FOR the sunny inside of two days I had lazed at La Plage in Chamonix, waiting for Hamish’s mouth to open. It had been closed by an impacted wisdom tooth which rendered him almost unable to eat. Starvation would no doubt have attended anyone less able to gain nourishment from any kind of edible or semi-edible food. In the meantime I was able to watch the Aiguilles turn from white to black, recovering from one of the many storms that sent m many aspiring alpinists from centre to centre in search of less impossible conditions. Despite having fulfilled so few of the high ambitions with which I had come out to the Alps, I felt very contented to lie and watch that improbable skyline: a perfectly normal wooded hillside, and then those rocks rushing up from the tops of the trees so unexpectedly. And always, as I gazed, my eyes centred on one section which looked even less sensible than the rest: the North West ridge of the Charmoz. It was a continual surprise to me to reflect that that section of ridge, so conspicuous from Chamonix (the fashion centre of rock climbing) and so accessible, had resisted attacks till 1950, and even now had had no second ascent. Allain and Schatz it was who first found the way; how satisfactory it must be to have a whole section of the Chamonix skyline all to yourself!
Hamish agreed to do the climb, though he seemed luke-warm, having his eyes on bigger things than a paltry Aiguille and a mere TD. He felt, I think, that he had kept me waiting, and so must humour my rather childish whims. Anyway he might need a training climb after having eaten so little for some time. So up we went to spend the night, in deference to my sybaritic tastes, in the "dortoir" of the Montenvers Hotel We had company: some rather tough outdoor types, French, and a solitary German. They asked us what we were going to do, and, when we told them, were quite nice, but quite obviously disbelieving. We saw them next day, at 11 a.m., 100 feet up the Spencer couloir.
The next morning started pretty traditionally. Sleepy, unambitious, vaguely wondering with Yum-Yum "What on earth the world can be," we started, my diary records, at 2 o’clock. I had never previously ascended the path to the Nantillons glacier, though in descent I had several times noticed how long, how unnaturally and unfairly long, it is. Now it hardly existed, and I woke up with the day as we came on to the glacier. Here we met Lionel Terray, who was taking a client over the ordinary Grépon traverse. He told us that the upper part of our ridge became very hard, but I don’t think Hamish heard; he seemed to be in that keyed state which affects one in a party, before a climb, who knows that his companion is not as strong a climber as he is. He is aware that if he cannot do it, the party is beaten; and however many times one may have succeeded there is always that little doubt that next time may be different. At any rate before the difficulties begin. For me the tension was different, for I knew that Hamish was stronger than myself, yet despite having climbed with him several times before, well, no one is infallible, and it did seem that others rated the climb high in the scale of difficulty. I had that feeling one gets when one knows that the fate of the party is out of one’s hands.
Over the glacier we went to the couloir that gives onto the brêche above the Petits Charmoz. It seemed to be absurdly hard. If these are pitches of three, I thought, how in the world am I going to do five’s? Perhaps we could avoid the hard upper part of the ridge by getting on to the Ryan-Lochmatter route. I did not want to think too directly about actually climbing all the difficulties which I felt sure lay ahead. But here was rock which I could at least get up, and even enjoy it. We looked, enpassant, at the Doigt de l’Etala; apparently each crack on it had been climbed, to judge from the rows of pitons displayed; but it was a most impressive rock. Then came rapid movement over easyish rocks, giving no times for impressions, up the left side of the ridge, first here, then there, the route not always obvious, but still leading onwards, upwards, and on to the ridge proper above the first gendarme.
The rock here had an unusual simplicity. There was no great profusion of cracks or other features.. The gendarme behind was about 30 feet above us, a sweep of yellow wall; that in front perhaps 40 feet, with a step at 5 feet, a crack in the middle for 25 feet, and one at the low right of 10 feet. Both side walls of the ridge were invisible. The crack in the middle looked perfect, but since no man is 15 feet high, the cleft on the right had to be the way. I felt no enthusiasm for it. It was so devoid of feature. One could either stride in at a high level (in to what, however, since no hold appeared to be available?), or climb up from the bottom. Hamish did the latter, and aided by a piton which he put in, disappeared with typical abruptness round the corner. Round the corner there was a true hand traverse for a few moves, during which one could note that the simplicity already referred to extended to the scenery beneath, which continued downwards abruptly for some way. Above now appeared a dièdre, clean cut, but provided with good jams. I enjoyed it; if difficulty comes in a descending scale one can enjoy it all to the full; whereas if one knows that the most difficult bit is at the top of a pitch, the lower bits are ignored in anticipation.
So we were now back on the ridge. For a few feet we had easy stuff; then came an undercut crack which needed a shoulder. This made it easy, but of course less so for the second man. However even he was comforted by the pleasant slab climbing which followed, again off’ the ridge on the left hand side. We were now getting used to this business, and were hardly surprised by .html switch, back over the ridge to the right hand side. The character of the route was also becoming clearer. One was continually arriving in positions from which the possibility of advance was laughable, until one noticed a faint chance round a corner. On investigation this would prove to be the route. So here once again: along a ledge, which presented as the guide book said "a little interruption." Interruption or no, the ledge did not seem to lead anywhere, until about halfway along a crack was revealed leading upwards to a split between two quite clearly unclimbable needles. It seemed absurd to go up there, but then what else could we do? So up we went, with much labour. Of course there was a ledge the other side, and ultimately there we were, back on the ridge once more.
By now it was 11 o’clock. The doubts and forebodings of the early morning were forgotten, and we were climbing along fascinated by the way the route moved in and out among the impressively smooth scenery of the ridge, one line of possibility linking up with the next; but what a route to have pioneered! Travelling hopefully, wasn’t in it. Ahead, up the next ressaut, was a little wall, with cracks, a deceptive pitch which looked so easy, but the cracks gave no hold, having no inside; once started the only thing to do was to get to the top as quickly as possible. It lead to a little shoulder, and looking beyond I realised that the line of possibility had finally failed. There was a feature for about 10 feet (a chimney down and a ledge starting across), then a blank, a "brown slab bending over into immeasurable space." But of course I had read the guide book, which said something about a rappel pendulaire, so I thought that Hamish should have a look. My doubts had re- turned, and I felt slightly sick, as I always do before something like this. But Hamish conceals his feelings well: he just stops talking when difficulties arrive. Down the chimney he went, along the ledge, and then he saw it: far out on the slab, no cracks visible, were two pitons. They looked very lonely. A delicate traverse line approached them, but not too near, so that the last move needed faith in their stability, Climbing with exaggerated care, I joined Hamish, discussing the next move to keep my mind off the drop below. We bitterly regretted the absence of a spare rope for abseiling, but in the end Hamish achieved the pendule (we learnt later that during an unsuccessful attempt the leader of .html party had abseiled straight down, and then run backwards and forwards across the slab till he had gained enough momentum to reach the chimney on the far side). He then climbed up till he was about 50 feet and 25 feet to the right of me, directly above the line of arrival on the far side of the slab. Uncurling my fingers from the karabiners to which they had been clinging, I summoned up what courage I still had, let go everything and swung free across the slab to the far side. I had intended to arrive feet first to cushion the shock, but I seemed to go too fast for conscious action and arrived anyhow, my elbows taking a large part of the bump. But we were across, and I felt jubilant in the reaction; why, a couple of IV’s, two V’s and a V sup. were all that was left. I joined Hamish, and we ate.
The way ahead was obvious: a scoop with cracks to an over- hang, and round this to the right. But we did not find it easy. Hamish led, putting in two pegs to add to the two already in place. With elbows buzzing and stiff fingers I prepared to follow. At the second piton my fingers closed on the karabiner. As if in sympathy, my other hand closed too; and there I was, ridiculously enough, unable to open them again. I had had a little finger cramp before, but to have to open one’s hands with one’s teeth seemed rather absurd. So I proceeded, really fighting now, tooth and nail, to the stance below the final "bombement." We rested; Hamish more tired (he told me afterwards) than he had ever been before tackling such a pitch; I in terror lest I should fail him, fail even to follow where he must lead. Yet I felt somehow comforted, knowing this was the crux; with the end so near the feeling came, illogically, that we could not fail. I knew, under the edge of nervousness, that Hamish would not retreat from the pitch. He would get up, or fall off. Yet I somehow never believed in the latter. We gathered ourselves together, and I gave him a shoulder to start the pitch. This process took a long time, but once established rapid progress followed. But not far; just as far as the "mauvais piton" noted in the guide. It was useless. Hamish tried elsewhere, and very nearly split away the one bit of rock that might offer a hold. Cautiously edging for position, he found a finger hold for the right hand, extended at full stretch. I could see him making up his mind. Then, with a convulsive movement, he was up. Knowing only too well the small amount of useful strength left in my fingers, I made up my mind to rush the pitch with a tight rope from above, rather than try to climb it properly. It was no moment for purist sentiments. Consequently I shall never know how difficult that final move had been. I passed it by too quick to notice. But I knew that I had witnessed as fine a lead as I ever expect to, a triumph of determination.
For the next hour we passed along the ridge of the ordinary traverse, climbing like novices, elated, but hardly able to appreciate it. The margin had been too narrow, the situation too nearly out of hand. The expedition had, of course, entered .html phase. It was after 5 p.m., and the descent had to be made. I have had occasion to remark about this kind of descent before. It followed an all-too-familiar pattern. We had to go down the Charmoz- Grépon couloir. Hamish cheerily prophesied one hour. I mentally translated that into two hours. After two and a half hours we were still descending. It was ice, covered mostly with snow which was sometimes solid enough to kick steps in (but not often), or with gravel; never was it steep enough to excite interest, always too steep to relax. Even after it ended we had to hurry to clear the glacier before dark. We almost did so, and fortunately I knew the path up onto the moraine, having been this way before in the dark. There we found a party settling down into a bivouac (they were going up the Blaitière next day, and wanted to be early in the Spencer couloir). It seemed an odd place to choose, without water. But of course there is no water all the way back to Montenvers; and even the loveliness of the night could not make up to me for my thirst. Still we had something to think about, a satisfaction that grew with the hours, till one could forget the pains and troubles, and remember what a glorious climb it had been.