boot and put on the ski again. When I eventually reached the end of the bumps, I felt very silly to find that everyone was waiting for me. Stan and I were the last to move on, and Stan had misunderstood what Marcel had said to him about the route, and we took the usual woodland path, soon realising that the others weren't ahead. Just outside Wengen some people took off their skis and carried them down the footpath. Stan skied down on the snow by the side of the railway and I was hesitating wondering which to do when a Swiss behind me said in English, "To ski by the railway is forbidden, but nor for the English. Oh no, they can do anything!", so after that I followed Stan!
Both Stan and I seemed in the same mood, and I astonished myself by being glad to find an English looking shop calling itself "tea-room", where we had tea and patisserie. I think I had about five of the latter, much to Stan's horror. The tea was quite strong, obviously the English had taught them to make it. Next we filled Stan's rucksack with provisions (we had meant to buy our next lot at Goppenstein!) and made our way back to the station.
I was so demoralised that I was considering buying an English newspaper, when I saw Marcel. I was very pleased when he said that he'd seen us take the wrong turning and I hadn't kept him waiting a second time. Next I said I must pay him. He took the 3 francs for Stan for the afternoon, but he wouldn't take anything for me for the whole day. I assured him that, by living cheaply, I had plenty of money to pay for my skiing. I couldn't get him to take anything, all he'd say was "Someone has paid for you, somebody has got to have those 6 francs, you're short of francs, it might as well be you. After this, I didn't dare squander my money on an English newspaper!
Marcel had made me quite miserable; I don't know whether he realised it and for this reason lifted my skis on and off the train, but that didn't help, nor in the train could I really enjoy the chocolate I was offered. I was so afraid it might just be because someone else had heard of the hard up English people.
The ride back was rather an experience; the overcast sky, the snow flakes, continuously falling in (lower down at any rate) a calm atmosphere and, as a foreground, there'd be Christmas trees, already very well laden. It seemed to me more suitable for December than the end of February, and fashionable skiers seemed quite out of place.
Quite a lot of snow had fallen on the tent, which Stan was able to dig out with the help of the snow shovel he had bought at Wengen. I soon went in to get the primus going, while I thought Stan was playing with his new toy. Actually, he was doing some quite useful work, he had noticed how the wind blew round the hut leaving a space clear of snow, so he built two walls out from the hut, hoping the wind would blow round the tent, taking away some of the snow.
This was really "black Tuesday" – we knew that it'd be touch and go whether we'd get even one day on the glaciers, for we'd reckoned that we'd have to leave 2 fine days for the snow to settle, although the wind which was blowing some of the ridges bare again, gave us a little hope. After this Tuesday, we knew that our tour had had it and we settled down to make the best of our second week at Scheidegg.
As usual I went up to the Gaste-stube and I spent all the morning there. That was the last day I went up without skis. As I made my way diagonally across the first slope a skier watched me. Unfortunately we didn't seem to speak the same languages. I couldn't walk straight up. I couldn't lift my foot up high enough to get it out of the snow – all I could do was to press my knee down through the snow, and then my foot would only forward about three inches.
From inside the wind looked very much worse than it was, and I just stayed there, firstly waiting for Stan, then talking to him, until he decided to go down and dig out the tent, and then talking to all the people who passed in and out. They seemed to understand my attempt to explain in French that we kept warm in our sleeping bags. There was one man I remember who spoke in English, he had spent five weeks the summer before in London and Glasgow. He had come up from Wengen. Lastly the little girl from our skiing class came out – at first she was official translater, turning her nanny's German into French. Later she continued on her own account. She was very good too, for instance she taught me the word "forneau" for stove. Then she said, "Ou est votre mari?"! I wondered where Stan had got to and went down to the tent, where I found him still using his snow shovel, and then we both returned to the gast-stube for a meal. We had one at the buffet the day before. The one at the gast-stube was a little better, but slightly more expensive.
That afternoon, we set off down the Grindlewald run. I was hopeless, remembering that Stan had said that when the snow was driving into your face, it helped to have your goggles on; I put mine on this afternoon, although the wind was on my back. I can only see through them in sunlight, and this afternoon I had no idea when the gradient or snow surface was changing and I fell every time. Getting up wasn't always so simple either – if I fell into deep snow, I'd be at the bottom of a hollow with higher snow all around me; in fact, once I had to take a ski off before I could stand up. Once I'd taken my glasses off I wasn't quite so bad, but soon after I'd done this we had to walk and I felt one of my boots rubbing my heel. Neither Stan nor I had any elastoplast on us, so I suggested turning back before long, for we knew that there weren't likely to be any trains, and it was the walking uphill which rubbed my heel. I was very annoyed afterwards that I had spoilt the afternoon like this, particularly as it was much calmer lower down, where we had turned back. The traverse up to the line was becoming quite familiar, but we hardly recognised the line. At one point the wind would have blown it clear of snow, only to pile it up somewhere else in a deep drift. There were rather lovely cornices on the top of the snow cuttings, and at some places there would almost be little snow caves. The wind was very strong. It is so easy to think that one has never known conditions so extreme as the present ones, but when I started to think that I had never known such a wind before, I thought that I could at least walk against it unaided, which is more than I could against the wind I'd experienced in the Cairngorms a month before.
We managed to drag ourselves out of the gast-stube a little earlier – I think I realised that the way to warm my feet was to exercise them, for they'd never warm up with my boots indoors.
We tried the slopes the class had beaten out on the lower slopes of the Lauberhorn, but they were far too slow, so we went down to the tent for a meal and tried to wax the skis over the primus, but it wasn't a success – Oh those happy days when we could wax them in the sun.
At about 3 o'clock we set out for Wengen – I wasn't quite so silly on the bumps this time. We took the alternative to the wood path, it was an enjoyable bit of stem-christy country, but I started having trouble with my ski again, and at the bottom Stan got ahead. I didn't know which way he had gone, so I took the main right-hand track, while apparently Stan was having a thrilling time on the Knife Edge. I found my way quite interesting enough, in fact at one point, I fell over the edge of the path in someone else's track. Downhill-only skier that I had become, I was a little irritated at the long(?) walk into Wengen from the bottom of the run. One Swiss who I was overtaking walked along with me. He started to say "You come from Scheidegg?". "Yes", I confessed. "And you live in …" so I finished for him, "Yes, in the tent". He came from Wengen, so I began to feel a little notorious.
At Wengen I couldn't find Stan and I was wondering whether to catch the last train, if he didn't turn up, when he appeared. Apparently he had done the Knige Edge a second time while waiting for me.
On the way up we had quite an amusing journey, talking to the German speaking Swiss. If one of them gleaned an interesting fact – for instance that we didn't have to bicycle there, because we had been able to buy our train tickets in England – it would immediately be passed all round in German. They soon got out a pack of cards and started playing what they first called an old German game. They soon corrected this and called it an old Swiss game and, as though to cover up what they considered to be a faux pas, they kept assuring us that it was an old Swiss game.
Back at Scheidegg, while Stan was digging out the tent, I went up and filled a couple of water bottles with hot water. We had plenty of fuel to melt snow, it was just that it wore us out, scraping in enough snow to make a kettle of water.
In the morning we found the whole of the inside of the tent covered with long frost needles and we realised that it had been far colder than the previous nights. It wasn't too bad; I think when I went to bed my feet were a little cold, but they soon began to warm up in my bag. As usual they began to get cold again about 6 o'clock in the morning, when I tried to warm them a little by pushing a woolly down the bottom of my bag.
Until these last few nights, I had used my waterproof sleeping bag cover but, despite the cotton top, there was too much condensation inside, and it took me sometime to realise that in still air I am warmer without it.
When the storm started, I soon realised that a double walled tent would be necessary to camp for a long period under these conditions. We'd try to scrape the snow off the roof before cooking, but were frustrated partly because new snow was always falling and partly because there'd be ice from the last time we lit the stove. This meant that the snow on the roof would melt and drip through. The tent was always very steamy when the stove was on and it seemed impossible to dry things by it.
Stan didn't seem so loath to stir this morning this morning and it was well before 9 o'clock when I staggered into the gast-stube carrying my sleeping bag which was a little icy after four nights without an airing. The first person I saw was Marcel; he was very concerned. "You must have had a terrible night", he said, and I admitted that it had been a little cold. Marcel said that the temperature was -18ºC and he then tried to get me to promise to come in that night. "Mrs. Von Almen says you may sleep in the buffet – and if Mrs. Van Almen says you must do this, you must do it, now you understand". I mentioned the little man (with the typical blue Swiss eyes) who had said we could sleep in a chalet, but Marcel wouldn't hear of this and insisted that we must go to the buffet which was heated.
At the station they seemed pretty certain that there'd be no trains up from Grindlewald, but we determined to go down this way even if we had to walk up. It was a real experience making the tracks down in the new snow. How thankful we were for the posts which had looked rather useless when we first arrived. I didn't think I did too badly on the straight runs on the surface, which varied from deep powder snow to the hard crust of the week before, which was blown clear in patches. When it came to a turn, I was hopeless. I know usually it was when I fell that I lost a ski, but not always and it was at corners that I fell and therefore turning and the loss of a ski became associated in my mind. It was fairly calm when we left Scheidegg, but the wind soon got up and at Mettlenstutz we were glad to shelter from it behind a chalet for a moment. It was cold, but it seemed at the time almost as great an adventure as a glacier tour in good weather would have been. Fortunately, Stan remembered the way fairly well, and we continued through the wood to the next bit of open country where quite a number of other skiers passed us and hence we were again following an orthodox trail. The icy corner in the next woods was almost exciting, but by no means desperate now. I thought at Brandegg we were almost at the bottom of the run, but by far the most difficult part was to come. The snow was getting fairly packed, but the slope was steeper than any on which I had 'stem-christied' before. It was pretty crowded too. At one point where I lost my ski and was about to try to ski down to it on one foot, when Stan called me back for he had hurt his angle. It was a great relief when he said he thought it wasn't serious and, although a Swiss had advised him to take a sledge, he thought he could manage on skis (which pleased me for I didn't think that my skiing was up to helping a sledge). We were nearly at the bottom, and the slope was flattening out, and I could enjoy the last schuss – Stan was alright on the straight, but couldn't turn.
As we carried our skis up to Grindlewald with the snow gently falling, it didn't seem to me to be quite such a bad place as when we had arrived, but Stan didn't share this view. We found the station and confirmed that there'd be no trains past Alpiglen, but found that it would be possible to go round via Lauterbrunnen and Wengen. Next we went along the street until we came to a shop where we had tea and patisserie, and passed the time until the chemist's shop opened at 2 o'clock. Here Stan had a crêpe bandage put on his ankle, and a plaster on his broken blister (blister seemed to break before we knew that we had them, this holiday). We walked back to the station wondering what to do, but the fact that there was no shelter between Alpiglen and Scheidegg made us decide that, with Stan's ankle we'd better go round via Lauterbrunnen, especially as it was only 6 francs, using our holiday tickets. We changed at Zweilütschiner and at Lauterbrunnen got fresh tickets and rejoined the W.O.B. railway with its hand ski-truck. At Wengen we found that we were already on the 4.55 and the Scheidegg party got in the same carriage. We talked to the American girl most of the way up. Marcel didn't say a word, but waited for us after the others had gone, and then said that it was alright for us to go in the buffet. In the gast-stube, our bags were so lovely and dry and warm, that I told Fritz (who was also on to us about the buffet) that we could easily use the tent again with dry bags, but he positively forbade it, so we promised to come up again, after we'd cooked in the tent. I felt that we'd cheated in drying our bags inside, and there was nothing more to lose in sleeping in too. Once we got settled in the buffet, I was very pleased with it. I had always visualised sleeping on the floor in the dining room, so I was agreeably surprised when I was taken up to the well sprung mattresses. It was interesting also to meet the other people who lived there. The elder of the two waitresses turned out to be very helpful. She had one of the rooms beyond the dormitory, while the girl in the post-office had the other. We were surprised to see the nanny of the little girl there and then there were the soldiers who were on a course. They were German speaking, but they did have my few French words out for an airing.
I was surprised that I hadn't slept better on the comfortable mattresses and I had a very stuffy nose in the unaccustomed warm dry atmosphere, but I wasn't nearly as sorry for myself as Stan, who, apparently, had hardly slept at all. He'd worked round until he was lying across 3 mattresses.
The soldiers first gave us the good news that the sun was shining. We went down to the tent for breakfast and, as soon as the sun shone on it, both Stan and I photographed it with the new snow undisturbed.
This was the morning I'd been waiting for with the sun and the powder snow, and I'm afraid I left Stan to deal with the tent while I went down the ski track for this last day, but that run wasn't at all difficult and very slow. It was meant to be a photographic expedition, but it wasn't a success, for one thing I'd soon used up all the film I had with me. I had no figure to use as a foreground, so I'd try to use a ski track instead. I'd go round in a large circle to make the track and then found that it led right out of the picture. Another trouble was that I was never content to photograph little things – I'd start by looking at a tree, or snow formation, and in the end I'd snap the Lauberhorn or Mönch. I was very sorry on the way up that I had no film left for some of the very interesting trees. Slow as had been the track down, it was a very laborious journey back. One interesting moment was when I found a hole as deep as my ski-sticks. It led from an animal's hole to the surface.
Back at the tent I found Stan in a hole between 3 and 4 feet deep which he'd had to dig to reach one of the guys. I recovered my rucksack which had been buried in the snow for several days. Although it was done up tightly it was full of the snow, which had blown in before it became buried, but I had only to shake my clothes and they were free from the snow. I packed my two rucksacks and took them up one at a time. As I was taking up my second one I passed Fritz (who I mistook for Marcel with a haircut, their voices were so similar). He asked me whether we were going today, and I said not until first thing on Saturday. He said that Mrs. von Almen had seen that we were packing and was wondering whether we were going. If we were staying it would be quite alright for us to stay in the buffet again.
We had ham and two fried eggs for lunch – we were interested to see the snowplough clearing the way into the shed. The two huge fans in front sucked in the snow and then blew it out at the side. We realised that this is only possible with this very dry snow, it would never work in this country with the more icy variety.
Next we made for the Lauberhorn – we had to have 2 tries before we could start on the ski lift. There were innumerable tracks all over the snow, and it was rather thrilling to watch some of these being made. The first part of the run, the traverse, wasn't too bad, except occasionally in the ruts. It was on the stem-christy part that I couldn't do a thing. The Punch bowl traverse was easier, but I found the 'schusses' after this, a little fast for me. After this, Stan thought that his ankle had had about enough so I went up again on my own. I wasn't any better this time, but I did cut off the end of the traverse and make some tracks of my own. After I was round the Punch bowl, I saw someone 'schuss' it direct. At the little hump on the other side, he was thrown about 6 ft in the air, but that didn't seem to worry him. Someone else followed him, but I was below the hump by then and all I saw were some skis in some disorder. The rest of that party went round the Punch bowl.
At the bottom, I was talking to Stan in the shade of the bazaar and lifted up my glasses when he told me that one of them had left a yellow mark of frost bite. The sun looked as bright as it had done the first week, but it had no power and higher up the wind was bitter, although I soon forgot about it with the skiing taking all my attention.
I then thought that the Alpiglen run would fill in the time. I enjoyed the first familiar part; in fact I only sat down once when someone in front set the example and forced me to take a faster track than I should normally have done.
I was surprised at the dividing of the ways to find no tracks towards Alpiglen. I was glad to recognised two bridges, for there were no poles on this part of the run, I just found my own way along the hillside. I was disappointed to find that I had to walk the whole way, but there is a great deal of satisfaction to be got from making the first tracks. I was much happier than I had been in the morning when I was having a slow run in other people's tracks.
I walked down the line the last few yards to the station and just had time to get a ticket before the train came. The first person I saw on it was Marcel, and I sat next to the English lady in the green jacket (only it was a yellow one this time!) and we compared our experiences for this second week. Marcel had taken his class on the Lauberhorn that morning, leaving the nursery slopes to Fritz, and then in the afternoon they had gone down to Grindlewald.
I was at Scheidegg at 4 o'clock and I spent the last hour on the nursery slopes. How I wished I had thought to do that earlier in the day, I believe if I had I should have been able to make more of the Lauberhorn. The first once or twice I tried to stem-christy, I fell, but after that I seemed to get back the form I thought I was showing the week before. The snow seemed very cold, it was creaking and groaning as I slid over it, and all the time I was moving further and further up the hillside, trying to make my turns a little faster.
When I eventually finished, I felt contented, both with my progress in this last hour, and with the memory of the new snow towards Alpiglen.
I found Stan at the buffet, where we washed and changed before going over to the gast-stube to have our last meal.
It was difficult to attract the attention of the girl and to ask for coffee afterwards, and then, when we wanted our bill, it was even more difficult to call one of them. The dark one fetched the fair one who explained 'C'est sur la maison". Marcel had left the gast-stube soon after we came, so we went in the front of the hotel. We asked him about thanking Mrs. von Almen and he said that she was playing cards in the gast-stube. We went down the back way this time and asked the dark girl for Mrs. von Almen.
I had expected an elderly dowager type of lady, so I was astonished to talk to someone so young and attractive. She wouldn't accept any thanks herself, she said that it was her husband's doing, because Stan had been there in the summer.
Back in the buffet (after we'd returned our boots to the bazaar), I had a raging thirst, and we brewed two lots of tea, but I found that I had over-estimated my thirst when I filled my water bottle before going to bed.
Our packing took some time, and Stan left his tent on the line hoping to melt the remaining ice stickling to it and have so much less weight for taking home.
We got up in good time hoping there'd be an 8 o'clock train to Wengen, but the first one was 9.40. The 7 o'clock news told us all about Molotov's dismissal (at least it did when the girl translated from the German). I enjoyed my continental breakfast which we had in the buffet and then we had a couple of hours to spare. We discussed skiing to Wengen on this lovely sunny morning, but I seemed too lazy to get everything ready – unpack my boots, re-adjust my skis to fit them, see about getting our luggage on the train etc. Also there was always the possibility that if we were delayed we'd miss the train at Wengen.
We first of all watched the snow plough – we again saw the men, with ungloved hands and no sign of cold, take off the lower plate when they came to the points. I used up my last two exposures on my camera – one on the Rotihorn etc. with our little chalet in the foreground, and the other of the Gespaltenhorn. For the latter I walked a little way up the Jungfrau line. I was surprised to see that this side they had a plank across the line and took the snow from in front of the hotel across this instead of dumping on the line as they do the other side.
I soon went back to the waiting room, this was the coldest morning we had had, and it was my face which felt it had had enough.
I don't think we were very popular in the train, we had the window open, the only thing wrong with the view was that the distant woods looked grey as the new snow hadn't melted off the trees.
At Lauterbrunnen I called in to see my 'friend' at the booking office. I took the ticket I had bought there the other day and also my voucher for the refund which he had said I could get at Scheidegg (at Scheidegg they had referred me to Interlaken). The man at Lauterbrunnen said that I could have got my refund at Scheidegg, but he couldn't give it to me. Annoyed as I was at all this, it did illustrate the Swiss character, how they would never contradict an English person, but would get round the difficulty somehow.
Our train got us to Berne soon after 1 o'clock, and then we spent some time finding the exact window which took rucksacks and then finding the ski-dump which was with the bicycle one.
Next we had lunch at the station. I had the table d'hote meal but Stan did much better, picking out dishes from the menu – the cream on his tart!
We thought we'd start our shopping in a grocer's buying a little dried fruit. It was here that I found I hadn't my purse. What a panic I was in as I ran back to the station, but I found it under the table. I had about 350 francs in it for, as no-one would believe that we had any money, we found that we didn't like to show at Scheidegg that we had plenty, and we had saved it all for Berne.
Next I bought a pair of ski boots (89 francs), and mummy's gold watch (81 francs after 10% had been deducted) and a few odds and ends such as nylons, bacon, another cable for my skis. Stan got a pair of vibrams for 120 francs which were just like Lawries Mark VII.
Next I found I could no longer resist some patisseries, so we went in and ordered tea and chose our delicacies. We thought we'd have more choice if we halved the bigger things. The cream with chestnut 'worms' was not a success! Stan felt quite sick after his half, but he didn't offer me his share of the plum tart with cream. These people obviously hadn't been taught to make tea by the English, for we had to break the cellophane bags before we could get any colour in it.
After this, the shops were shut and we made our way back to the station and looked at books in the enquiry office until 6.30 when it was time for another meal. This time I chose my dishes and didn't let Stan's influence stop me having wine. I started with hors d'oeuvres and then had the egg, sausage and chips, which I had envied when Stan had had it at lunch time, but it was definitely 'continental' sausage.
To finish up, I wanted fruit salad with both kirsch and cream, but the kirsch seemed to have been left out. It was lovely all the same, and after this I really felt as I thought one ought to feel on leaving Switzerland. I couldn't have eaten any more if I'd been paid to do so.
Next we found our train and took our luggage there in relays. We were told that the third class Paris carriage wouldn't be heated until a steam train was put on at the frontier, and we were advised to change there, but we preferred to start in the Paris carriage and we hoped that the cold would keep other people out. This seemed a vain hope at first, but after Verrière we had the carriage to ourselves and got out our bags and spent a wonderful night. I won't say I slept well, for I seemed to have lost the ability to sleep soundly.
We reached Paris at about 7 o'clock and I enquired about the inter-station bus. The man pointed to the left and "bientot". We saw the board and thought we'd miss the 7.11. Stan went off to enquire and an English couple came up and I realised that they were in the same predicament as us. When the man went off to enquire, the woman came over to me and pointed to the board and said "Aujour d'hui?" so I explained that I also was ignorant. At about 7.20 a bus appeared and fortunately also Stan came back.
We hadn't any French money but the English couple paid for us.
At the Gare de l'Est, we found that there was an 8.15 train, Calais-Folkestone, and we'd have been in plenty of time for this, had not the French insisted that we registered our skis. Stan changed an English note and went off to do this, while I moved the luggage a little near the 8.15. We were just too late to catch it, but we gathered that there was only third class on it and were advised to catch the 8.25, which had third class carriages. We got on this, although the board said "Calais ville".
This wasn't really such a bright idea, for there was no restaurant car, no water even, on the train, and it took five hours to get to Calais, but I don't know that I really regretted catching it, for it was certainly travelling the third class way.
The ticket collector was a little concerned about our journey from the town to the harbour, but when we asked about a taxi, he said that it could be arranged and sure enough there was one waiting to take him to the harbour and it had room for the three other passengers going that way.
We found that the Folkestone boat had been gone over an hour and that we must wait 2 hours until we'd be allowed through the customs and on the Dover boat. The time went very quickly, the porters were a very friendly crowd. They didn't want any of the tea we made, but one of them begged a little of the English tea "pour madame". Quite a number spoke English, but one who didn't seemed very thrilled if we could understand any of his French (that wasn't always so easy – for instance the 'vin' with an English accent – as in vineyard).
Eventually we found ourselves through the customs and again on the Invicta. We soon made our way to the dining room, but it was too late for lunch. The bacon and egg tea went down very well; it was a come down having only one egg, but the bacon was lovely.
I couldn't help but compare the disembarking arrangements with those in the summer. At Newhaven there'd only been one gangway for the whole packed boat and half the time they'd let no-one across this, even. At Dover there were three gangways – two for the Golden Arrow and one for the rest.
A man seemed to pick me out as someone easy to let through the customs – before I had stopped giving my list of purchases (a pair of boots, 2 pairs of nylons, and some food – dried fruit and bacon) he was marking my rucksack.
The journey back amused us. On the boat we'd been discussing people who travel on boat trains and try to take England abroad with them. We definitely seemed to be bring the continent back with us. Stan and I were both sitting next to French ladies, but it was the very old American Italian and the Czech who were amusing us. We had another tea on the train.
At Victoria our skis were waiting for us and I caught the 7.28 home.
I caught the 7.10 from Nottingham which got me to Crewe in plenty of time for the 10.50 to Oban. I was too far up the platform, but walked back until I found Frank in a Tyndrum coach. We each had a side to ourself and spent a very good night, which was as well as the ticket collector informed us that there would be no breakfast car in the morning.
It wasn't the usual Scottish train morning, it was very cloudy and I feared the worst.
At Tyndrum there was plenty of time to get our packs out of the train, inform the man that we'd be back in the evening and then get back in the train ourselves. We soon got onto the 1" map and could take as intelligent an interest in the view as the mist allowed. At the beginning of Loch Awe, we passed Kidchurn Castle and then went along by the water and then the river to Taynuilt, our destination. We paid our excess fare from Tyndrum and were then directed to the hotel for breakfast. I was pleased to have some Scottish porridge and baps, for the only thing I have against camping is the fact that one doesn't sample local food, nor meet local people. Frank had a bright idea and found that a bus would take us to the Bridge of Awe, and there was just time for me to get my meat ration and find that the village had no eggs, before the bus came along. We got out just beyond the Bridge of Awe. It was raining pretty steadily by now and the conductress told us that we wouldn't get far up Cruachan.
We started traversing along the hillside, wondering whether any of the sheep tracks were paths. Soon we started going straight up and, where it got a little more craggy, we hoped that we were on the southeast spur. From then on there were occasional cairns. We were at the first summit much sooner than I expected for, in the pessimistic mood that I was in I had been allowing an hour for each 1000 ft. We didn't linger long on the top, it was too cold. Frank was more sensibly dressed than I; I was saving the one long-sleeved woolly I had with me for the train journey back and my smock, which would keep me warm at any temperature below zero, was not the least bit waterproof, and, in its wet condition, it didn't feel even windproof. We went down, along the ridge, and up to the highest point, 3,689 ft, and then continued eastwards for, although Meall Cuanail is 3,004 ft, it is half a mile to the south of the main ridge and, in that weather, there seemed no point in including it, peak-bagger as I usually am. I thought the Cruachan Ridge very good, it reminded me a little of the Carnedds; for instance, the ridge we ascended could have been Pen-yr-Olen-Wen, and then the ground fell away very steeply to the north and more gently to the south.
There were fairly large patches of snow on the northern slopes beautifully intermingled with the rocks; how we longed for some sun to show it all up in its full glory. In one or two places there was a little scrambling on the beautifully firm pinkish rock.
Lunch was a most informal occasion, on the way up to the last peak, I took off my rucksack to see how the contents were faring and found that my sandwiches were getting a little sodden, so we ate them. It was rather a poor 'do' for Frank, for, while I ate cheese with my bread and butter, he had to make do with chocolate.
At point 3312, I was in front and we had left the path so that we shouldn't miss the cairn. We went over the top and started down the ridge – I began to think how good it was to be in Scotland where the rocks are so little scratched, one almost felt one was pioneering. Then it dawned on me that I was pioneering and Frank's compass confirmed that I was on the northern spur! We retraced our steps back to the cairn and then found the path to the south of it. From the peak 3272, we turned due south to our last Cruachan peak, 3215. Next we went due south, but we couldn't find the indefinite spur the map had led us to expect. We followed the compass and realised that we were right, when we came to the col. The wind had been terrific on this last part, reminding me a little of the Cairngorms. We kept above the crags of Allt Coire Ghlais to the east. We ascended Beinn a Bhuiridh a little to the east of the summit and didn't bother to go back and find the cairn, but cut straight down in an easterly direction. About half way down, we got below the mist, and how well worthwhile all the buffeting about on top had been for that one glimpse along Loch Awe. The sun was shining through stormy clouds, onto a lake which had waves visible from 1,000 or so feet up.
It was a very pleasant run down, with the wind drying us out a little. What a contrast to the snow and wintry conditions up top, were the primroses in the wood.
We reached the road very near the Loch Awe Hotel. I was still fairly wet, and I think it was the memory of the tea I had had in similar conditions in the kitchen of Glenmore Lodge made me ask some men who spoke to us whether we could have a standing up tea in the kitchen. They took us in the back way, but we were told that they were far too busy to deal with us. All that we got was a view of the stairs leading down to the cellars etc. It seemed more like a mediaeval castle than a Victorian hotel. We were told that there was another hotel along the road; it was a much smaller one, and we marched boldly up to the front door this time and were admitted and had tea – three tier cake stands – a truly Scottish tea! There was some time to spare before the train was due, we walked along the road for the wind to dry us and called in the village store and looked at their post-cards. Again there seemed to be no eggs.
At Tyndrum we collected our luggage and asked the man if he knew a howff where we could sleep and light a fire and dry our clothes. He mentioned a ruined cottage, but we couldn't find it, we walked up to the village and apparently the howff was in the other direction. We didn't want to use the tent, partly because we wanted to dry our clothes, but also because, although it was fine by then, the weather was still unsettled and we didn't want the weight of a wet tent added to our packs (mine weighed exactly 60 lbs).
Very ashamed of ourselves, we called at the Royal Hotel, and, on learning that they could put us up and dry our clothes, we brought our packs down and stayed there. We were the only guests and there was no dinner; however, we enjoyed our high tea of bacon and eggs.
It had rained in the night, so we had no reason to regret our decision to sleep in. We had breakfast at 7 o'clock and then met the Oban train on which our ice axes, which we had left behind at the tea place at Loch Awe, had been sent on. Next we met the London train with the majority of the Polaris campers, Arthur, the meet leader, Don, Wyn and Rene. Marjorie and Nell represented the hotel party.
The weather wasn't very discouraging. On Arthur's instructions we got out at the study and walked down the road to the cottage, for the view. Next we walked down on the right hand bank of all the streams to the "meeting of three waters", where we rested and made tea (the others had had no breakfast). While waiting for the water to boil, we explored the river, trying to find a crossing place. Arthur went downstream, Frank suggested going back to the road and Don and I were determined to cross the three streams separately, as near their meeting place as possible. Don thought that it should be possible to cross the first stream (the shallow place we found) without a rope, but I insisted that he tied on; no I had never before used a rope for fording a stream and I had been wanting to have that experience for some time! When I came to cross with my pack I realised that we hadn't wasted our time, tying the rope to trees on both sides of the bank, for I was very glad of the handrail.
The second stream was no obstacle, but the third one held us up for quite a time. There was one suggestion of swinging down and across on a rope, but eventually we went a little higher up where we could walk down to the level of the water. This time the stream was narrower, but the water was running with more force. Again we got the rope strung across, but it was more convenient this time to have someone hanging onto it on the near bank, for the rope needed to be tight at first and then some slack was required to get round the boulder at the other side. Arthur went back to meet a friend of his on the next bus and the rest of us started our 700 ft of ascent. Wyn set the pace and I thought that if she had so much energy after a night in the train, whatever would she be like after a night's sleep. There was a path up, firstly zigzagging up the open hillside and then traversing in the steep gorge of the stream. Lastly, there were the boulders. This I find a real trial, for if I took a very high step, I'd find it impossible to get my weight onto that foot, with 60 lb on my back. Sometimes I'd get onto my knees, but then again it was a terrible struggle to get to my feet from this position.
Eventually, the ground began to even out, and we came to the level floor of the 'hidden' or 'lost' valley. There was some lovely level green grass before the huge triangular boulder which features in so many photographs of the glen. There was the bed of the dried up stream between the grass patches and we did realise that floods were a possible danger, but we thought that we'd carried our packs quite far enough, besides the huge boulder might give us a little protection from a wind blowing down the valley. Frank and Don pitched their tents with the openings facing, and about 4 ft apart. This was a splendid idea in good weather, for we could cook in this space between, but it did double the number of guys to be stepped over.
I was rather disgusted that Wyn took Arthur's advice and camped right away from me – on the other side of the stream bed, in fact.
Next we played on the boulder, climbing up the south side, and so back to the tent for the tea and a snack before setting out for our afternoon's walk.
It had been sunny in the morning and we hoped that the weather was improving, but before we got to the top of the ridge we were in the mist and got no views at all. Frank and I had so hoped to see Cruachan. We found a path up the valley – it took a good line, gaining height very gradually, while the valley bottom remained flat for about a mile. We didn't bother to examine the quite impressive waterfall, but made straight for the snow gully. We were surprised at the steepness and length of this. Don kicked the way up most of it, resting after every 20 or so steps. I went ahead once, but Don overtook me for I soon began to slow up. I found I had to kick twice to make a secure enough step. We went along the ridge to the top of Bidean nam Bian and then started down the northeast spur towards Stob Coire nan Lochan. Soon our path petered out and we realised that we must have veered to the left and were above the Diamond Buttress, so we retraced our steps back to the cairn. We took another compass bearing and again started down in a northeasterly direction. I was in front and Don next, and we both passed the fork to the right. It was Frank in the rear who noticed it. Then there was a second time when some footsteps in a patch of snow gave us the clue that the way again forked to the right. After this it was straightforward, down to the col and then up Stob Coire nan Lochan. The way down was a sheer delight, we made for the long snow streaks and between these the scree wasn't too bad.
There was a little glissading, but mostly we had to run, sitting glissades would have been all right but, besides the disadvantage of the wet seat, I also had my doubts about the efficacy of the break in the soft snow, and the snow patches always ended on rocks. Presently we got below the mist, it was a pleasant run back to camp, but half way down Don and I stopped to discuss the summer's programme and Frank got ahead. He shouted back to us to point out some deer on the skyline, high up to the left. Back in the camp we found Arthur's tent, also a lovely Burns mountain one, belonging to Jack Nelson.
That evening we went across the river bed to the camp fire of the 'other half' of the camp.
We were able to have breakfast outside – the word 'moswisit' was beginning to develop, for all the food seemed to contain some moss, for the turf contained about 50% of moss which got everywhere. About 10.30 we set off up the hillside to the west of the camp. Arthur said he had once found quite an interesting way up it, so we thought we'd go that way and along Gearr Aonach on our way to the 'Church Door'. At first we were looking for difficulties and we roped up while we were in this mood but we, or rather I, soon began to wonder whether we should get up at all. Everything was loose; I remember one little chimney which I insisted on going up. There were about 2 moves on firm rock and then I was crawling on my knees up the heather and moss, hoping not to dislodge the loose rock which they covered. We went on up to the right, realising that our way to the left was being cut off by a chimney, hundreds of feet high. As we looked at the vegetated slopes in front of us, they'd seem quite climbable. It was only when we saw them in profile that we realised how steep they were, too steep to climb on such rotten holds. We were driven into a gully on the right. At first it was easy enough and this was followed by 10 feet on firm rock which was rather delightful. I found I had to fiddle with the holds for some time before I could find the right way of using them and get up. At the top of that, I found Don in a sort of cave, with a good thread belay. I had rather an anxious time until Frank was up, for it was so difficult not to send down loose stuff. The next pitch consisted of getting out of the cave, mostly up the left hand wall, but with a little help from the right. The final pitch was entirely up the steep left hand wall, but Don seemed to have got the hang of this sort of climbing by now and was up in no time. I followed, usually burying my hands deep in the foliage and calling them handholds. It wasn't until I saw for myself that we were really on the top of the ridge that I could believe it was all over. We had spent literally hours on it. We had watched some of the 'hotellers' come up to the camp and move off again and they'd reached the top of the Ben Fhada Ridge, across the valley, while we were still having 'moswisit'.
It was lunch time, but it was raining, so we went some way up the ridge before stopping, where we hoped it was a little sheltered, and eating. We went round to the top of Stob Coire nan Lochan and left Frank there to make his way back to the camp, while Don and I went on to the col and then down and round the foot of the Diamond to the Church Door Buttress. We went up the snow in the gully (it was melting and loosening some of the rock) to the foot of the climb, and started up. Part way, we heard voices and I started shouting, wondering whether it was Arthur's party on the top of Bidean, which we could hear, but at the arch we realised that it had been another party on the Crypt route. They seemed very pleased with their route, saying that while it wasn't difficult, it was extremely interesting. Don had no trouble with the gully after the arch. I must confess that while I realised that it had no real technical difficulty, it was about my limit, with the cold, wet rocks numbing my hands. It was an easy scramble up the rest of the climb, and so to the top of the Bidean again.
We had no axes with us and thought that the snow we had ascended the day before would be a little too steep, so we went down towards Stob Coire nan Lochan again (again needing to take care to find the way) and from the lowest point on that ridge, started down the snow. We had taken great care to test the angle of the snow by throwing stones down and then I chose a pointed stone to carry in case I could need to break, so after taking so much care it was a disappointment to find the snow too slow to be much fun. It wasn't nearly such a good way back as that from the top of Stob Coire nan Lochan.
Back in the camp we found that Frank hadn't wasted his time and that the tea was ready. The rest of the camp had arrived, Stan and Doug chose our side of the valley, and Jack, Ed and Tony Kersting chose the other. Tony spent all his spare time looking for his rucksack, which he had dropped in the stream. Fortunately the two rucksacks he had saved contained his photographic equipment and sleeping bag, but we thought he took the loss of his tent and primus pretty calmly. It was only the American cocoa he seemed sorry to have lost.
That night we had a camp fire on our side. It took lots of paraffin and several candles to get it going and then it took nearly all hands to fetch wood and keep it stoked. Between whiles we were able to dry our clothes over it. It made us smell just like gypsies, but it was well worthwhile.
This was the day which had been fixed for the joint walk with the 'hotellers' along the Aonach Eagach. We started breakfast early and then found it to be a very short and pleasant run down to the road. The water in the streams was much lower. The first stream we were able to cross lower down, on a tree-trunk balanced across and the last one we crossed higher up, where it ran parallel to the road. Frank and I had been eating Don's eggs, therefore we wanted to forage on this trip and try to replace them. I had no luck at the first cottage, neither had they any milk.
Eventually the bus came, it was full of climbers, but they were all M.A.M., no Polaris. Cyril, Paul and Eileen spoke to us, and then they moved off. Some time later the Polaris arrived by car and taxi, and we set off up the spur towards Meall Dearg. It was a strange walk, there were 12 campers and an equal number of 'hotellers' and the day was quite a reunion; some of us hadn't seen each other for some time and then we had arrangements for Whit. etc. to make so that on each little summit we seemed to sit down and just talk, as though oblivious of the place and the weather.
I had promised myself that the next time I did the ridge, I'd at least have sun, if I couldn't have snow and do it under alpine conditions, so I was rather disappointed to have mist, the same as last time. Parts of it still made quite interesting scrambling. I rather amused myself - in places I'd take the most difficult way I could find, yet at other times I'd be very pleased if I could find an easier way down and overtake a queue waiting at a difficulty.
After Sgor nam Fiannaidh most of the 'hotellers' continued on to the Pap of Glencoe, while the rest of us turned south and made for the Clachaig. We ordered tea for 12 and then found that the Marjories, Nesta and John G. were also in the party; however, tea for 16 was ready fairly soon, and a very good tea it was too.
Afterwards, the others returned towards the camp, while Don accompanied me on my egg hunting trip. We started down the road with the 'hotellers'. We called in at the hostel and they directed us to the farm just below, where we were able to get a dozen eggs, but no milk. We were content with this. I by no means regretted this extra mile or so, for it was soon obvious that the evening was going to be the best part of the day. Certainly we had got out of the mist when we had left the top of the ridge, but it wasn't until after tea that we began to get interesting clouds, and finally the sun appeared. I wasted several exposures, my newly acquired exposure meter told me that I shouldn't give a long enough exposure without a tripod, yet, as this was the best weather we'd had since Thursday morning, I thought I might as well try a few shots, just in case my film was a little faster than I thought!
It was well worth the walk along the old road, with the primroses along the banks and then the lochan in the wood. Back on the main road, I at first suggested walking along the road, thinking it would be quicker (even without a lift), but when I saw how much nearer it looked on the left hand bank of the river, I changed my mind. We passed the farm, went along by Loch Achtriochtan and then by the river, finding undulating little paths all the way. Then it was time to mount over the shoulder of Gearr Aonach which brought us onto the screes just before the caves in the Coire Gabhail. It was a very simple way, in fact I was able to carry the bag with the 12 eggs in my hands the whole way. The last part of the ascent was in the sun, but our valley was in gloom.
I had found the snow tent too hot for the mild weather, therefore I was thankful when I thought we were going to have a mild night, so that I could sleep out; however, the rain came almost at once and drove us in.
At first it seemed the usual misty sort of a morning, but we were soon called out of our tents when the peaks at the head of the corrie appeared above the mist and the photographers forgot all about breakfast until they had recorded it.
About 10 o'clock, Frank, Stan and I set out for Buachaille Etive Mor. We ran down to the road and then walked for the next hour along the road to Lagangarbh where we crossed the river by the footbridge and started to contour up and round the Buachaille. It was a similar day to the best one I had spent there, but this time the distant view was clearer.
What a thrill it is to look over Rannoch Moor, and, as we mount higher, for more and more of the blue lochans to come into view. We had one little halt and then went on to the foot of the climb to stop for lunch. It still seemed quite an interesting scramble up. The others wanted water with their lunch, so we ate just before the final scramble to the foot of the Crowberry. None of the others had done it before, so it seemed inevitable that that should be our climb, and they also said they'd prefer a ridge walk to another climb, which meant carrying our rucksacks. Don took Frank and Stan led up to Abraham's Ledge and I followed. I then found that the rope in front of Don were not liking the traverse, so we said we'd give them a rope down if Don could lead it. After one little rest, Don was up it and one of the others tied onto the rope. One of the running belays which Don had left diverted the rope to the right and this lad (he and his friend were from Sheffield) decided he'd try Grieg's Ledge instead.
Don took up the rope and dropped it clear of the slings, but still Frank didn't like the look of the traverse, so I tied on. Certainly there is nothing in the way of a handhold round the corner, but the footholds prove quite adequate even for boots (or at least they do with a rope above!). I think I again used a knee a little higher. It seemed to me that it had been scratched a good deal since I had last done it. I suppose that with the coming of vibrams, the scratching era is ending. Once I was up, we pulled up the rucksacks and then took in Frank's and Stan's ropes as they came round Grieg's Ledge. I wasn't altogether sorry that they found it awkward, for that had been my impression of it, and I hadn't before got anyone else to admit that they found any difficulty. The Sheffield lads tried to get a ciné shot of Stan on the ledge and then they went on while we retied our ropes.
It was my turn to lead the next pitch, and then Stan had a pitch and then I think we mostly moved together until we reached the top of the tower. From here we watched two girls run up some steps in some steep snow to the left and some of my party seemed to favour that way up Stob Dearg, but the Sheffield lads tried it first and the snow started to break away as they traversed onto the steps, so we all scrambled up the rock to the top. It was about 5 o'clock by now, so we soon started along the ridge, so pleased to be making the most of the sunshine on this perfect day.
On the second little peak we stopped to eat up the rest of our food and we made rum ices by dropping Don's rum onto snow. One or two views rather interested the photographer in me. There was one little lochan, and still further along I hoped some snow would make a foreground to the hills just to the south of Bidean. After a final look at the view (even the Cuillins were visible) from Stob na Broige, we plunged down the hillside to the Lairig Gartain, the scree was too patchy to be enjoyable, but from the bottom it was a pleasant traipse over rough country, once we had crossed the stream. Last time I had come this way, I seemed to think that I had found a path nearer the stream; therefore I was a little irritated that Frank and Stan (who were in front) kept higher this time, but they brought us onto the road at the highest point, which was half way along the straight part, which had seemed never ending in the morning.
I was quite pleased that no lifts came our way, for I wanted to prolong the day as much as possible. Stan tried to get eggs and/or tea from the cottage, but was unlucky with both, and then we started up to the camp. The light was just going as we got to the boulders and we arrived back at 9 or 9.30, just after the others had come down from Stob Corrie nan Lochan where they had been watching the sunset.
It was about 12 when we finished supper and turned out on a perfect night to sleep out. Once more we were disappointed, I think it was about a twenty to four (3.40) when the rain woke us up and we had to crawl into tents.
Beinn Fhada had been on the programme and there was no reason why the showers should have stopped us; however, we decided to be lazy and wasted the morning, but it was a very pleasant way of wasting time. I called on Rene and Wyn. Their primus was going and when Tony was asked whether he'd rather have the water for shaving or for cocoa, he said cocoa, naturally, so I had cocoa and home made fruit cake for elevenses. It was amusing to see the men propping mirrors against odd bits of rock and shaving off the 4 or 5 days' growth.
Next came lunch – I think we were still doing pretty well for eggs – and then we had to pack and take down the tents. It wasn't nearly such a struggle getting the packs to the road as it had been to get them up, and we had a very long time to wait for the bus. We had been afraid that we shouldn't be able to get on the bus and therefore Ernest had promised to send some transport for us. We needn't have worried, for there were plenty of duplicate buses and the last one was nearly empty. We waited until another bus came up with Nell (the only one from Glencoe who was leaving) and I was glad to get in it for there was a cold wind blowing and there didn't even seem much shelter in the dugout where we were hiding.
We hadn't a great deal of time at Tyndrum. We left our packs at the station and hurried back to the village where some people had seen a cottage advertising teas. We found that they were almost sold out, but they soon produced a pot of tea and a little to eat, and pointed out the shortcut back to the station.
They also advertised bed and breakfast, and Frank and I wished they had had their sign out so that we could have gone there our first night.
The front, London, part of the train was rather crowded, but we did eventually get our things settled in the guard's van, while we disappeared in ones and twos to wash and change and then come back to the running buffet which had been established in the van. There was quite a delay at Stirling while we were shunted onto another train, and some of them got tea for those of us who remained in the carriage, which we had commandeered by this time (we were 8 and Douglas).
At Carlisle we left Wyn and Rene, Frank and Tony in the train and bundled out to get the Nottingham train after having tea from a disagreeable woman at the snack bar. The next train was crowded, and we had to stay in the corridor, but I was quite happy stretched out on a table placed on the floor.
I got a seat after Sheffield, but I was wide awake by then. At Nottingham I wasted about half an hour at the station, but still I found the Y.W. locked when I got back. I waited outside until 7 o'clock and then a policeman came along and sounded very sympathetic. He eventually left saying that he'd feel like trying a window if he were in my place. After that, I did crawl in the call box window, a thing I'd wanted to do all along. When I came out the side door to fetch in my pack, I found the people in the technical college opposite were out, staring my way.
I hadn't looked forward to the weekend particularly. I had thought of it as an April weekend and the last one of those I spent in Wales was two years ago, when the rain simply teemed down. How delighted I was when it turned out to be a May weekend, with perfect weather.
I had my usual solitary journey through Tamworth to Llandudno Junction where I met Don and we got into the 5.50 Bettws train. It was quite a cold morning and I envied Don his sleeping bag. At Bettws there was a slight hail shower while we were waiting for the bus. At Capel, the weather looked better Snowdon way than along the Nant Ffrancon. We walked the 3½ miles along the road (18 minutes for a mile) and arrived at Glen Dena at 8.20, where Doug greeted us with a cup of tea, and porridge was practically ready. Doug had made some for Don and me, and it amused me that Stan and M.A.M. Bill had each cooked their own – there were three schools of thought about how porridge should be made.
A share of Don's bacon and half his egg were a good exchange for one little vegetarian sausage!
When it came to deciding what to do for the day, Stan only suggested Tryfan and the Glyders, a climb on Lliwedd, the Horseshoe, and back again. Unfortunately for him, he was with the wrong party! Don wanted to climb on Glyder Fach, but we said that would make a nice short day for the Sunday and eventually we decided that the upper cliff of Glyder Fawr would be a pleasant change for us all, and we set out the usual way to the foot of the Slabs.
We had quite a lazy day, being quite apt to just sit and talk between climbs. Eventually, we decided that "Hope" should be our way up the Slabs (a real delight in vibrams) and then we had lunch at the top. Next we had to decide on a route up Holly Tree Wall, and nothing would suit Don but the notorious Javelin Gully. He got over the Mantleshelf without much difficulty, but I couldn't follow him. I could just reach the handhold away to the left, and with the help of a rugosity for my boot, I could pull up sufficiently to get my elbows on and I felt it should have been easy after that, but I was incapable of making the final effort to get my weight over my hands. Eventually I came down and Stan went up (he found it easy enough in vibrams) and gave me a tight rope, while Doug gave me a shoulder and I was able to get up.
The Mantleshelf was the only interest in that climb and then we were faced with the Continuation Wall from which Don picked out 'Groove Above'. Don was glad to keep on his rubbers for this climb and when it came to my turn I couldn't enter the groove without help from the rope. The rest of the climb didn't go too badly, but I thought it under-rated. We decided that after this, we needed an easy climb on the upper cliff, so Stan suggested "Grey Rib". The book didn't rate it any higher than diff. and Stan said that from "Grey Slab" it had appeared a perfect staircase. On our way up we found a rucksack (but no body!) and that was added to Don's boots as my burden on the climb.
At first I found the climb rather delightful, the holds were small, but not too scratched . It reminded me of "Rib and Slab" on Pillar, but as we got higher I thought that perhaps "Southwest" was a better comparison. Don got up to the top pitch in boots, but soon retreated from this pitch to change into rubbers. In this foot gear he was over the initial difficulty in no time, but he need to place a running belay before he could eventually lead the final part.
When it came to my turn, I had to have my 3rd pull of the day on that part. It seemed to me a case of pulling up on holds which would only take the tips of my fingers, and I couldn't do it. I was so ashamed, for I never before remember having a pull on Welsh rock and there are only three places in the Lakes, where it has been necessary.
How glad we were that we didn't have to hurry down to a booked meal. It must have been 8 p.m. when we reached the top of Glyder Fawr. The day was just like Easter Sunday with the Isle of Man taking the place of the Cuillins in the view. We almost seemed on an island with the sea to the north and the sun glinting on it in Cardigan Bay and the other side of the Lleyn Peninsula over the lakes in Nant Peris. We waited until the sun was disappearing and Tryfan turned a little pink, and then went down the Gribin to the hostel, but the warden advised Don to keep the rucksack.
It was about 10 p.m. when we got back to the hut, but supper was soon ready and we got to bed soon after midnight.
I got up when I was called (about 8.20) and we decided that the weather and short day indicated Tryfan East Face.
We went along to North Buttress where Don and I did the usual first pitch and then branched off onto the rib to the left, as a variation to the usual one. That brought us to the foot of Terrace Wall and lunch with Doug and Stan who had gone up the usual way.
Next I went along to the belay at the top of the first pitch of the Bastion, for Don was very keen to lead the 'vs' second pitch. He put on a couple of running belays on his way up this (purely psychological ones I called them when I came to take them off). When it was my turn, I found it a little more difficult than last time when I had done it in rubbers, but I certainly didn't need any help. We gave our second party a rope down, and then I went up the last interesting, but easy pitch. I had told Don that if there was anyone on the Terrace, I'd tell them that I hadn't led the "crux", and sure enough I did later, for when I got to the Terrace I was greeted, "Hullo, you did the Grépon by a new route last year and you're going to do it by the Mummery this year" – I thought what an awful chatterbox I must be. It was the fair boy who Frank and I had met at Idwal Cottage in the autumn. I tried to correct his impressions, that it wasn't a "new" route I had done and that the weather and many other factors would decide what I'd do this ear. Apparently he'd realised all this but we went on chatting about the way down the Grépon, the East Face route etc. They had obviously been studying the guide rather thoroughly. She told us it was 2 o'clock so Don and I hurried down North Buttress to our odds and ends at the foot of the climb and then went down the gully and so to Glan Dena.
We made some tea, but there was no milk and as it was 3 o'clock I set off along the road to take my time until Don finished his packing and caught me up. I was walking on the right hand side of the road, but a new Hillman stopped and offered me a lift to the corner. At first I said no, but changed my mind when I realised that I could spend the time I had saved, drinking tea at Mervyn's. I directed my chauffeur on the Idwal path and then went down to my tea and a chat with Bill until Don arrived.
We set off down the road, but were soon picked up by a little blue open car – just the sort of lift we wanted on this glorious afternoon, with the valley so green, the sea so blue and the hills behind lovely. We walked the last 2 miles to Bangor as there was plenty of time. Stan and Doug, who had cycled down, joined us in the refreshment room, and Bill got in our carriage in the train.
The train to Derby was late and Don lost his connection, but I got to Nottingham soon after 12 o'clock and was able to get a hot bath before going to bed.
I caught the usual 9.06 to Tamworth, finding Jack and Ed already in the train at Nottingham, and we picked up Geoff at Derby. I had tent, rope, stove, etc. in my pack so I envied the others their lighter loads. They had organised their gear between themselves for they were going to walk over from Windermere to Wasdale. We were so busy talking that we didn't notice that we'd arrived at Tamworth until the man opened our carriage and told us we should have to get out! In the tea hut we met Frances and her conversation helped to pass the time, and we had a cup of tea every half hour. The train to Crewe was an hour late, but it wasn't quite as crowded as I'd feared, in fact I got a seat after Stafford.
At Crewe we met Don, Stan and his friend, another Stan and John Hutchinson. The tea wasn't up to the standard of that at Tamworth. Eventually our train arrived and we settled down in a guard's van. There was plenty of room as the only other people were a group of card players. They were playing all night! I got into my sleeping bag cover and was a little cold, but despite this I spent a good night.
The train was very late, arriving at Seascale after 9 o'clock. While we were waiting for our taxis we looked round the shops, buying sweets, carrots and lime marmalade.
Rene, Wyn and I piled into the first taxi, and on the way we picked up John Dixon who was walking up, having spent the night at Seascale. I suppose it was my fault, I didn't notice the turning to Brackenclose, and we were taken further up the valley, and had to walk a mile or so back. At the turning, we met Val. who had arrived on his motor bike and was having breakfast by the roadside, after failing to contact the Polaris.
After crossing the bridge we met the party from the other taxi coming down from Brackenclose. They said that they didn't like the site under the trees, and were going to camp in an open field.
We got the tents up and a primus going for some tea and then had breakfast (or early lunch).
John Cotteril eventually appeared and about mid-day we set off up Brown Tongue. Fairly soon, we were in the mist, but continued up to Hollow Stones where we had a consultation about which climb to do. There had been some mention of Pikes Crag; I utterly refused to go there, but said I didn't want to stop the others, I'd be quite happy to go up Scawfell on my own by Broad Stand, or some such route (actually I had in mind Mickeldore Chimney). When I told John C. I had never even done Slingsby's he said that it would be eminently suitable on such a day. I encouraged the others by saying that it was a moderate, but John tried to limit the size of the party by calling it a 'vd' under those conditions. Stan and John D. though they'd rather walk and the rest of us followed John C. up Steep Ghyll until we stopped at the foot of our climb.
John C. took John H. and the other Stan, while Don and I followed on behind. It was really too cold a day for all the waiting involved, when a '2 rope' follows a '3'; however, I had plenty of time at the foot of the crevasse to warm up my hands before tackling the step. The chimney would have presented no difficulty had my rucksack not got stuck at one point. After the first pitch of the chimney, we were able to move together until we reached the Knife Edge Arête. Gusts of wind made this more interesting, but the weather was improving, and there was a view all round by the time we got to the top. John and Stan then suggested a walk – all round the valley to the Black Sail Pass. Don and I decided to climb and John C. to watch.
Don picked out 'West Wall' as a suitable climb; John pointed out the start, and we set off up it. It wasn't particularly well scratched, but we followed the line of least resistance and were soon at the top. I think I remember the climb best for the view of Gable – I've never really appreciated its shape before, usually I'm too busy picking out the crags and wishing that they reached to the top! The view was all the more appreciated as there'd been none from the previous climb. John had various suggestions for the route down, but we favoured the descent of Micheldene Chimney. We missed out one little pitch at the top, but once below it we realised that it would have been very simple. We soon backed down the main pitch and then found ourselves below the East Face of Scafell. John knew from the book all the climbs here, and Don and I were very interested to have them pointed out to us. Don's reaction was that they'd all be possible, given fine weather, while I thought I couldn't believe they'd ever been climbed.
Next we hurried down in the sunshine to Brackenclose and met Tony and helped him move his things. He'd arrived on his motorbike the night before and had walked that day with Dave. He had run into Frank on Scafell Pike.
It was a perfect evening, but I was the only one to sleep out. I slept like a log, didn't wake up at all until 5 o'clock and then I was dozing most of the time until Tony had the tea ready at 8 o'clock.
It was a glorious morning, we were all determined to go to Pillar, it was only on the subject of the climb that we disagreed. The others were all very thrilled with Margaret's suggestion of Walkers Gully, no-one agreed with me when I said that we hadn't yet worked up to it.
The walk took us the usual 2 hours and then we roped up at the foot of the climb. Bertie and Margaret in front and then I roped up behind Don and Tony – much as I disliked the position of 5th in the gully, I suggested it as the most suitable place for the wet blanket.
The first pitch was only a scramble and then all four of the others tried the right wall of the gully, only to retreat and go the easy way instead. When it came to my turn I went a little further in and found an easy way up the wall. It was only the last move which presented any difficulty, but Don pointed out a suitable pressure hold which, even with my numbed hands I could pull on, and get my weight onto my right foot.
I nearly volunteered to go up the next pitch to save changing belays; how thankful I was that I didn't. Margaret had difficulty with it, but I put that down to her vibrams which weren't a great deal of use on the slimy rock. When it came to my turn I found that while the footholds were good, there was nothing but moss and slime for the hands. I had noticed that the others had used the words "hang on" before starting it, so I tried it, and sure enough the rope tightened. Once up the groove a little way, I could see the chockstone the others had crossed onto – it was level clean rock and it looked my idea of heaven, I just didn't notice the water dripping onto it, and therefore I was surprised when I got there to find the drips unpleasant! I was soon out of their way and over the last chockstone and into a level section of the gully.
The next real pitch was the chockstone pitch; Don ascended behind one stone and then brought Tony up to belay in the wet while Don ascended outside the last two chockstones. When it came to my turn I did the pitch all in one and found backing up over the first chockstone required a little energy (I think the chimney was too narrow). After that, I could see the point of view of the others, when I had shouted up to them, "Are you trying to find a through route under that chockstone?" – for the top of the lower chockstone was by no means level and it was difficult to stand on it, which it was necessary to do to reach the handholds which took one fairly quickly over the upper chockstone.
This pitch was followed by a walk further in the gully, past a rucksack, which caused some speculation (we were later to find that the gully is a natural trap for all rucksacks dropped on Pillar!) to another through route. According to the book, this part is strenuous and the leader should never hesitate to receive help from the second. Margaret, in her useless vibrams was glad of a shoulder from Don and he offered to get me up the same way. I turned down the offer, but felt rather alone after Tony had got up; however, I was just long enough to be able to bridge it and get my hands through the hole and then my body – I was able to push up using footholds beneath me on the right wall. There was one more pitch over a few great chockstones and then Tony and I settled down to watch the attempts on the final pitch (when we weren't cowering away from the stones sent down by our climbers or by people crossing the top of the gully). I think Bertie had given up the attempt, before I could watch. Don started up until he reached the old sling, he put his karabiner through this, after testing it, and then descended to rest. Next he went up again, safeguarded by this "psychological running belay" until he could put Margaret's new sling through the hole, and changed his karabiner onto this. Again he descended and rested before making his attempt at leading it all through, when he got up very quickly, not having to use the back wall at all. According to the book, getting the sling into position is very strenuous and should be done by the second, to save the leader for the final attempt, therefore I felt very sorry for Don having to do it all himself. However, he made light of it.
Next Margaret tried to follow up, but couldn't make much of it in vibrams, so Bertie brought Tony up to the cave and he tried it next. He retreated from it once and then had another try, but looked far from happy. In fact he was so miserable that I didn't blame him (as he was on the rope) at all for taking hold of the old sling as soon as he could reach it. He got both hands on it and all his weight when the words flashed through my mind "life gets kinda tedious" (quite a camp saying!). At that moment the sling broke, but it only threw Tony's back against the other wall, and he looked most secure in that position and he was able to back up a little way and soon had the karabiner off the new sling and had joined Don.
After another try by Margaret, Bertie brought me up to the cave. I found the lower chockstone very difficult to surmount after spending what seemed to me to be hours, shivering below it. It got a knee on the hold on the stone and had great difficulty in getting out of that position. I was glad for Margaret to have another try, while I recovered from a pitch which wasn't technically at all difficult. Then it was my turn, I was glad of some exercise to stop me shivering. The wind in the bottom of the gully had soon dropped, but it was cold all the way; the five of us, despite the 2 ropes were too slow a party. I considered the rock scenery in the upper parts superb, the Devil's Kitchen was the nearest I had seen to walls like these. I was very slow on the final pitch. I got up to the undercut hold, but then rested to the left before making the next move. Once I had made the move, I realised there was nothing to it, and that brought me up to the rope sling – the good one – for Tony had thrown down the other! Again I tried to rest to the left, despite those below who said it was impossible to rest on the pitch. With the sling in my left hand I stepped across and got my right foot well out onto a slime-less hold and, after that, the difficulties were over (I must say that I hung onto the sling for a long time, it felt so beautifully safe).
Although I had been slow on the pitch, I really felt that, using the sling, there were sufficient holds and that it wasn't a 'vs' for a short person.
I was on the end of my rope and had also brought up Margaret's rope. I insisted on having 2 ropes for Margaret and the only reason I could give was that it gives you so much more confidence, and the others wouldn't agree with this statement; however, when they each took a rope and started to assist her up, they agreed that it was a good idea and that they wouldn't like to have to pull anyone up on their own. As I sat watching them, I wondered why they didn't get fed up with me always organising them to do the work!
Bertie sent up the rubbers and then he quickly backed up and joined us.
I started my holiday this year at Chamonix, with three English friends. From the Plan de l'Aiguille hut we started out for the Peigne. I climbed with Don Cowen, as we both had vibrams. Tony and Douglas on the other rope found the couloir rather polished for nails. When we reached the arête I was absolutely thrilled with the rock, rough yellow granite with wonderful holds, and giving a great sense of exposure, and the traverse along the top was in the same tradition. On the eastern summit, we found a place in the sun which was sheltered from the wind and ate and awaited our friends. After an hour and a half we started back to look for them and saw that they were descending, helping down another party who had had an accident. We went back and down the delightful 18m abseil and caught the others up, taking another girl on our rope to leave the two men to help down the blessé.
The weather was doubtful the next day, but really this was quite a blessing for it gave us an opportunity to return to Chamonix for two of the party to buy vibrams and for another to visit the dentist.
The day after we were called at 3 o'clock, instead of 2 o'clock, as we had asked, and set off half an hour later for the Grand Charmoz. The late start had put us behind most of the Montenvers parties, but we had a clear stretch of rock to the northern end of the arête. The Burgener Chimney was no problem, as the only ice was right at the top. The traverse was interesting the whole way. I remember one move where it was necessary to get one's hands over the top of a flake of rock and then swing one's body round the other side of the flake. It is very similar to the move on Bramleys Traverse at Gatcliffe in Derbyshire, the extraordinary thing is that Bramley's Traverse always seems to me one of the most exposed moves I have ever made, while on the Charmoz, I just wasn't conscious of any exposure.
Don and I then went on to the Grepon, we wanted to do the double traverse, but perhaps I was particularly keen to get it over as I dreaded the thought of the slog up the Nantillon Glacier again at Don's pace, which is perhaps hardly the right attitude with which to approach the famous climb. We had to wait ¾ of an hour for the Mummery Crack. The Frenchman in front of me wasn't at all encouraging and kept telling me how hard it was. When I suggested that I could try one of the traverses and avoid the difficult start, he said that these were even harder. When his turn came to climb he certainly made it appear as difficult as he had described it. He had a shoulder from Don for the first part, and all the way up he was shouting "tirez" to his leader. Don made so little of it that I was partly re-assured, for there was no-one behind to give me a shoulder and I'd had visions, if the worst had come to the worst, of putting the spare rope through my karabiner, and being hauled up by the crevasse rescue technique. I needn't have worried, for, although I found it very strenuous, I was always able to rest after each effort and get my breath back before tackling the next problem. The next part was more amusing: scrambling, then serious climbing, with the trou de canon and so on, and the rateau de chevre was quite short. We soon caught up the two Frenchmen, but the summit was a shock, there was hardly room to sit down. We had to wait an hour and a half before our turn came for the abseil down the east face, and then there was another hour's wait for the second abseil and we eventually got back to the hut at 9.30.
Next day we had quite a leisurely day, moving up to the Requin hut and looking out a climb. In the morning the weather was unsettled, so we changed our plans and started for the Plaque Route. We didn't know the way and were fortunate in being able to follow two British climbers with André Rock. We followed their example and left our axes and crampons at the bottom, thinking it better to come down the same way than to carry everything up to the shoulder. We had a rather delightful leisurely day up to the top, and the two parties shared abseil ropes, which simplified the descent of the Cheminé Fontaine. I'll never like that abseil, I continually found the walls getting in the way. The storm broke when we were about half way down; we just managed to get out of the gully on the right before it became the bed of a sizeable stream. We sheltered until we thought the lightning had left our peak, but it came back as soon as we went on. We continued down, trying to keep warm. Lower down we left the route we had come up and started abseiling down to the gully on the left. This was very slow with the wet ropes, although most of us used the sling method. At one point we had to go under a waterfall, and, although I was soaked through, this seemed to me to be the last straw.
We just got off the rock before dark, having had 13 abseils altogether. Tony had stayed behind that morning, but he was a good friend and had watched for our lights on the glacier and had the tea ready when we got in.
The next morning was brilliantly sunny and we were able to set off in the afternoon for the Torino hut. It took us such a long time to find our way through the icefall, that, when we passed a party who said that it was 5 hours to the col, we turned back, but the next morning we found that it was only 3 hours. I was in favour of trying the Dent de Géant that day for I remembered the year before and was eager to make the most of every fine day. The others pointed out that we were short of food, so we took the teleferique into Italy. We refused to pay on the way down, for we knew that it would be cheaper to wait and pay in Italian money. We paid for the bus to Courmayeur in francs; it was 400 each, and when we returned, we asked the other passengers the fare and learned that it was 400 lire. When we asked the driver if we'd paid "Aller et Retour" he just laughed, but didn't charge us any more, so we forgave him.
The next day we set out for the Géant, but found ourselves in the middle of a long queue for the final part. I'll always think of it more as an amusing experience than a serious climb. There were two Italians in front of us who had little idea of how to climb rocks, and they weren't even very good on ropes. The leader got stuck on the first slab and he just stayed there singing as though the people below were an appreciative audience, instead of impatient climbers. Another character that day was the solo climber. He also didn't like the first slab and when a loop of rope from the two singers came his way he calmly tied onto it, much to the amazement of those already on it, who couldn't make out what was happening.
The procession moved up very slowly, so we climbed the rocks instead of the ropes, except for two places, where I was glad of them. Coming down we used the ropes and I found them strenuous enough to descend and was glad I hadn't tired myself climbing up them. There was a little rain at the hut so we spent the night there and returned the next morning to Chamonix.
The next day we set out for the Aiguille de Gouter hut. The only other climbers on the train to Bionassay were three Frenchmen who we had met on the Géant. There was a cold wind and soon after Tête Rousse we were in the mist. We were planning to have a jolly evening together in the hut, for I thought that no-one else would be so foolish as to come up on such a day. It was a shock to open the door and find the hut crammed full. Sarnivels drawing "I thought pressure diminished with altitude" might have been made from that very scene. We had a primus stove, so we retired to the old hut to cook our own supper, and soon all the surplus people came across. It was a very cold night, but we were packed so tightly that we suffered more from the heat than the cold. It had stopped snowing by the morning, but the wind was still as strong that it didn't occur to me that anyone would set out. You can imagine my horror, when, from my place opposite the window, I saw about half a dozen ropes set out at 6 o'clock. This shamed us into getting up, and, after breakfast, we roped up and put on crampons in the hut and left at about 7 o'clock.
The pull up to the top of the dome de Gouter warmed us up, but at the top we stopped for photographs and I got cold and couldn't get warm again. I don't think I could possibly have staggered any further than the Vallot hut. Inside someone cheerfully told me that I'd warm up in an hour and I think it took me that time. Soon after we arrived, our three French friends, with a fellow countryman of theirs set off, the first party to attempt the top that day. They turned back after half an hour and told us that they had found three bodies. If we were to believe the French papers, these were the vanguard of the eight who were killed from the top of the Brenva, onwards.
Eventually, we set off down and as soon as we got off the ridge, we were stripping off our woollies, the sun was so hot. We had only to look back and see the new snow being blown off the ridge to realise that retreat had been the only thing.
It had been a memorable day, both for the view above the clouds, and also as the first peak from which I've turned back. I rather deserved it, for in the past I've sometimes dismissed that route as a mere snow-slog.
The next day Douglas returned home while the three of us went on to Zermatt. I wanted to do the Obergabelhorn, but some people said that we might not get in the Rothorn hut just before the opening ceremony, so we went to the Schönbühl instead. We soon found that this was the wrong way round to do the peak; it was a long slog up the stony coombe, but the worst part of the day was the ascent to the Arbenjoch of what the book calls "a snowy ledge". There were cairns at the top as though we were on the right ledge, but it just consisted of slabs with a little scree on top of them. I was very pleased with Arbengrat, for it was the other's first Swiss Peak and I knew that until then they had compared everything very unfavourable with Chamonix routes. We descended over the Grand Gendarme and the Wellenkuppe and got to Zermatt at about 7.30. We had lost time for silly reasons, for instance we'd cut steps on the way up instead of taking the trouble to put on the crampons which we'd carried. We'd kept to Kurz time on the Arbengrat, but we'd been slow getting down to the Gendarme. Therefore we doubted our ability to do the Zmutt Ridge. The others had never been up the ordinary way and they said they'd prefer to do that guideless than have a guide for the Zmutt. Much to their horror, I found a guide to take me on the Zmutt, selling a nylon rope to help raise the francs. The next afternoon I went to the Schönbuhl again while the others went to the Hörnli to do either the ordinary or the Zmutt, according to the weather.
It was a lovely morning the next day and we traversed a little snow, lots of scree and a few slabs to the snow arête. As we approached its top it was a grand sight to see an axe at work, and ice chips flying in the sun, for the others had got there at the same moment. Conditions were perfect for the upper part, but I felt that, as I was having a guide, I should have liked a few more difficulties, for it was the easiest rock of the holiday, but I didn't begrudge having the guide, for we'd never have found the best way by ourselves and we'd certainly have taken longer than 7½ hours. There'd been a cold wind on the way up, but on the top it was beautifully sheltered on the south side of the snow bank. There was no snow on the ordinary ridge, it was like a highway and we were down to the hut in 2 hours and then in Zermatt in another 2 in plenty of time for me to pack and catch the train to Martigny that night, for I wanted to get back to France, as I had no Swiss money left.