An Amateur on MONT BLANC
Mont Blanc from The Midi - author’s own collection.
I cannot remember where my love of mountains began. Early childhood escapades, people met, opportunities afforded, decisions hardly recalled, who knows? My mountaineering aspirations were born among such scarcely realised influences. They developed as I extended my boundaries and mountain experiences.
Thus did the 4807 metres of snow and ice that is Mont Blanc fill my horizon with a burning desire to stand on its summit.
It is situated in the European Alps, and towers over the French Alpine town of Chamonix. Its mass and tangled topography attract its own weather. One can be relaxing in a tranquil Alpine hamlet enjoying coffee in a cosy Patisserie while the summit of the white mountain can be gripped in a maelstrom of wind, spindrift and ice.
Mont Blanc can be serene and beautiful, it can be a destructive killer, whatever its mood, it demands respect.
A hot day in late August 1988 found me by the shore of Lac Leman, Geneva, gazing transfixed, past its spectacular water fountain, to the distant horizon where the massive gleaming white pyramid that is Mont Blanc shimmered in the sun.
Would I really stand atop that lofty pedestal in a few days, why would I want to? The ‘Why’ can be difficult to explain, perhaps understanding dilutes the desire.
The weather in the Chamonix Valley is foul and not boding well when I team up with my two climbing companions at Le Dahu Hotel, Argentière, ten kilometres up the valley from Chamonix.
In the morning we meet our guide, Roger Payne. After a briefing, we head out to get acclimatised and allow Roger to check our competency. The first examination takes place on the ‘Petit Aguille Verte’.
Steep work on ‘Petit Aguille Verte’ — author’s collection
Day two exposes us to some seriously wet weather and a few hours of knee breaking work on the Mer de Glace glacier, followed by a late afternoon in front of tumble dryers.
We learn that the bad weather is to clear up the next day, giving us two good days. Roger tells us we can go the next day and gamble on our bodies being able to handle the altitude, reminding us that our lack of acclimatisation stacked against a successful ascent. His advice is to play low and go home without attempting Mont Blanc.
We opt to gamble on the weather break. What would you have done?
Roger tells us we will take the Grands Mulets Route, following in the boot prints of Jacques Balmat and Docteur Paccard, Premiers Conquérants of Mont Blanc in 1786, a route he assured us was far more interesting than the more popular Gouter route.
Adding that while our route is a bit longer, with a lengthy and strenuous second day to the summit and back to our refuge, involving some 1780m of ascent including a dangerous area of unstable seracs between the Jonction and the Petit Plateau, it has advantages. Being little used now, it is not overcrowded, allowing for a comfortable night at the Grands Mulets hut and perhaps more importantly, it will allow us to experience the character and atmosphere of getting up close and personal with Les Bossons Glacier.
I go to bed early looking forward to a good sleep. A night of severe electrical storms, accompanied by a heavenly pyrotechnic display and rolling percussion, puts paid to my good intentions and hardly fills me with confidence for the day ahead. Dawn however arrives a bit blustery, but more importantly, clear as a bell. I stand on my balcony and look up at Mont Blanc and see that it is coyly hiding its head under a billowing raiment of white silk.
An early breakfast is followed by a nervous, fumbling few minutes, packing, checking and repacking my rucksack. Then we are off. On arriving in Chamonix we head over to the Aguille du Midi cable car, and feel kind of special as we are ushered to the front of the long winding tourist queue and snag the space reserved for ‘mountaineers’.
After a short, speedy ascent, we alight at the halfway station and watch the remaining passengers swing and sway, ever upward, to their summit for the day, leaving us to head for ours.
We are soon crossing a tame stretch of flat ice, giving no clue as to the shock we are soon to experience. A simple ascent across broken ground is followed by a scramble through steep rock. We cautiously pick our way along a narrow ledge under a towering buttress and as we round a corner we encounter the first real obstacle of our journey, the awesome Les Bossons Glacier. A spectacular potpourri of twisted, shattered ice, towering seracs and deep crevasses, wide and menacing. I look and wonder, ‘How on earth are we going to get across that?’
Les Bossons Glacier — Grands Mulets hut top end of the rock triangles protruding from the glacier — author’s collection
Roped and crampon footed we gingerly proceed, turning and twisting over knife-edged ice bridges perched above pitch-black, seemingly bottomless, crevasses, like wide-mouthed creatures awaiting a stumble. Adding to the experience are the sounds of seracs and other huge ice monuments crashing onto the glacier or down some bottomless fissure. Not the most reassuring sound, however spectacular.
We soon encounter a well equipped party retreating from this precarious place. They warn us of ‘Super Dangereux’ crevasses and urge us to turn and go back. We press on.
Our passage is interrupted momentarily and we watch helplessly, for what seems an eternity, as an avalanche directly above us booms out a warning and careers headlong towards us, only to crash behind a distant fold and never reappear.
Author negotiating a narrow ice bridge - authors collection.
After a couple of hours or so of heart-stopping uphill leaps across chasms, precarious balancing acts on narrow ice bridges, and the occasional flurry of kicking crampons and flailing ice axes, we breach the final difficulty Les Bossons has to offer and emerge onto steep but easier neve and snow.
‘Up there I suppose’ — another crevasse on Les Bossons — author’s own collection
It is now possible to see our haven for that night, Refuge des Grand Mulets, a silver coloured rectangular box, perched precariously atop a rocky outcrop high to our left in the middle of the creeping glacier. We cover the ground quickly and are soon scrambling up through icy rocks and into our refuge at 3051 metres. The time is 1.00pm.
Boots discarded we settle in and take on board sustenance. Bread, cheese and chocolate, washed down by copious quantities of warm tea. An afternoon of lazing about on sun-drenched rocks follows. At 6.30pm we are summoned to partake of the communal meal, prepared by the Guardian of the Refuge. Choice is limited to, ‘take it’ or don’t eat. There followed a hot, greasy stew of questionable origin. Well, not so questionable really, does anybody remember ‘Shergar’’?
The day concludes in spectacular fashion, with the sun settling down over the jagged silhouettes of a thousand peaks. Its dying embers washing the sky from crimson, through countless hues to a golden finale. I crawl onto my allotted space on the ‘open plan’ communal shelf and curl up into my hairy blanket. I fall asleep, tired and expectant.
Our cheery Nepalese assistant guardian arouses us from our slumbers sometime between 1.00 and 2.00 am, not sure exactly. A cold breakfast of lukewarm tea, hard bread and jam follows. We then fumble about in the glow of our head torches and rope up for the day. A quick descent through steep, ice-covered rocks, a brief stop to don crampons, then onto the glacier and away through more crevasses.
The inky black sky is encrusted with shimmering diamonds and luckily, a full moon beams its silver smile on us. So bright that it is reflected light on the vast White Mountain allows us to conserve our head torch batteries.
We crunch our way over the ever-steepening glacier, avoiding more black chasms where we can and crossing them when we must. Our meandering ascent takes us under high beetling ice-covered buttresses. A fresh covering of snow requires trail breaking and a steady rhythm.
It is not long before the predicted altitude sickness overtakes the party and we go very quiet as we try to walk through it, quiet that is, apart from the noisy retching and groaning. We delay for a short while in a steep, dangerous place and take on sustenance, as advised by Roger. I look behind and the distant twinkling lights of Chamonix turn my thoughts to cosy beds and warm duvets.
One of our group succumbs to the malaise, his attempt to ascend Mont Blanc over. Another guide takes him back down to the Grand Mulets refuge. After that disappointment we have a short group chat and agree to continue. We are all feeling rough, but reckon we will be fine. Then we are on the move again.
My malaise recedes with the dawn and the changing of the sky from inky blackness, through shades of grey then blue, tinged by a pink glow. I feel ready for the next phase of my journey, through the Petit Plateau, mindfull of teetering seracs, then through a steep ascent out of Les Grandes Montées, the Grand Plateau, before emerging onto the ridge and joining the Gouter route between the Col du Dome and the Vallot Refuge at 4362 metres.
Author seated by the Vallot Refuge with the Midi beyond — our route came up between them — author’s own collection
I can almost see the summit from here and muse; perhaps it is possible after all? It had settled into a cold, clear, windy day at our altitude, while far below the valleys were filled with white cotton wool.
Our spirits are high as we ascend the final narrowing icy ridges, the two Bosses and the final Arête that lead to the summit of Mont Blanc. A few hundred feet up a narrow two foot wide strip of ice, sensational exposure and breathtaking views with mind blowing drops down either flank into Italy on one side and France the other.
Above our position a duet of climbers get into trouble. Both slither slowly, imperceptibly gathering speed, disaster looms. We look on in helpless disbelief. The lower of the sliding pair affects an ice axe arrest and stops; his roped companion hurtles past him in the general direction of Chamonix. We gape and for a few short seconds, which seem endless, the drama unfolds. A thin lifeline of rope snakes out to its full extent, goes taut and the descending German is yanked to an unceremonious halt. We move forward and watch as he gets to his feet, smiles, shrugs his shoulders and applauds his companion. A reasonable response. We speak to them and all appears in order, we push on. Was that a reminder by the mountain to take it seriously?
We are soon over the final ice edge ridge and onto the summit of Western Europe. A military jet rises up the French flank in a vertical climb, spins over our heads in a victory roll before plunging down the Italian side. Am I so important, or was it just a coincidence?
I stand on the summit amidst a mixture of emotions, elation probably uppermost, as through tear filled eyes I try to make out some of the other great mountains that thrust out of the Alps massif. The Matterhorn, Dent Blanch, Monta Rosa and more, wow!
Then it was time to get out of there before it changed its mind.
An amateur on the summit — author’s own collection
We leave the summit by the same ice edge ridge we had just ascended. A totally different experience. On the ascent one feels more ‘at one’ with balance. On the way down the feeling of ‘exposure’ increases as does your feeling of insecurity.
I think ‘balance’ in these circumstances is affected by a combination of vision, perspective and the fact that, like descending stairs, the chance of a ‘teeter’ increases.
We may have ‘teetered’ but we did not stumble and are soon back by the Vallot Refuge and depart the Gouter Route to descend steeply down the route we had ascended some three hours or so before. It is later in the day and the sun is up and warming the ice, increasing the danger of seracs collapsing on us. We do not stop and we scurry on. One of our party crashes through the snow into a hidden crevasse. He is roped and we soon have him back out and again we hurry on.
We arrive at the Grands Mulets with no other drama and spend another pleasant evening in this isolated eyrie, topping up with liquid and calorie inducing snacks, watching the sky again go through it’s evening Chameleon routine.
What a wondrous place and I, a person born amongst the iron foundries and coal mines of the industrial belt of central Scotland, think, ‘how lucky I am to be here.’
Our wake up call next morning was at a more reasonable, six a.m.
Our journey back through the Les Bossons was a nightmare and worse than our experience of the day before. Just as much twisting and backtracking to find ways over numerous crevasses, but this time we were descending, forcing us into jumping over some of the difficulties. A nail biting experience.
Two in particular I will recall;
The first thought provoking barrier came in the form of a double crevasse that ran directly across our path. As we approached it looked like a single wide crevasse and obviously a problem. It was only when we got to the top edge and looked down into it, we saw it was in fact split into two parallel crevasses, with a transverse section of ice between them. It was no bridge.
We were on the high side, on steep sloping ice. The distance from our position over both crevasses, looked to be about a dozen or more feet. There was also a vertical drop over the total width of maybe seven or eight feet. Absolutely no chance of clearing that with one leap.
Where is Bob Beamon when you need him.
So, what to do? From our spot to the dividing strip was about four feet out and a similar distance down. Trouble was, the dividing strip, was no more then three feet wide, with the second crevasse gaping just beyond. Our landing area today was kind of limited. After staring down into the blackness for a few minutes, Roger came up with a simple enough solution. Jump over and onto the three foot wide platform, making sure not to stumble, or pitch forward. Roger set up a belay. He then backed up a bit, quickened his pace down to the edge and leapt across the gaping jaws of the first bottomless abyss, landing on the narrow middle section, with nary a stumble. Once over that hurdle, he moved to the side and set up a belay. Then it was our turn and one by one, like nervous lemmings, we jumped. All was fine and apart from me causing damage to my back, due to landing a bit stiff legged onto solid ice whilst wearing metal crampons. It really hurt and took my breath away for a while.
No matter, we were safe, well relatively safe. Once gathered on our transverse sliver of ice between the gaping crevasses, we wend our way to one side and eventually find a more conventional ice bridge to get us over and so it went on.
The second crossing worthy of citation, involved another crevasse, only a singleton this time, but too wide to jump over. There was a very narrow ice bridge we could use to get across. Trouble was, the ice bridge was no more that a foot wide and about eight feet below our position on the high side. Roger again showed us how.
The technique was simple, requiring accuracy, confidence and a bit of daring. Sit on the steep sloping high side and slid down, hopefully in control, into the waiting jaws of the crevasse and with careful aim, plant the leading foot onto the narrow ‘life saving’ sliver of ice bridge, before pitching forward and hammering one’s ice axe into the other side. Not a place for faint hearts or a bad aim. Not sure what would have been the worse fate, missing the bridge completely or landing astride it. We got over this obstacle and continued on that vein till we cleared the glacier. Then back over to the Plan de l’Aigille for our cable car return to Chamonix.
Then it was the English bar and tall tales.
The accursed mountain had briefly let down its guard and allowed me the privilege of standing on its summit; many have not been so lucky. It can be a lonely, frightening and unforgiving place;
but maybe that’s where the fun is.
Postscript: Roger Payne, who so professionally guided our party to the summit of Mont Blanc in 1988, died on this mountain in July of 2012. He was caught in an avalanche on the slopes of Mont Maudit in the Mont Blanc massif, not far from the summit.
I first met Roger Payne in 1987, the year before our Mont Blanc escapade. This time we were off on another adventure. Again we were staying at Le Dahu hotel, Argentière. Roger dined and took refreshment with us. He turned our simple meals into memorable Raclette eating challenges and laughter. He was there to meet his friend and our guide for that trip, Iain Peter. At the completion of our Alpine expedition with Iain, Roger met us again in Zermatt, where we spent two days together. My memory of Roger, was of a complete professional and a mountain person to the core. He was also a person of humility and infectious humour.
I was a plodding amateur, a client of Roger’s, not a real mountaineer, I would never call myself that. Client, mountaineer, plodding amateur, it did not to matter to Roger one little bit, he had such an enthusiasm for life and an understanding of people that his whole being simply radiated friendship and encouragement and whilst hardly knowing him, he gave me so much confidence and in no small way, changed my life. He made me feel I could be a mountaineer, he made me feel I was perhaps not as worthless as I often felt.
Roger Payne was inspirational, indestructible, his love of mountains and of life brimmed over, he was the real deal. He gave so much in a world where many cannot give for taking.
I will never forget you Roger, I wish I could have found the words to tell you what you did for me.
The sadness I felt in July of 2012, has not diminished.