Chris has a way of looking up at you, her head cocked to one side, eyes partly hidden by the uncontrollable fringe, and perfect teeth shining in a cheeky smile, that invariably means adventure, often in glorious weather and always in good spirit. I do so hope that wicked grin will continue to get me into trouble and out of it again for many years to come!
The first ski touring trip to Chamonix was a revelation. The joy of being on skis again, combined with panic and sheer bliss when you step over the col to the other side of the mountain and leave all the ants on the piste in their safe controlled world and we in our little band of friends found ourselves alone amongst the giant hills, coldly beautiful in their winter raiment, familiar and yet strangely forboding. These were not the friendly hills of Chamrousse, curves learnt and drawn as a child, on ski and on foot, not the playground where I had discovered my love of air beneath your feet; these were the giants of mountaineering legend, where champions and heroes had trodden and faltered and not all had escaped from the winter vault.
Skinning uphill brought a familiar pain, remembered from summer at Ridgways, lungs bursting, legs burning, count the steps, suck for breath, a pain that focussed and purified, a kind of redemption, the view from the summit the salvation and release. Learning that there really are a hundred types of snow, off the packed groomed piste, that footing could change with every hollow and nuance of terrain: there were moments of floating glorious bliss, but there was also much fighting, for ground, for turns, for verticality. I fell in love, with the steeps, with the ever changing views, with the promise of adventure around every corner. I vowed to get stronger, better, faster, to be more worthy of the challenges surrounding us.
It was meant to be a skiing trip. I had brought collapsible walking crampons, a couple of short screws for crevasse rescue, an antique Vertige axe, donated to the Frodsham gear store by Deano before he left for NZ. I was feeling the love, enjoying the dance, I hadn’t even thought about ice. Until Chris turned to me one evening, guide book in one hand, wine glass in the other, with her particularly wicked grin
“Do you fancy a route?”
What a question! There I was, completely intimidated by the vastness and wildness of the Alps, reading about snow and weather and slope angles and avalanches, wondering if I could haul my sorry ass out of a crevasse if I missed a turn due to the difficulties of a whole new variety of snow, and Chris effortlessly upped the ante! I am sometimes stronger than Chris on rock, bolder, braver, foolish above gear, and in those days before my Achilles objected to road running I was possibly as fast and as fit, but on skis she whoops my arse consistently, and she also excels at suffering. I had done one ice route on Aonach Mor, eventually, after sliding about 300m after losing my footing popping through the cornice, and a week of water ice in Le Grave. I had loved the water ice, I was pretty strong, bold although crap at placing screws, and I loved the fact you could make your own holds on this weirdest and most ephemeral of media, but the thought of sneaking up to one of these mountains and daring to scratch at its sides, well that psyched me out completely. There was only one answer
“What you thinking of? Oh and I’ll need to scrounge some gear!”
By one of those strange twists of fate, Andy had broken his leg the day before, winding through the trees on the way down to le Buet, the icy runnels, hairpins and his complete lack of skiing ability had got the better of him. He had thoughtfully brought his brand new technical ice tools on holiday with him. We mustered a selection of 8 screws from the assorted group, and Steve and Rob were keen to do a climb too. The objective was the Chere Couloir, a “modern” ice route on the Tacul. We packed sacs, counted gear, checked the weather, couldn’t get online to book the first pherique, didn’t have enough quickdraws, started splitting slings, the constant blur of activity serving to drown out the clatter of butterflies wings churning in the pit of my stomach. Food was impossible that night, I felt too sick, a little wine eased the nerves but didn’t bring sleep until the early hours, just enough to make the alarm the worst form of torture. Porridge for breakfast, forcing it down for fuel, tasteless like chalk, then the inevitable faffing that always occurs when Chris and I team up. We are never first out of the gate, needing another coffee, we were late for first pherique but we somehow scrambled into the third.
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife in that bin. There were nervous piste skiers off for their day out on the Vallee Blanche, unfamiliar harnesses cramping their stylish ski suits, pedestrian tourists terrified by the exposure, as the cabin clunked and swung and swayed through the stanchions. And then us, toughing it out, laughing and joking, the piste bashers and the lift men always have a smile for girls with axes, flirting and grinning and waving us through, to the best spot, the best view, grabbing skis when juggling sacs and skis in the hustle and bustle of tall jacketed padded men all got too confusing. I still get off on the glint in their eyes, these hardened macho men never fail to be taken in by the novelty of mountain girls with gear, I am that shallow that I love that moment when they clock you, check you out and wave you through….and hey, it saves queuing!
The cold at the top, the jostling for the ridge, crampons on, skis on sac, race down the ropes, then skis on to race down the slope, slightly sobered by the first big crevasse that sits on the convexity off to the left of the descent, eying up mountains, features, the Gervasutti frowning at us, and then the first view of the Tacul, the triangle acting like a sun clock, reminding us we were already late. The weather as perfect as promised, the game was on! The skin across the bowl to the base of the route was hell. My altimeter kicks in at about 2700m, it was raving hot in the sun, we were late, we were racing other parties, we hadn’t eaten enough, hadn’t drank enough, weren’t strong enough, didn’t have enough gear, must be mad, must pack in the fags…the voices in my head were doing overtime. I plodded on, mind over matter, will over won’t, one foot in front of the other, still not very efficient at skinning, but very good at suffering in silence and counting steps, keep moving, you always get there. I hoped that once I was climbing, the pain would recede. Steve and Rob so far ahead of us now that their gallant promise to look out for us was as useless as we wanted it to be- this was our day, our adventure.
Chris led off. I was still trying to remember how to breathe without vomiting, from fear and anticipation. There were parties ahead of us but they were reasonably tidy, the ice didn’t seem to be raining down. Chris led like a fiend, the nerves that sometimes afflict her on trad routes don’t seem to apply when she’s swinging axes and kicking for joy. I remember a little groove on the first pitch, bridging out, points scraping though thin ice, no purchase, hooking and torquing, short screws, not where you wanted them, nothing like the fat water ice I had learned on the year before. The discovery of bolts at the belay, not mentioned in our guide, were both a relief and a betrayal, the route immediately less serious, retreat an easy option, the wilderness diminished by the loops of tat; others had been and we knew where we were going. Setting off on the second pitch, the glint of metal and the red knot of tat clearly visible 60m of clean ice above, my nerves vanished and I started to enjoy myself. Climbing in touring boots surprisingly easy, Andy’s crampons were lighter than mine but the boots rigid enough a platform to make up for the difference. His axes were unfamiliar, weighted entirely differently, they needed a strong swing, unlike my Quarks which swing themselves, I cursed his homemade leashes, just a crab through the eye of the axe. In those days I had to start screws off with both hands (I still do mostly) so I didn’t put many in! The amazing artificial rhythm of ice bashing, thunk thunk, pull, kick kick, breathe, thunk thunk, pull, kick kick, breathe, breathing suddenly coming easier now there were four working limbs involved, the spectacular views of familiar faces unfolding on either side. I had never expected to meet these mountains in the flesh, at the sharp end, from a height, I had always thought I would crawl beneath them like the ants, deferent, worshipful, bent at the knee at the altar of my gods, I had never thought to have the temerity to penetrate their icy defences. With each swing of my axe I felt my confidence grow, we would be allowed to prevail, just for today, just as a rare gift, these mountain gods had chosen to smile on us today.
Swinging leads, swapping smiles, cold in the couloir but with the whole world lit up by the spring sun, we picked our way ever upwards. Slow but sure, the angle easing, the ice improving, time was ticking away but we were living the dream.
Checking our watches at the top of the runnel, we abandoned all thoughts of a Tacul summit bid and chose to ab the route. Rob and Steve had waited for us at the bottom, there wasn’t enough snow to ski to Cham and we were going to miss the train. Flush with success, in the days when the exchange rate was in our favour, we decided to head for the Cosmiques, for dinner and wine and a leisurely ski down the Vallee Blanche in the morning. None of us had done it before and we wanted to make the most of it. Swimming up the snow slope to the hut was purgatory immediately ameliorated by the carafe of vin rouge that Steve had waiting on the balcony. As we watched the sunset light up our route, Chris’ phone rang. It was Bryan, left behind at work, usually the least spontaneous man in the world, he had decided to join Chris in Chamonix as a surprise! Only one problem, we were up and he was down, funny in retrospect, fully hilarious then…I don’t think he has ever done anything off the cuff since!!
Chris decided to get first bin down to meet him, and then Steve decided not to ski the VB, another who couldn’t ski yet then, this was unusually cautious and probably wise. When we had skinned up to the Leschaux hut to show Sally the area where Mal, her dad, had been killed, Steve had left a perfect trail of herringbone ‘pieds canards’ up to the hut! Which left me and Rob, whom at that stage I had hardly spoken to, and certainly didn’t know, to ski down together. We packed the sacs again, offloading as much of the hardware as Steve could carry to the telepherique; as he is awesomely strong on his uphill legs, this was nearly all of it….have I thanked you enough over the years Mr Grove?
Rob and I became friends on that magical morning, friends in the sense that only good fortune and shared adventure can bring about. We left the hut at first light and skied the VB as the sun came up to greet us, lighting each layer in sequence, setting the granite spires ablaze, warming our backs but never overtaking us, as we skied down on perfect spring snow. The absolute silence was overwhelming, we didn’t share our enchanted morning with a single other living soul, not even the choughs were up so early. We took our time, revelling in the experience, ticking off the stages slowly, cautiously, carefully, step turns on the Geant slopes, the crevasses ‘non bien bouches’, the consequences of a slip nagging at our lonely shoulders, our mutual responsibility along with the weight of the sacs pulling us off balance. The final straight, gliding down beneath the Dru, looking back at the Shroud and the Whymper, they’ve been climbed by a girl, I wonder .…could I, should I, what a route to dream of ?
Skipping up the steps to Montenvers, ransacking the sacs for emergency stashes for breakfast in the sun, dozing the hour away waiting for the train to start, the enchantment has never receded. If I hold my breath I can still put myself back there, afoot of the smiling giants, listening to the roaring silence, eyes feasting on the cathedral of dreams.
Copyright Dec 2009
