Their deaths at least taught those who followed that the Eiger does not lend itself to direct ascents, for the strata stretch across the face in a series of smooth rock bands and ice-fields in the lower part of the wall, and in the upper part the lines are all diagonal, seeking to lead the climber to the edge of the wall. The route finally completed in 1938 was, therefore, essentially a wandering line, searching out the lines of weakness through this huge maze of ice-filled chimneys and galleries.
Climbers did not start thinking of a direct ascent until early 1963, though on my own ascent of the North Wall in 1962, Ian Clough and I caused a great deal of excitement amongst the ubiquitous watchers at Kleine Scheidegg, by losing the route in the upper reaches, and making one desperately difficult pitch, straight up towards the summit from just above the White Spider, before realising our mistake and coming back down.
In the winter of the following year, two Polish climbers, Czeslaw Momatiuk and Jan Mostowski, made the first recorded attempt to climb the Eiger Direct. They chose winter, hoping to reduce the objective dangers, since the Direct line also goes straight up the main line of stone-fall on the face. In winter the stones would be frozen into still silence. Following the Sedlmayer-Mehringer line, they were forced to turn back by bad weather at the start of the First Ice-field. Between 1963 and 1965 several more attempts were made by various leading European climbers, with little progress; no one did better than Sedlmayer and Mehringer, thirty years before.
From the start, the name Harlin had been closely linked with these attempts. He climbed the original route on the Eiger in 1962, a short time before Ian Clough and I made our ascent. His thoughts had immediately turned to the possibility of making a direct route, and he had camped below the face in the summer of 1963, but the weather had been too bad to make an attempt. He did, however, meet the Italians, Ignazio Piussi and Roberto Sorgato, who were also interested in the Eiger Direct. In the winter of 1964 he joined them, and two other Italians, in an abortive attempt, returning in the following June with the famous French climbers, Rene Desmaison and Andre Bertrand. They reached the top of the Second Ice-field before being forced back by bad weather.
Harlin had already made for himself a considerable reputation with a series of revolutionary new routes, using the newly developed technical climbing techniques which had been evolved in Yosemite. Tom Patey drove over to Leysin with us, and sociable as ever, suggested we should call and see John Harlin.
At this stage I regarded Harlin as a potential competitor for the direct route, and was a little defensive, perhaps, since he had already made several attempts, and presumably knew more of the problems than I. I had already heard a great deal about him – he was known in some quarters as the Blond God – a nickname not entirely affectionate, for his flamboyance and drive had made enemies as well as friends.
His house in Leysin was perched on the hillside overlooking the broad sweep of the Rhône Valley, with the Dent du Midi, standing like a Gothic cathedral on the other side of an empty void, hiding Mont Blanc: the Verte, Droites and Courts, whose snow-clad North Faces, white-etched with the black of distant granite, peered from behind the Dent du Midi, like three sirens tempting the climber to their cold touch.
We knocked and John opened the door. His title was well earned – he had a Tarzan-style physique and looks, from his blond hair to his thigh-sized biceps. He greeted us warmly, and ushered us into his big downstairs living-room. It was sparsely furnished with a few brightly coloured rugs and cushions scattered over the floor, a low settee and some big, bold, rather brooding abstract paintings on the walls. I learned later that these had been painted by John.
In the course of our conversation, my own suspicions quickly subsided – he appeared outgoing, frank, and immensely enthusiastic. I suspect that he had also viewed me with suspicion, as a potential competitor, but as so often happens, now that we met, antagonism vanished in a decision to join forces in our attempt on the Eiger Direct. We decided to make the attempt as a threesome, since I had already involved Rusty Baillie; we resigned ourselves to waiting until the end of the season, when the weather is often more settled, and the long cold nights reduce the stone-fall down the face.
John suggested that we should camp in the quarry immediately behind his house. We could get water from his outside tap, and even have the occasional bath. And so it was all settled, and things at last seemed to be slotting into place. We had a pleasant base for the summer, our team had been strengthened with John’s inclusion, and now all we had to do was wait, and climb, until the weather was sufficiently settled for the big North Wall. Our routine in Leysin became a leisured round of sunbathing in the quarry, playing on the abundance of boulder problems the crag offered and, in the evenings, wandering up to the Club Vagabond, the social centre for most of the English-speaking people there. It had been opened some years before by Alan Rankin, a Canadian who had tired of travelling in Europe and wanted to settle down. He had seen the need for a non-institutionalised, free and easy hostel, to provide cheap accommodation for travellers, without any of the puritanical overtones which tend to dominate youth hostels. The result was the Vagabond Club. It had a bar, discotheque and comfortable bunk accommodation. Regular habitués, many of whom eked out a living by working in the Club, were mainly Americans, Canadians or Australians who had, at least temporarily, opted out of the rat-race. Its shifting population encompassed thousands of young people wandering round Europe. Some stayed a few nights, others longer. It was a good place to drink at night – if you were alone, there was an ever-changing supply of attractive girls and a timeless atmosphere of slightly aimless pleasure-seeking, one which could be satisfying for a short period, but which could, perhaps, cloy over a longer one.
In the following week I saw a lot of John Harlin, and came to know him well. He had an extraordinary mixture of qualities, mirrored, perhaps, in the contrasts of his life and career. He had always been a brilliant natural athlete, excelling at almost every game and track event in which he took part. Since his father was a pilot with TWA, he had had a nomadic childhood, constantly on the move from one city to another in Europe and the United States. At Stanford University, where he first started serious climbing, he flirted with the idea of becoming a dress designer, even knocking on the doors of Balmain and Dior, to no avail, finally ending up at the other extreme as a fighter pilot in the United States Air Force. At university he had met and married Marilyn, an attractive blonde girl studying marine biology, and by his early twenties had two children, a boy and a girl.
He had made little impact on the American climbing scene, mainly because in the early fifties, when he was at Stanford University, climbing in Yosemite (which was later to become the cockpit of world rock-climbing) was still in its infancy. It was not until the late fifties and early sixties that a small group of American climbers were to develop fully the new equipment and techniques, which were to enable them to tackle the sheer granite walls of Yosemite, and then to revolutionise rock-climbing throughout the world.
John was posted to Germany in 1960, and it was in Europe that he established himself as a mountaineer. Strangely, he was not a brilliant natural climber. On a trip he made to Britain in late 1960, he climbed with Ron James, who, at that time, ran an outdoor activities centre in North Wales. John was at a loss on British rock, and did very little leading. In the Alps, however, his ambition was boundless. He walked to the foot of the Central Pillar of Frêney in 1961, at the same time that Don Whillans and I, with Ian Clough and the Pole, Jan Djuglosz, made our first ascent, and turned back only because there was already too big a crowd there, in the shape of a rival French party In 1963, he established his reputation with his first ascents of the South Face of the Fou (in the Chamonix Aiguilles), and the Hidden Pillar of Frêney. John had been the architect, the driving force behind the venture, though Tom Frost, a brilliant Yosemite climber, had led the most difficult pitches of the climb. This was to be the pattern of many of John’s ventures – he provided the inspiration a
nd drive, often using climbers who were technically more skilled than he, to lead the key section.
Taking the step I had taken two years before, he left the United States Air Force in 1963 to become Sports Director of an American private school in Leysin. Even with Marilyn teaching biology at the school and, in fact, earning a higher salary than he, their incomes suffered a considerable drop from his Air Force salary. That summer of 1965, when I came over to see him, he had taken a further step in commitment, leaving the American school to start his own International School of Modern Mountaineering. With an impressive brochure and a few students, recruited entirely from the United States, the new school was launched.
He had invited Royal Robbins, one of the leading exponents of Yosemite climbing, to be chief instructor, and the two men, both prima donnas in their own right, could not have offered a greater contrast. John, flamboyant, assertive and impulsive – Robbins, very cool, analytical, carefully avoiding any ostentatious show, yet every bit as aware as John of his own position in the climbing firmament. The pair planned an attempt to make a super-direct route up the West Face of the Dru, a line which John had attempted on several occasions with a variety of weaker partners, with consequently little success. With Robbins he was to succeed, and in doing so, to complete a route which to this day ranks as one of the most difficult and serious rock routes in the Mont Blanc Massif.
After the climb, Robbins had devoted himself to running John’s climbing school, whilst John himself put in spasmodic appearances, dreamed up new plans and snatched training climbs for our planned ascent of the Eiger Direct.
One such was on the Dent du Midi – a direct start to one of its ridges. The climb itself was undistinguished, but our way of climbing it was indicative of the nature of the team. We set out spontaneously after a fondue party in our tent in the quarry, which was followed by a long night’s drinking. In the early hours of the morning, staggering back from the Vagabond Club, we noticed that it was a superb, clear night – the first for some time.
‘We could do a route tomorrow,’ I suggested.
‘I know a new line on the Dent du Midi – how about trying that?’ suggested John.
‘How long would it take?’
‘We could be up and back in the day, if we started early enough.’
‘That’ll have to be now. It’s two o’clock already. We’ll have to pack some gear, and we’ve got to get there.’
‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go.’
And go we did; having packed the sacks, we piled into John’s Volkswagen bus, driving through the dark, down into the Rhône Valley and up the other side to the foot of the Dent du Midi. We reached the top of the road and walked through the woods to the sound of the dawn chorus, then up above the tree-line, and by seven in the morning we were at the foot of the vertical step in the North Ridge of the Dent du Midi, which had never been climbed direct. It was our intention to try out the American Big Wall climbing technique. In this technique the lead climber attaches the rope to a piton and then the second man climbs the rope, using jumar clamps. While he climbs, the leader can either rest or haul up the rucksack carrying all the gear for the climb. This was the technique we proposed to use on the Eiger, even though I had never used jumars before. We tossed up for who should have the first pitch, and I won. It gave pleasant straightforward climbing, leading up to a huge roof overhang. Rusty led the next pitch, disappearing round the corner of the roof and climbing a long groove. He reached the top. John was to follow him, being taken up on the rope, while I was to have my first try at jumaring.
‘Nothing to it,’ said John, as he climbed off the ledge, and disappeared round the corner. ‘Just clip on, and swing out on the rope.’
The trouble was, the rope was going straight over the lip of the overhang which jutted a good fifteen feet outwards above me. We had scrambled several hundred feet up steep broken rocks before starting to climb and, as a result, there was a giddy sense of exposure. I clipped on to the rope and stood poised like a trapeze artist under the big top. Had Rusty secured the rope correctly? I had to trust him. Did it pass over any sharp flakes of rock? God knows. I hated the thought of committing myself to that slender strand of rope – was even more determined not to show I was frightened, especially to the Blond God – and so, with a shudder, I stepped off the ledge, and went spiralling into space. The rope dropped with a sickening jerk – it had been caught round a flake. My own heart, already pounding, seemed to plummet down into my stomach. And then my swings decreased – the rope was intact, and all I had to do was climb it.
I now discovered that the length of the slings, which connect the jumars to one’s waist-loop and foot, is of vital importance. Mine were all wrong. They were too long, and incorrectly proportioned to each other. As a result, climbing the rope, especially with a rucksack suspended from my waist harness, was a murderous struggle. Later, I learned that an essential precaution for any jumaring is to tie a knot in the rope, so that if the jumars do slip on the rope, you don’t slide straight off the end. This was a precaution of which I had been blissfully unaware. Climbing with Harlin was a hard school – a constant game of Chicken, with no one prepared to call off first.
The rest of the climb was a romp, and we were back late that night, tired and happy, having completed a 2,000-foot climb and having walked round the entire Dent du Midi – about fifteen miles in all.
And so the summer wore on – the Eiger Direct always in our thoughts, but the weather never settled enough for us even to think of going over to Grindelwald. Rusty and I did, however, attempt a climb which was to give one of the most tense and memorable experiences of my climbing career. There was a fine weather spell in mid-summer and John used this for his ascent, with Royal Robbins, of the Direct on the West Face of the Dru. Rusty and I decided to have another try at the Right-hand Pillar of Brouillard.
We sorted out our gear one morning, assembling our meagre supply of American pitons. I wanted to travel light anyway, hoping to get away with a fast ascent. So much of the pleasure of climbing can be destroyed if you are weighed down by too much equipment.
When John saw our equipment layout, he raised an eyebrow and commented: ‘You guys sure do believe in travelling light.’
He was destined to be proved unpleasantly right.
– CHAPTER TEN –
THE RIGHT-HAND PILLAR OF BROUILLARD
And so through the Chamonix tunnel once again – car lights, psychedelic, wink in front, automatic speed controls flash their warnings, and we’re excited, like small boys escaping from parental control. At the end of the tunnel, a distant blink of white suddenly rushes up on us, and we’ve passed under Mont Blanc – under a thousand million tons of rock, ice and snow, and back into the dazzling sunshine and a cloudless sky. This was the perfect weather we had been awaiting all summer. It was difficult to believe that it had ever been bad – could ever be bad again.
Before racing up to the old Gamba Hut we go to the little cable station which carries food and supplies, and send up our packs. Both Rusty and I are intensely competitive; there’s already a tension in our relationship – I am the established climber, with sufficiently obvious weaknesses to make stardom questionable, while Rusty, the young climber still to establish himself, has enough good climbs behind him, together with the self-confidence gained from knocking around the world from an early age, to feel himself every bit as good as I.
I lengthen my pace, sweating hard, enjoying the undeclared competition. I have been out in the Alps a few weeks longer than Rusty and am therefore slightly fitter. Reaching the garish new Monzino Hut first, I am pleased at my hollow little victory. It is three o’clock in the afternoon, and I want to get high on the Innominata Ridge tonight, ideally to the little bivouac hut which is opposite the foot of our objective. Rusty, swept along by my enthusiasm, agrees, and we collect our sacks, leave the soft comfort of the new hut, pass the site of the old one, now sadly cleared down to its last timber, and start plodding up the long scree slopes l
eading to the crest of the ridge which bars the view of our objective.
A fine weather forecast aided my decision to press on as far as possible that afternoon, though this was hardly borne out by existing signs. An even ceiling of dark grey cloud clung to the top of the Pic Innominata and completely hid the main mass of Mont Blanc. From the crest of the ridge we could look down on the chaotic jumble of ice towers forming the Brouillard Glacier – obviously a place to avoid if we possibly could. The route up to the Eccles Bivouac Hut lay over comparatively easy-angled snow-slopes, below the crest of the ridge, up towards the Col de Frêney, and then up a slightly steeper slope. We could just discern the hut – a tiny box, clinging to the slope of the Innominata Ridge, just below the cloud ceiling. From there, we could see that a straightforward traverse led into the upper Brouillard Basin, from which we should be able to reach the foot of our Pillar.
We started wading through wet, sugary snow towards the Col de Frêney. This was obviously the wrong time of day to be crossing these slopes, but unless we wanted an unnecessary bivouac, we should have to keep going to reach the hut before dark. Reaching the Col de Frêney an hour before dark we were, finally, defeated. The steeper snow leading up to the hut was a bottomless morass of soft sugar, but having retreated to the Col we found a small island jutting out of the inhospitable snows, and settled down there for the night. At least the forecast had proved correct. As night fell the cloud ceiling disintegrated, and a myriad stars stabbed through it. It was reassuringly cold, always a sign of settled weather, and as dawn broke we began to cook our breakfast. Then began a chapter of accidents which were to dog our entire attempt. With frozen fingers I dropped the burner of our stove as I struggled to light it. I heard it trickle down into the dark void below. No longer did we have the means to melt snow for drinks – something that was even more serious than losing all our food. But it was a fine morning, and we couldn’t possibly turn tail and return, so packing our sacks we started up towards the hut we had struggled so hard to reach the previous night. In the hard frost of the dawn, the snow was crisp and firm, crampons bit into it with a satisfying snick; no longer wallowing, we were able to move steadily, easily upwards, passing the hut, empty and silent, traversing across steep frozen slopes into the upper basin below the Pillar. We could now gaze across at our objective. The face of the Pillar was sheer, clean and dry, but the slabby flanks were dotted with snow patches and running with melt water. Cutting into the left-hand side of the face was a great clean dièdre, which ended in a number of huge roof overhangs, but to its left was a series of cracks that seemed to offer the easiest line. We resolved to try this.
The Next Horizon Page 16