‘I’ve had twenty applications already,’ he warned us.
‘But we’re desperate,’ I replied. ‘We’ve got to move out next week, and have nowhere to go.’
Fortunately, Conrad, now eighteen months old, was on his best behaviour and looked cherubic.
‘I’ll have to think about it. Could you give me a ring at the end of the week?’
We were on tenterhooks. We phoned him that afternoon and offered £2 a week for the cottage. Whether this clinched the deal, or whether we had managed to capture his sympathy, I don’t know, but at the end of the week he told us we could move into Bank End Cottage. We were to live there for two years, the first year of which was to be idyllically happy. Conrad was growing into a rare, self-contained, adventurous yet gentle child. We went exploring together in the fields around the cottage and I shall never forget one wild, windy day, when I took him in the papoose, and we walked over the fields to the open fell and climbed Murton Fell, a 1,400-foot hummock. The wind hammered at our faces, and great grey clouds scudded across the rolling fields from the sea to break on the high fells of the Lake District. To the north we could see Ennerdale’s slate-grey waters, torn with flecks of white by the fierce wind, and back below us, a mile away, our own haven, almost lost in undulations of the land. Then, back home to a coal fire and mugs of tea, to a cottage in which, slowly, we were implanting some of our own individuality. We had started with a single desk – the only piece of furniture we had owned at Woodland – slept on the floor, used a camping stove for cooking; then, slowly over the months, we picked up some furniture at sales and were given even more by relatives and friends.
Our proudest acquisition was our cat. He came with the cottage, but in fact, acquisition is the wrong description, for Tom Cat was more a distinguished guest than a pet. He was a magnificent tabby with a white blaze on his chest, who could boast that no one would ever own him. One morning, shortly after we had moved in, he walked through the door and gave a firm but courteous mew to indicate that he expected to be fed. Most of the time when we were at home he stayed with us, though on occasion would vanish for a few days at a time, always returning sleek and immaculately clean. When we left the cottage – even for quite long periods – a day or so after our homecoming, Tom would slide in through the door, plump, self-possessed and friendly in a remote kind of way.
It was shortly after we moved into Bank End Cottage that I went down to Cheddar Gorge to perform in the television broadcast. Wendy and Conrad came too, and we set up camp in a field in Cheddar Village. The broadcast was exciting in the sense that this was my debut as a climbing television performer, that I had to become accustomed to climbing with a pair of headphones crackling in my ears and that I had to talk while I climbed. We practised the climbs many times over, however, so that I knew every move backwards and, in the process, of course, lost a great deal of the spontaneity and adventure which, ideally, one should pass on to the viewer. But that first time, it was sufficient challenge in itself.
Our week at Cheddar was hectic and exciting. I was meeting and working with experts in the communications field; was constantly learning from them. The climax – the actual broadcast of the climb – becomes in a way, an anticlimax compared with those nerve-stretching moments in January, when we had made the first ascent. That, whatever the motivation initiating the attempt to climb the High Rock, had had all the ingredients of climbing adventure. The television performance was a job of work – but was an enjoyable, exacting and very interesting job. To me, the climbing took second place – there was no mystery, because I had done it before. The challenge was to try to put across to the lay viewer what climbing entails – not just the obvious sensationalism, but how I, the climber, feel, as I work my way up a stretch of rock which is commonplace to me, but unbelievably difficult and dangerous to the beholder.
Finally, to tidy up the whole affair, we had to think of a name for the climb. We decided to call it Coronation Street – because it was next to Sceptre, and we were doing the broadcast for ITV.
– CHAPTER NINE –
RASSEMBLEMENT INTERNATIONAL
Things were looking up. At long last, a mere two years behind deadline, I had finished my book. My fee from the Cheddar broadcast provided a little money in the bank and I was full of ambitious plans for an Alpine summer, with some good partners to share them. In addition, Wendy was going out with me, and we had bought a large, Agincourt-style frame tent, especially for our family holiday.
And then, a few weeks before we were due to leave, I had a call from Tom Patey.
‘I’ve just been nominated by the Alpine Club as the British representative for this year’s International Rassemblement. They’ve left me to choose my companion. Joe can’t make it this year, so I wondered if you’d like to come.’
I accepted immediately, arranging for Wendy to join me later, as planned. A holiday with Tom was guaranteed to be unusual, varied and exciting. The previous year, when Tom had been climbing with Joe, the arrangement had not been satisfactory since, as a team, they were so much faster than Robin Ford and myself. But this time Tom and I would be climbing as a team. In addition, we should be living it up, for the International Rassemblement, or meet, was based on the Ecole Nationale de Ski et Alpinisme in Chamonix. The function was held every two years, and national clubs from all over the world were invited to send their representatives. I had already heard tales of superb food, free lifts on all the télépheriques, and free stays at the huts.
The international meet was due to start early in July, and I drove out with Tom. We had with us Tom’s bible of potential new routes; in it were a few additions to the previous year’s collection, the products of his ingenious research. The cuisine at the Ecole Nationale lived up to its reputation, with succulent steaks for lunch, unlimited red wine and masses of vegetables. The actual meet was a cross between Noah’s Ark, with pairs of different nationalities, and the Tower of Babel. Already a healthy element of competition was springing up between the big league climbers of the Alpine countries, fostered by the custom of listing everyone’s ascents as they were made. This was a little like a league table, which we all examined with care as we decided what to do next. An ascent of the Bonatti route on the Grand Pilier d’Angle would have rated ten points, probably by virtue of the fact that it was by Bonatti and had not yet had a second ascent, while that of the South-west Pillar of the Dru, once the most prestigious of all Chamonix rock-climbs, was little more than a trade route, and therefore would only rate two points in the prestige stakes.
Climbing with Tom, I was on safe ground – he was interested in nothing but new routes, which really defied any imaginary point count system.
The range of ability assembled at the Rassemblement was impressive. From Italy came Roberto Sorgato, one of its finest climbers – among many other routes, he had made the first winter ascent of the North Face on the Civetta, and had also made a couple of attempts on the Eiger Direct – at that time the most outstanding unclimbed problem in the Alps. Never bothering to indulge in competitive stakes, he was happy to eat, drink and flirt with the girls down in Chamonix. Equally uncompetitive were a pair of Mexicans, with neat little black moustaches. They wore beautiful blazers bearing their mountaineering club badge, but had no climbing equipment at all. To every invitation by their French hosts to actually go out climbing, they replied that the hospitality of Chamonix was so delightful and they were gaining so much from meeting their fellow mountaineers that they were happy to stay within the confines of the École Nationale. We shared a room with two inscrutable, but immensely courteous Japanese.
The International side of things started well, with two Americans, Steve Millar and Lito Tejada Flores, going up with us to do a new route on the West Face of the Cardinal, an elegant little rock spire above the Charpoua Glacier. Having cut our teeth on a comparatively small peak, I was keen to get on to bigger things. Ever competitive, I had my eye on the international point count. Tom, ever easy-going, agreed, and we worked thro
ugh the Patey bible.
‘How about the Right-hand Pillar of Brouillard?’ I suggested. ‘Crew and Ingle failed on that last year. They couldn’t even get to the foot of the Pillar.’
‘Aye, that could be pleasant enough.’
The Right-hand Pillar of Brouillard, one of a trinity of three, is a rock buttress at the head of the Brouillard Glacier, the widest and most difficult glacier in the Mont Blanc region. Walter Bonatti had climbed the Red Pillar of Brouillard in 1958, and the chapter in his book devoted to this ascent comprises a hair-raising description of his crossing of the glacier and then dismisses the actual ascent in a couple of paragraphs – a tribute to the horrendous difficulty of the glacier. Crew and Ingle had fared no better, getting lost in a maze of giant crevasses, and finally, after falling into one, they retreated before even reaching the foot of the Pillar.
That afternoon, we happened to call in at the Bar Nationale, at that time the meeting point of all British climbers in Chamonix. Crew and Ingle were sitting at one of the tables.
‘Just arrived?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Conditions aren’t much good, are they?’ Pete replied.
‘Hopeless,’ I agreed. ‘What are you thinking of doing?’
‘Probably push off to the Dolomites,’ Pete replied.
‘You might just as well; nothing’s in condition.’
And then we had some beers and started talking about the south side of Mont Blanc. Tom, less competitive than I, even mentioned our interest in the South-west Pillar and then went on to suggest we joined forces. I kicked him under the table, and Crew looked nonplussed, muttering something about preferring the idea of climbing in the Dolomites, and shortly afterwards made his excuses and left.
‘I’ll bet you anything they’re going for the Pillar,’ I told Tom.
We crossed over to the south side of Mont Blanc the next morning, availing ourselves of the free télépherique tickets given to us at the Rassemblement. At this stage, judging Crew by my own competitive values, I was convinced he was probably on his way to the foot of the climb. I was all in favour of going straight up to the hut and, if possible, stealing a march on them – unless, of course, they were already ahead of us. Tom, the traditionalist, was convinced that no one could be guilty of such overt competitiveness, and insisted that we seek out their campsite in the woods of the Val Veni, and proffer our invitation once again.
We found them in a woodland glade, just out of bed and, over a cup of coffee, we quickly agreed to join forces. It was midday when we got away, plodding through the richly perfumed pine woods of the Val Veni and then up the winding path to the Gamba Hut. It stood on a grassy spur running down from the Innominata Ridge of Mont Blanc, flanked by the frozen cataracts of the Frêney and Brouillard Glaciers. On the other side of the Frêney Glacier soared the West Face of the Aiguille Noire de Peuterey – a petrified brown-yellow flame.
On we tramped, past the new Monzino Hut, solid and lavish, with granite walls and plate-glass windows, to the shell of the old Gamba refuge, a little wooden and stone hut which seemed part of the fell-side. It had seen a thousand exploits – some victorious, some tragic. Bonatti, with his client Gallieni, had staggered here that June day in 1961, through a blizzard, after four companions had died in their retreat from attempting the first ascent of the Central Pillar of Frêney. This disaster had highlighted just how remote are all the climbs on the south side of Mont Blanc. Now the hut had been superseded, and was already partly demolished. I was sad to see it go, for it seemed in keeping with the wild beauty of that outlying spur of Mont Blanc. The new hut represented civilisation’s cloying encroachment on the fast-shrinking mountain wilderness, when even the climbing huts begin to resemble hotels. Gone was the crusty old pensioned-off guide, who lived in a little cubby-hole at the end of the single, dark bunk and living-room.
But the ruins of the old hut still stood and, to save money, we stayed there. Next morning we watched clouds scudding over the summit of Mont Blanc; the weather was obviously unsettled and somehow our little team had not coalesced into a determined group. Perhaps it was too early in the season, and we were insufficiently fit, and so we turned tail, went back to the valley and then returned to the flesh pots of the International Rassemblement.
The next fortnight passed pleasantly enough, with another new route on the West Face of the Aiguille du Midi, a sortie into the Vercors with the great French climber, Lionel Terray (tragically, to be killed in the same area only a few weeks later), then the final party to close the Rassemblement. All the climbing dignitaries of Chamonix attended, and a list of everyone’s climbs during the fortnight was displayed, giving full vent and satisfaction to our competitive instincts. There was plenty of champagne, superb food, and Wendy, with a grubby and bewildered Conrad in tow, arrived halfway through the reception. She had driven out from England in our Minivan, with the girlfriend of a friend of ours.
They had had their share of adventures; a broken fan belt, just short of Dover, caused the car to boil dry before they noticed anything was wrong. Then, reaching the ferry only just in time, they were turned back because we had forgotten to have Conrad put on Wendy’s passport. They ended up sleeping in the van while waiting for the Passport Office to open, and then, next morning –
‘Have you the husband’s consent to take this child out of the country?’
‘But I’m going out to meet him. He’s already in France.’
‘But how do we know? I must have a letter of consent.’
Wendy, near to tears with fatigue and exasperation, then remembered that she had my most recent letter in her handbag. I had written that I was longing to see her. She showed this to the Passport Control man, and Conrad was duly entered on to her passport.
Across the Channel, halfway through France, it was getting dark when the dynamo failed. With lights getting dimmer, dazzled by oncoming traffic, they arrived at a garage whose owner allowed them to sleep on the garage floor while waiting for the mechanic to arrive next morning. At long last they drove into Chamonix. In spite of everything, although sweaty and a bit bedraggled, Wendy, in a mixture of tears of relief at finishing the journey and smiles at being with me again, looked fabulous. We all got happily drunk and then I smuggled Wendy and Conrad up to our room in the Rassemblement, to have one last night under a roof, before spending the rest of the summer under canvas.
Next morning we drove over to Leysin, in Switzerland, where we had arranged to meet Rusty Baillie. Rusty was a Rhodesian climber who had come over to Europe in 1963, immediately making his mark with the second British ascent of the North Wall of the Eiger, with Dougal Haston. I had met him in Zermatt immediately after he had made this ascent, at the time when Hamish MacInnes and I were trying to make our Matterhorn film. Having spent the previous year in Kenya, Rusty had been doing various odd-jobs, acting as a life-guard at a beach club, working as a game warden, and enjoying the hot sun.
High on the list of our possible objectives was the North Wall Direct of the Eiger. This had undoubtedly become the current Last Great Problem of the Alps – one of the most over-used cliches in mountaineering literature and talk. In recent times, a new last great problem has been found, attempted and solved, almost every year. European alpinists were beginning to run out of unclimbed ground – every face and ridge in the Alps had been climbed and had at least one route up it. Wherever there was room for one, a direttissima, or direct route, had been made, straightening out the original route to follow as closely as possible the imaginary line a drop of water would describe in falling from the summit. In many instances, in the Dolomites, these routes had been engineered by drilling a continuous line of bolts, making a mockery of the natural configuration of the rock, and the entire concept of the direttissima.
The possibility of putting a direct route up the North Face of the Eiger, however, did indeed have the ingredients for being the true Last Great Problem in the Alps. No other wall in the Alps combines length, intricacy of route-finding and objective danger to such a d
egree – a fact grimly proved by the ever-lengthening roll of accidents on the face. True, the original route put up by Heckmair, Vörg, Harrer and Kasparek was not technically extreme by modern standards – there was no pitch on the climb harder than Grade V, one grade below the top grade – but this fact ceased to have much significance to a climber caught in a blizzard, or confronted by rock covered by a thin and treacherous covering of ice; and all too often the North Face of the Eiger was either caught by bad weather, or was in a dangerously iced condition.
Strangely enough, it was Sedlmayer and Mehringer, the first serious party to climb on the face who, in effect, made the first attempt on a direct route up the Eiger. In the summer of 1935 they embarked on the bottom rocks of the face and took a fairly direct line up to the First Ice-field, climbing the first rock barrier near its centre. (On all subsequent ascents this line was turned, by the Difficult Crack and Hinterstoisser Traverse, well to the right.) They reached the Flat Iron, a prominent prow of rock in the middle of the face, and there their luck ran out. Hit by a savage storm, probably knowing they could never have got down, they tried to sit it out, and were frozen to death – the first victims of the Eiger.
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