Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
so turned out to be unconsolidated powder, so we took to the steep and deceptive
pile of rubble on the right. It was loose, a fact to which Nick swore blind as he sailed
past for a sixty-footer on to a hapless second.
'Just hold tight and I'll monkey up the rope.'
He did, and reached the top of the pitch for a belay. There followed a full and inter-
esting run-out, on the border between ice and rock and, finally, we were through the
second barrier, with one thousand feet of sensational climbing behind us. Then it
was away up the cold blue runnel that broadens out into the second ice field. We
front-pointed. Audoubert understands:
'Now begins that very special ice dance, a rhythmic ballet in four movements, a
mixture of barbaric and primitive gestures and classical movement. The character
before his mirror of ice makes precise steps with his front points, like a lead dancer
rehearsing. In this special ballet pirouettes are forbidden. The emphasis on the curve
of his calves and the strength of his ankles equals the fierce, attacking look on his
face. The best dancer, like the best toreador, strikes only once.'
It was a long haul. Away to our right we could pick out more ropes, relics of the
mammoth Japanese siege. Somewhere round here Lachenal and Terray passed by,
but I think it must have been in pretty bad visibility. We heard voices but saw no
one.
The ice was hard and, after three years' wear, my poor Chouinards (God bless
him!) let my toes know there was no more curve left. What had appeared to be three
pitches up the ice extended to five, and we regained the rocks with creaking calves.
The final headwall is about eight hundred feet. In it, a well-defined gully system
curls up and left in behind the Red Tower, to join the Walker Spur about two pitches
below the summit. For about four hundred feet it is backed by a thin ice weep. But
this wouldn't take the gear, so we kept to the right wall. It was mean stuff: deceptive,
awkward, and inevitably loose. And this was no time for mistakes, for we were tired
now. It seemed a long way from that nine o'clock rise the morning before. In the
northerly wind, the rock was bitterly cold. Above, sunlit walls beckoned, but progress
was slow and any thoughts we had dared to entertain of reaching the heat receded to
the summit. Incredibly, we had seen no stones all day, but Nick made up for that by
burrowing away through the rocks above. In places the second is nastily exposed. I
took a slate on the leg, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Nick solved the
problems of getting back into the gully bed by falling off.
'What's happening?'
'Nowt. Just fallen off.'
… and finally we arrived at the summit of a dream, a couple of pitches down and
desperate for a brew.
We charged on up but then there were these two little ledges just asking to be sat
upon, so much more comfortable than the cold wet snow on the other side and so
much more convenient. So we sat down, just five minutes short, to dine on cheese
and ham butties, with coffee by the gallon. Rare moments: we were asleep before the
night came.
