The Boys of Everest

by Clint Willis

  Earlier generations of British climbers had been led to the mountains by way of childhood trips to the Alps or membership in the Oxford or Cambridge mountaineering clubs. Many climbers who emerged in Great Britain during the years before and after World War II discovered climbing on their own—traversing the stone embankment walls of polluted rivers near industrial centers such as Manchester or exploring abandoned mineshafts in the nearby Peak District. Their climbing retained a makeshift quality even when they ventured into the mountains. They made do with the barest necessities—gym shoes, old ropes or even clotheslines, plastic bags for ponchos and shelters. They had little or no formal instruction, so they took terrible risks—first out of ignorance and later from a growing sense that risk was essential to their pursuit.

  By the early 1950s—a few years before Chris and Hamish took up residence in their alpine shepherd’s hut—this new generation was at last venturing across the English Channel to come to grips with difficult routes in the Alps. The mountains they encountered were much bigger than those they knew in Great Britain, and presented new risks and challenges. Many climbs required long approaches over difficult and dangerous terrain, including glaciers laced with hidden crevasses, cold and seemingly bottomless, that lay in wait for the incautious or unlucky climber. The weather was severe, and subject to sudden changes, so that you might be moving on warm, sunlit granite and suddenly find yourself in the midst of a terrific blizzard or thunderstorm or both. Such storms often smeared the rock with a thin coating of ice known as verglas, perhaps making it impossible to move higher. You might try to retreat, but the sheer scale and difficulty of many alpine climbs sometimes made retreat impossible. Young climbers stranded by storms often froze to death on their exposed perches.

  There were other hazards. The Alps were an old range, and the mountains were falling apart. The snow that fell year-round melted during the afternoon. The meltwater pooled in the cracks that riddled the stone, only to refreeze at night. This process gradually split the rock. As the day advanced, warmer temperatures melted the ice that held together disparate pieces of stone. The rocks fell apart. The fragments fell hundreds or thousands of feet to smash into gullies, snowfields, other rocks and on occasion climbers.

  The Alps also called for new techniques. The young British climbers who made their first forays into the Alps during the ’50s found that the hardest routes required them to ascend sheer or overhanging walls. This required artificial aids. The British copied the Continentals, who carried wooden wedges or iron pitons to shove or hammer into cracks; a climber would use the pegs as handholds or footholds, or clip slings to the pegs and use the slings as awkward steps.

  The British climbing establishment had long snubbed such techniques as unsporting, and shunned climbs that required them. Such scruples were lost on the new generation, who recognized them as empty snobbery, an attempt to preserve an order and an elite whose time had passed. The younger British climbers, having missed both world wars, had no patience for nostalgia. They had little interest in the failures of the past—and indeed, British mountaineering during the past half-century had been defined by its more or less heroic failures to climb the world’s highest mountain. Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay’s ascent of Everest when it finally occurred in 1953 struck many young climbers as an achievement of the past, an echo from a world that had never concerned itself with the likes of them. The new climbers had their own battles to fight; they needed no instruction or inspiration from their elders or betters.

  The emerging vanguard included a pair of young plumbers, Joe Brown and Don Whillans. Brown, born in 1930, was the youngest of seven children who lived with their parents in a tiny, four-room house in a Manchester suburb. Their father died when Joe was six months old. Whillans, three years younger, was raised in slightly better circumstances; his father had a white-collar job at a grocer’s shop, also near Manchester.

  The two boys began their climbing careers in the late ’40s on the gritstone outcroppings of the nearby Peak District, where workers and their families escaped Manchester and its suburbs on weekends and holidays. They met at a crag in 1951, and soon teamed up to astonish their peers. They were built like gymnasts, broad-shouldered and short of stature; both men stood about 5′ 3″, with Joe perhaps a hair taller than Don. The mountaineering establishment’s bias against artificial climbing meant that Joe and Don knew little of such techniques, which would have been familiar to them if they had grown up as climbers on the Continent. Otherwise, the precendents of the older generation of British climbers did not trouble the two boys; they routinely climbed routes that men more familiar with current standards wrote off as impossible. Joe and Don spent their long hours on gritstone developing ways to get up the hardest sections of a route without sling steps or similar devices. They learned how to place a fist or a foot in a crack and twist the wrist or the ankle just so, floating up terrain that baffled everyone else.

  They climbed when they could. Joe had become a plumber’s apprentice at age fourteen. Don had waited until age fifteen to take a similar position—only because the authorities had increased the minimum age for leaving school. The two young apprentices were careful with their money. They lived at home and hitchhiked to climbs, sleeping with other climbers in barns or tents. They read books about Everest and other Himalayan peaks with the understanding that such expeditions weren’t for the likes of them: Everest climbers and their sort wouldn’t have much to say to a plumber’s apprentice, would they? Anyway, who could afford to take three months off work to go off on a climb? You’d get the sack for certain.

  The Alps were a different matter. Don and Joe and their mates had followed. The Everest climbers didn’t figure in those stories, which were populated by daring young Continental climbers. The Alpine Club branded such routes as unsporting, fit only for fools and circus performers—in short, too hard. A few of the boldest climbers from the Oxbridge and Cambridge mountaineering clubs and begun to venture onto different alpine routes. Even so, Don and Joe and their mates knew you wouldn’t find many of the old Everest climbers in a punch-up in a pub; likewise, with a few exceptions, you wouldn’t find them on the hardest alpine routes.

  That was all right, though. These new alpine climbs offered a way to outstrip the old toffs. Don and Joe had jobs; they could imagine—if only barely—paying their way across the Channel and coming to grips with the big mountains that waited there. It meant scrimping and saving the rest of the year—living at home and even skipping some of their climbing weekends in the Lake District or Wales—but the pictures in the books and in their heads drew them on; there was another world, and they meant to go there.

  Whillans made his first trip to the Alps in 1952, in the company of friends from Manchester’s Rock and Ice Club. The party didn’t accomplish much, but the size and beauty of the mountains staggered the young plumber’s apprentice. He wrote later that he had discovered his life’s purpose upon arriving at the Montenvers train station above the French mountain village of Chamonix, where he had his first sight of the Grandes Jorasses—the huge, black, snow-plastered wall that towers above the surrounding peaks.

  Don returned to England determined to hone his artificial climbing techniques. He and Joe spent many hours pegging their way up steep cracks in the Peak District; it became the thing to do on wet winter days. They visited Chamonix together in 1954. That season they made the third ascent—the first British ascent—of the intimidating West Face of the Dru, adjoining the still virgin Southwest Pillar.

  They were surprised; it was easier than they had expected. They had climbed it much more quickly than previous parties. It was beginning to dawn on Don and Joe that they were far better climbers than many of the Europeans. The two young British climbers’ raw ability on rock, honed on British gritstone before they had learned artificial climbing techniques, gave them an immense advantage over Continentals who relied more heavily on aid. The Continentals tended to hammer their laborious way up sections that the British could climb
free—without aid—and that made a huge difference.

  Four years on, Don was back for the Southwest Pillar—now known as the Bonatti Pillar—itself. He knew other British climbers had their sights on the route. He didn’t know that Hamish MacInnes and young Chris Bonington were among them.

  CHRIS MEANWHILE COMFORTED himself with the fact that the Pillar had been done—not once but five times, including Bonatti’s epic solo. His fears receded a bit when two young Austrian climbers—Walter Phillip and Richard Blach—showed up at the hut. Blach was only nineteen, but both men were experienced climbers; they were friendly sorts, here for their own attempt on the Pillar. The four climbers resolved to tackle the route together, which reassured Chris. A party of four felt safer, and there was the chance that the Austrians would help him to manage Hamish.

  The spell of bad weather came to an end. The climbers spent the first fine morning packing, and then left their hut to stroll up a long ridge of broken rock and other glacial debris. They set up camp at the base of the climb to allow an early start the following morning.

  Darkness was falling when Bonington spotted two more climbers coming up the ridge toward his own little party. One of the new pair was Paul Ross, a well-known English climber. Ross had grown up in Keswick, in the heart of England’s Lake District; like Hamish, he was willing to place a piton when the occasion demanded it. The second man was short and broad-shouldered, his pack bristling with loaves of French bread. Chris and Hamish recognized Whillans at once—any climber who spent time in Wales or the Peak District knew Don by sight as well as by reputation.

  Chris was delighted to see these newcomers. He liked the idea of having such a formidable pair on hand in case of trouble. The encounter also presented an opportunity of sorts. Chris had managed to make second ascents of some routes that Whillans had put up with Joe Brown in England. He knew that Don—though his senior by only a year or so—had much to teach him.

  Not that the prickly Whillans seemed likely to take much interest in the still boyish Bonington. Don already had a frightening reputation as a hard-drinking, blunt-spoken customer. Chris was uncomfortably aware that Don’s punch-ups in pubs and elsewhere—buses, climbing huts—had become as much a part of his growing legend as his climbs.

  Whillans was indeed pugnacious—quick to take offense, and willing to use his fists. He was cheap; he hated to pay for his own beer, let alone anyone else’s. He was lazy, often refusing to share camp chores or cooking with his climbing partners, and he was stubborn. His peers tolerated him for his strength and his skill and his entertainment value; also because he was hugely contemptuous of outsiders and fiercely loyal to his own kind. The climbing establishment—including the Everest crowd—found him terrifying, and not at all amusing. That suited Whillans, who relied on his reputation for violence to frighten men who might otherwise be inclined to snub him.

  Don’s reputation worried the young Bonington. Still, Chris understood that this small, scary man might prove a useful companion on a route as daunting as the Bonatti Pillar.

  Ross and Whillans reached Chris and his little group. The two parties spoke briefly: six climbers, ambitious and more or less afraid, more or less glad to see one another. Each character sized up the rest, making comparisons and tentative judgments. Whillans recognized young Bonington from Wales; he’d once seen Chris come off a rappel in something of a state, fussing about rope burns. He wondered now if Chris and this crowd belonged on the Bonatti Pillar—whether they might get themselves in trouble. Don at any rate was a man of few words. He and Ross soon carried on up to make camp just above the others.

  Chris and Hamish and the young Austrians retired to their sleeping bags. The party hoped to be high on the route before the sun’s warmth set off the rockfall they could expect on the lower sections. Someone set an alarm for two o’clock but when it woke them the climbers convinced themselves and each other that the weather looked doubtful. Chris had slept poorly; now he relaxed and nodded off. Hamish woke him three hours later. The weather was fine; the climb was on.

  Don Whillans and Paul Ross had already left, crossing a snowfield to a 1,000-foot rock gully that would take them to the base of the Pillar itself. Chris and Hamish and the Austrians walked across the snowfield to the bergschrund, a two-foot gap where snow had melted away from the rock at the start of the gully.

  Walter Phillip, the older of the two Austrian climbers, suggested that the party should solo the lower part of the climb. They would move much more quickly without ropes, and perhaps regain some of the ground their late start had cost them. Walter crouched to leap across the gap, and the snow collapsed under him. He managed to throw himself backward, away from the gap, which was now slightly wider. He gathered himself again and this time made the leap. He moved quickly up the gully. His companions followed, with Chris bringing up the rear.

  There were now six climbers in the gully. Chris, looking up at Don Whillans and Paul Ross, noted wistfully that they were roped together. He would have been happy to trade speed for safety, since the climbing in the gully—clinging to dubious handholds and skating on loose pebbles—was not entirely casual. The Austrians and Hamish moved quickly, but Bonington did not; he climbed cautiously, and soon fell behind his group. Walter Phillips meanwhile passed Don Whillans—and promptly fell, landing on Don, who took it surprisingly well. Chris caught the rest of the climbers at the bottom of an ice slope. He was relieved to note that Hamish and the Austrians were at last uncoiling their ropes.

  Whillans and Ross were putting on crampons. Chris and his three companions had brought only a single pair between them; the idea was to save weight. Hamish wore the crampons, and cut steps for Chris and the Austrians—a painstaking process that devoured time as well as energy. Hamish stopped every 100 feet or so to chop out a stance and establish a belay for his three companions. They moved up one at a time, careful to stay in his steps.

  The two parties climbed for hours in the shadow of rock, the sunlit sky reduced to a faraway strip of light. They could see the sky only if they craned to look up. They couldn’t manage such contortions while teetering across Hamish’s freshly cut steps, but they could look for the sky when they arrived at each anchor; or else they could watch the next climber or review their own efforts on the pitch. They could gaze up at the route or down and across at the view. All of it served the same purpose; it reminded them of their whereabouts.

  They knew that each step took them further from what felt like the safety of the glacier; that they were in a place where a stray rock or an awkward step could kill them. No one in the valley would be surprised or even much distressed to hear that a young climber had fallen to his death in the gully that led to the Bonatti Pillar. People would shrug, grimace, shake their heads—and go about their business.

  Chris considered various possibilities: that the weather might change when they were high on the face, that he might fall or be hit by a falling rock, that one of the other climbers might kill him—Walter in his haste that morning had nearly knocked Whillans from the cliff. The climbers bunched together at each stance regarded one another with fascination, like soldiers who stare across a river at opposing pickets: innocents like themselves, each side on the brink of something dark, incomprehensible. They drew comfort from each other. The great Walter Bonatti had done this climb alone. Chris for a moment tried to imagine what that might have been like. A dizzy nausea flickered in him; he veered away.

  They arrived at the top of the gully in the late morning. They moved left, emerging from shadow into sunlight to the base of the Pillar itself. It was a relief to feel the light on their bodies and faces. They touched the warm rock and remembered with a wary surprise that some 2,000 feet of difficult rock climbing lay ahead.

  The two parties agreed to join forces. They would tackle the route in three roped pairs. Whillans proposed that the two Austrians, Walter and Richard, set off first. Whillans and Ross followed. Chris led the third rope. Hamish seconded him, removing the pitons the Austrians placed;
the party would need them again higher up.

  The rock was steep, laced with cracks that called for sophisticated jamming techniques. Chris sized up each crack as he came to it, and then wedged some body part—hand, forearm, foot or knee—into it. He knew to relax his hand completely before slipping it in; only then did he flex the muscles between the thumb and forefinger, perhaps twisting his lower arm to create a particular torque. He relied on those handholds primarily for balance, using foot-jams or other footholds to move higher. Even so, his arms began to tire after the first 200 feet.

  The climbing was exposed, offering views both spectacular and appalling. He fought off the feeling that came with such exposure: dread, a growing sense that he had been foolish to come here. He wanted to go down—down—before God or some equivalent force took annoyed note of his foolishness. He told himself the exposure wasn’t dangerous; it was just a view. And he knew that given time he would begin to feel that some part of him belonged as high as this. He could only arrive at such a feeling if he rode out the dread; the dread would enter the new feeling, would give it power.

  The party arrived in their pairs at a ledge protected by a huge roof. The Austrians tackled the roof, nailing pitons and hanging from them in sling ladders—etriers. It was infuriating and terrifying work, but the frustration and fear blurred into exhilaration at moments. The Austrians disappeared over the roof, and now Whillans in his turn led the pitch. He did it in fine style, moving with little apparent effort across the bottom of the roof and vanishing over its lip to climb a difficult groove.