WHEN I was asked to go to the Alps last summer, I jumped at the offer. So it was that on the 1st of June, 1953 Ted Wrangham, David Fisher, André Kopczsynski and myself set out in Ted’s Jaguar from London, our first destination Lympne and the Silver City Airways. The flight across was uneventful and after a very comfortable and pleasant run from Le Touquet, I was enjoying my first sight of Paris.
Next morning, after spending a short while in Pierre Allain’s shop, we proceeded southwards at a leisurely 80 m.p.h., and after a further night spent in a small hotel, midday found us twisting and turning up a tortuous bit of road leading to ’La Bérarde in the Dauphiné. This was to be our headquarters for a week. Our arrival in La Bérarde aroused some interest, but it waned slightly when we produced tents. Within a short while we were pleasantly encamped, with a glacier fed stream within convenient distance for collecting water. A short tour was then made of the town. This did not take long, as it consisted of only about seven buildings, of which five were hotels. Readers will understand then why our tents were not appreciated, especially as they come from the depths of a "Jag" boot.
When we had bought a good stock of provisions, and agreed on the way to our first climb the following morning, we returned to cook our dinner and to go to bed early. It was the first time for many years that I have been disturbed at such an ungodly hour, but the air was pleasant enough when we had a few clothes on; within an hour we had packed everything up and were on our way.
It was not without a little trepidation that I set out, but the thought that later on that day I should be on the top of one of those lovely peaks, which were now only blacker outlines against a black darkness, was stronger than any fear I might have had, though there was still immeasurable awe. The first climb we had chosen was the west arete Pic Nord des Cavales. It entailed a very long tramp from La Bérarde to reach the start, and it was quite light by the time we had roped up, but the climb itself went well enough, although I was making rather hard weather of it through height, and the resulting lack of breath. The feeling on reaching the top of a real mountain was as great as I had always imagined. We did not stay there long, but made our way down as quickly as possible, as we had been warned that it was still rainy every afternoon, and we were taking no chances. This day though, we were safely back in camp when the rain started around five, pretty tired, because it had been a long day and our first climb, but content. After a day of rest we were off again, this time with some stores, bound for the hut. Towering above and away from us was the Meije, which I had seen before on our first climb, but which now could be studied more leisurely. The Meije, however, did not enter our heads until we had returned from our second climb, again a west arete, this time of the Point des Aigles. There had been one rather perturbing incident on the way up this, when a rock nearly the size of my head tried to bomb me. Fortunately it richochetted off my back, and no damage was done, but I spent a little while ruminating before finishing the pitch I was on at the time.
Back at the hut, which we reached in record time after glissading most of the way, we debated our next climb. Eventually it was decided that we should do the classic traverse of the Meije via the glacier Carré from the Promontoire hut. Supplies were running short, so next day we tossed to see who should go back to La Bérarde to pick up fresh food and to bring it right up to the Promontoire, but Ted and I were lucky, so after saying au revoir to Dave and André we took most of what foodstuffs were left and proceeded to the Promontoire hut, which was perched a little way up on the arete we had to climb the next day.
Snow was down so far that the stream given in the guide proved not only waterless but non-existent. After a fruitless search for .html, Ted and I as arranged, went ahead to scout the route we would be following in darkness the following day. When we returned we were surprised to find that Dave and André had already arrived, some hours ahead of schedule. During dinner, which was as usual a throw-in of corned-beef, rice, onions and a tube of tomato pur6e, the chief subject of conversation was the weather. It had snowed on the mountains, and rained in the valleys, regularly every afternoon we had been in the area, bearing out what the people had said. It had never however come any earlier than three, and usually started around five. If the morning was fine therefore and we could start out, it would have to be early.
At 2.30 a.m. therefore the kettle was boiling: by three we were off, Ted and I leading in the darkness the route which we had scouted the previous afternoon. Gradually, as we could see better, we progressed a little faster. At about 9.30 we had reached the level of the glacier Carré, and began our traverse on to it. At 11 p.m. we were eating some food on top of the glacier Carré in the hollow between the twin peaks of the Meije. So far we were making good enough time and, as we proceeded on our way the sky started to get a little darker, but nobody worried particularly about it. Suddenly, however, about two pitches from the top of the right hand peak, it began to snow, gently at first, but by the time we had all reached the top, it was swirling and thick. There was now no time to waste; a regrouping of forces was called for. Dave, who had six Alpine seasons to his credit, took the lead, next André with one season, myself in my first, and Ted bringing up the rear, the second most experienced of the party on his third. A detailed description of the traverse, done in ever worsening conditions, with occasional stops to discard humming ice axes, is impossible; the main thought in all our minds was to keep moving as fast as possible, not to mind the snow melting and penetrating everything, only to keep moving, keep warm. When we had reached the next peak our traverse was complete; Dave had done his job safely and well. Now all we had to do was to get onto thc snow and walk off the mountain to the nearest hut, which was, according to the guide book, not very far away. Besides the snow had stopped, but our troubles were by no means at an end. It was getting dark. We began to make our way down. Combined with the gathering darkness a mist, which still lingered, prevented our seeing more than about 50 feet ahead. Ted, who was leading, now came to a series of bergschrunds. We were getting nowhere fast. "I’m going to jump it," from Ted. Silence and tenseness from us in reply. A jump – safe – jubilation on our parts. Three more bergschrunds followed the first, then "Well, boys, here’s where we sleep the night: cosy, eh?"
An hour later, by the light of a flickering candle four people, feet in rucksacks, could be seen eating a little food. The mist had cleared, and the sky was perfectly clear. "No more snow anyway, and thank heavens not too much wind." – "Are you cold?" "A little." "Midnight," one, two o’clock: pass round the sugar, figs, apricots, raisins, anything to keep my mind off the cold. Wish I hadn’t only worn a light shirt and cotton vest under my anorak and that they hadn’t got wet, but just think, 90°F at home in the shade. Three o’clock, let’s have a bit of chocolate, wish my teeth wouldn’t chatter. Four o’clock, "Come along, fellows, let’s start making a move. It’ll soon be light." "O.K." "Brother, I’m stiff, me too, boots frozen up, can’t get mine on, ah there it is."
Start slowly down. Just a few feet away a place where we could easily have crossed the bergschrund. Still, glad we didn’t risk pressing on, no telling what might have happened. Sky suddenly seems to get lighter. Look, Mt. Blanc.
Away in the distance, poking its way through a layer of lowish lying cloud, was indeed Mt. Blanc. There was no mistaking her. One side was covered with that glorious pink of dawn on snow, which is only matched in colour by the glory of a queen conchshell; the other side still lay in darkness seemingly expectant, waiting to take on life again after the colourlessness of night. It is one of those views which I shall always think of with pleasure, tinged with a little awe, but it cheered us up tremendously, and a sight of the hut not more than half an hour’s walk away made our hearts light. When we reached it it looked as if nobody had been in it for months. Nobody had, we learnt later. André and I decided come what may we were going to have some sleep before we proceeded down to La Grave. Dave and Ted went on straight away. I didn’t sleep for long, and went. and sat in the sun until André woke up. We left the hut eventually around 1 p.m., following the other’s footsteps. It was nice to be down below the snow line once again, to hear the tinkle of the sheep bells and the tonkle of the cow bells; One thing about a night in the snow, I thought: it certainly makes you appreciate those things you’re apt to take too much for granted.
Le Grave showed some interest in us. Where had we come from? Who were we? What had we done? Our answers set off a hubbub of conversation. Evidently we couldn’t have been "Anglaise" and traversed the Meije, because the last two Anglaise who had tried it had been found frozen stiff in a bergschrund next day. Hunger called, however, and we searched out an hotel. It was gone 3 p.m., and they stopped serving lunch at 3 p.m., but everybody was kind, and with a lovely meal before us, our first proper meal for many hours, and a large bottle of wine each, we couldn’t have asked for more.
We booked rooms in the hotel for the night, and went in search of Ted and Dave. While we were all walking back to the hotel we were approached by a youngish chap who wanted to hear all about it over again. He had done the last traverse of the season last year, and had hoped to do the first this year, but did not think the weather was steady enough yet. We were very lucky. You mean – yes, ours was the first traverse of the season – our triumph was complete.