That same evening I met a friend, the well-known film-photographer J.-J. Languepin. Hearing of my purchase he threw up his hands.
‘What on earth are you hoping to do? Even if you only take at sixteen per second you haven’t enough there to make anything worthwhile. Anyway, without experience you’ll only make a mess of it.’
I could only reply with some embarrassment:
‘Oh, you know how it is, it’s just to have something to look back on and show my friends.’
After a moment or twos’ thought his rather glassy stare relaxed into his normal kindly expression.
‘Come round and see me tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a few hints. After all you’re no dimmer than the next man, and with a bit of luck you might just bring back something interesting.’
Throughout the expedition I followed his advice as closely as possible. I forced myself to carry the camera all the way up the final ridge of Huantsan and, what is more, to use it, despite the wind and cold. Skilfully edited by Languepin and augmented by the pictures taken in the valley with the Dutch camera, the film eventually amounted to nearly forty minutes. Needless to say, it was far from being a masterpiece. Many of the shots were clumsy or imperfect, yet in a simple way it gave quite a complete idea of our adventure. In particular the shots taken on the final assault were something new at that time. They were not all very spectacular, but for the first time audiences could see for themselves the authentic actions of climbers on a difficult peak, and several persons competent to judge thought that the film might interest the general public.
Without expecting profits in any way comparable with those of the Annapurna film, it seemed that one might earn enough to finance another expedition to Peru, and I began to follow the idea up excitedly. The promoter was interested, but thought the film too short. He therefore suggested shooting another feature on climbing in the Alps in order to complete the programme. At this point I thought of making a film on ski mountaineering. Skiing was a much more popular sport than climbing, and it seemed that in this way we might attract larger audiences. My own experience in both departments would make the whole thing relatively easy, or so I reasoned. As usual, the problem was money. To make a good film, even on 16 mm, is very expensive, and I had next to nothing. Fortunately various firms in the ski business promised aid in return for publicity in the credits, and by borrowing left and right I finally realised enough to make a beginning.
The plan was to feature the descent of extremely steep slopes, several of which had recently been done, but on reflection I decided to limit the field of action to the north face of Mont Blanc which, though less difficult than some others, had never been skied down. In the event, the filming turned out quite an adventure in itself. We were several times cut off by bad weather in the Vallot hut, at 14,304 feet. The weeks went by, and our cinematographer, Jacques Ertaud, had to leave to fulfil another contract. Luckily Georges Strouvé was able to take his place.
Hardly had he arrived when, in the course of filming a connecting shot, I misjudged a turn and fell over a seventy-foot ice wall, at the foot of which I went head over heels down the slope, only managing to stop myself a few yards from the edge of a precipice. As I got to my feet a pain in the back told me I had done something to my spine. Fine weather chose this moment to arrive, but in spite of a slight dislocation of one vertebra I managed to finish the film. Bill Dunaway, an American friend, accompanied me on the descent, and Strouvé, with the help of Pierre Tairraz, was able to shoot nearly all of it.
The film was mildly humorous in tone. It turned out most satisfactorily, winning first prize at the International Festival of Trenta, and against all expectation La Conquete du Huantsan obtained the second. The lectures given with the aid of these two films never attracted vast crowds, but they more than repaid the time and trouble that had gone into their making. Thanks to the sums thus realised I was able to return to Peru in 1956, with my Dutch friends, for an even more wonderful adventure than our first.
With two successful expeditions, 1952 was a particularly splendid year for me, but 1953 was rather difficult by way of contrast. After the painful experience of finishing off La Grande Descente du Mont Blanc my back was extremely stiff, and although the pain was quite bearable it was annoying, making guiding rather a problem. By the time September came round I was so far from trying any big climb as an amateur that I had to consult my father in his professional capacity at Aix les Bains.
My hope of participating in another French Himalayan expedition began to materialise during the autumn. After the conquest of Annapurna the French Himalayan Committee was in a position to apply for an attempt on Mount Everest, but unfortunately fate was to decide otherwise. In 1951 a British party had explored the Nepalese side of the mountain, which up to then had never been reconnoitred by any European. On their return they declared that, contrary to what had always been supposed, there was a distinct possibility of climbing the mountain by this face.
As a consequence of this discovery several nations asked the Nepalese government for permission to attempt the mountain. After a long series of negotiations it was decided that the Swiss should attack in 1952, the British in 1953, and the French in 1954.
Despite the shortage of time the Swiss succeeded in organising a powerful expedition, but, unluckily from their point of view, the lack of a light and efficient oxygen apparatus brought the assault party, consisting of Raymond Lambert and the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, to a halt at just under 28,000 feet. This was a remarkable achievement in itself and gave every hope for a future success, but the actual altitude was no greater than that twice attained by the British before the war on the north ridge. After this third trial it seemed highly probable that there was a physiological ceiling at around this level. If men as tough and well-trained as Lambert and Tenzing could not take another step, it was no more than logical to conclude that the air no longer contained sufficient oxygen to support life.
The British made the most of their two years’ respite. With the aid of a great deal of money they organised a truly enormous expedition, consisting of no less than thirteen Europeans and forty Sherpas, all under the command of a high-ranking officer. Thanks to the huge scale of the supporting pyramid and the efficiency of the open-circuit oxygen apparatus which enabled them to breathe a mixture of air and oxygen comparable to what one might find at around 20,000 feet, the giant of the earth succumbed almost without a struggle. This victory marked the end of an era which had lasted more than thirty years, and was a turning point in the evolution of mountaineering.
The highest mountain in the world had been climbed. For the man in the street, mesmerised by the altitude figures and ignorant of the true impulsions, there was nothing more to be said, nothing more to be sought but gold and the Abominable Snow Man. This decline of popular interest meant that henceforward it would be far more difficult to finance expeditions by the support of the Press, the cinema, and governments thirsty for prestige. For mountaineers, however, the conquest of Everest was rather the beginning of a new era. The most difficult mountains still remained to be climbed.
Now that the culminating point of the globe had been attained, several countries considered trying the three or four summits which approached it in height, and a rather stupid international competition began, to get permission to attempt them. The Italians, after exerting considerable pressure on the Pakistani government, obtained authorisation to try K2, the second highest mountain in the world (28,351 feet).
France might perhaps have obtained permission for an attempt on Kangchenjunga which, at 28,166 feet, was scarcely lower than K2, but since a British party had already made a reconnaissance which seemed to offer definite hopes of success the Comité de l’Himalaya very sportingly stood down.
Two possibilities remained: either the fourth highest mountain in the world, Lhotse (27,973 feet), or the fifth, Makalu (27,854 feet). The first was a few feet higher, but properly speaki
ng it is no more than a southern outlier of Everest, and three-quarters of the route had already been pioneered by the Swiss and the British. The element of exploration would therefore largely be lacking from its conquest, rendering the exploit less striking. Makalu, by contrast, was a magnificent, isolated peak in the heart of a wild region. Two lightweight parties had looked at its western flank and had returned impressed by its apparent difficulties. Even the approach march seemed to offer considerable problems, and everyone who had seen the mountain, especially from Everest, seemed to be in agreement that it would be the toughest nut of all the eight-thousanders. Its beauty and the interest promised by its ascent, both from the technical aspect and from the point of view of exploration, made it the automatic choice.
A request was therefore sent to the Nepalese government, but the reply came that for 1954 permission had been granted to an American expedition. Falling back on Lhotse was then considered, but on maturer reflection it was decided that the American team was too inexperienced to represent a serious threat, and that Makalu would be attempted in 1955. In order to have the maximum chance of success the committee took the wise decision to send out a reconnaissance beforehand, in the short period of fine weather between the end of the monsoon and the onset of winter, with Jean Franco as its leader. His job did not permit him to carry out the whole of the ungrateful task of preparation in person, so Lucien Devies asked Guido Magnone and me to take over a large part of it. Jean Couzy was charged with perfecting the oxygen apparatus, based on the English Everest model, but to be lightened if possible.
Makalu is some 1,250 feet lower than Everest. On level ground this sounds no distance at all, but at high altitude it makes a very considerable difference. Apart from the progressive rarefaction of the air, it means an extra camp with all that this implies of extra bulk and organisation the whole way down the mountain. There seemed little doubt, therefore, that we could envisage a lighter expedition than the English had taken to Everest; but on the other hand it looked as though the steep, rocky summit cone of Makalu might very well be much more difficult.
To attack a rock face at such an altitude was in fact a new and daring conception, posing many problems, the solution of which was likely to be hazardous. Our intention was to take a smaller, less cumbersome party than the Everest one, but, if possible, still more efficient. In order to accomplish this it was decided to do away with all preconceptions, and, without neglecting the lessons of the past, to think out each problem again from first principles.
From April to June 1954, Franco, Magnone, Dr Rivolier (the expedition’s doctor), Couzy and I all toiled like ants to devise new oxygen apparatus, clothing and camping gear that would be lighter, stronger, warmer and simpler than those used hitherto; new methods of packing; light, nourishing and appetising rations for high altitude; and some original tactics into the bargain. By the end of June everything was ready for the reconnaissance. In addition to those already mentioned the party included the guides Pierre Leroux and Jean Bouvier, both of urban origin. Since we were not to leave until the beginning of August, I had a month in which to fulfil some engagements with a few of my best clients.
We were naturally in a state of some anxiety about the progress of the American attempt on ‘our’ mountain, but at last the news of its failure came through. For reasons that I fail to understand their attack had been launched against the south-east ridge, hardly the most favourable of routes to judge from our aerial photos. They duly ran into enormous difficulties and were forced to retreat before even getting very high.
At the same time we learned that a New Zealand expedition, led by Hillary, which was in the district with permission to attempt certain seven-thousanders, had also raided Makalu. Seeing the Americans getting nowhere on the south-east ridge they went for the more reasonable-looking north-west face, but were stopped at around twenty-three thousand feet by smooth slabs and a wall of ice.
The results of these two attempts were hardly enlightening. On the contrary, the check-mating of the New Zealanders at only twenty-three thousand showed that we were likely to run into serious difficulties much sooner than we had expected. The importance of reconnaissance before launching an attack on such a complex mountain was thus doubly emphasised.
The approach march, which took place in the thick of the monsoon, was trying and difficult due to the incessant rain. Floods rendered many of the fords unusable so that long detours had to be made to find primitive bridges. It took us twenty-four days of hard labour to reach the foot of Makalu’s impressive west face, where base camp was set up. In spite of the heat, the wetness, and the onslaught of countless leeches, I found constant sources of delight as we marched along. The country was far wilder than any we had seen in 1950. Everything I loved about Nepal was still present. With a few local variations there was the same luxuriance of nature, the same smilingly philosophical inhabitants, all the charm which had won my heart for ever at first sight.
Before getting to grips with Makalu the whole team went through a stage by stage course of acclimatisation and ‘fittening’ which had extremely satisfactory results. Several of the surroundings peaks were climbed, thus enabling us to get excellent views of the whole of the Nepalese flank of the mountain. It soon became obvious that the only reasonable course was to follow a spiral route from the foot of the north-west face to the north-north-west ridge (this being the route attempted by the New Zealanders) and thence on to the north face, the upper part of which, however, we could not see. It was the one great unknown quantity, and to judge from the aerial photographs it might well be steep and rocky.
It did not take us long to set up three camps, the last of which, at around 21,000 feet, became Advanced Base. Camp Four was pitched on a shelf in the middle of an ice wall 2,000 feet higher up. Soon after this Leroux and Bouvier succeeded in forcing the barrier which had checked our predecessors and installed Camp Five on a saddle of the north-north-west ridge at about 24,600 feet. So far the weather, though cold and windy, had remained fine. These hard but bearable conditions now began to deteriorate, a gale blew up, and at Camp Three the temperature never exceeded minus-twenty degrees Celsius.
In such circumstances mere survival became a battle, but the reconnaissance of the north face was carried on all the same. During one lull Franco and I, with two Sherpas, had the luck to make the ascent of the 25,162-foot peak at the far end of the north-north-west ridge, known as Kangshung, or Makalu II. From this point we were able to see a good part of the north face of Makalu proper. It appeared feasible, but a bar of séracs and the final rocky wall were obviously going to be serious obstacles. The steepness of the whole face would entail a severe risk of avalanche in snowy weather, such as is normal in spring. Since we could only see three-quarters of the face it was plain that we would be able to form a better opinion from the summit of Chomolonzo, a higher and more northerly peak linked by an easy ridge to the ice plateau below Camp Five.
During the days which followed, first Bouvier and Leroux, then Couzy and Magnone tried to get on to the north face to look for the beginning of the route, but despite the unchangingly blue sky the wind, now risen to hurricane force, compelled them to return to Camp Three. Life had now become absolutely infernal. Franco therefore decided to raise the siege and asked Couzy and I to try and bring down the tent and equipment from Camp Five. Tormented at the thought of once more leaving the Himalayas without a big peak to our name we asked him for permission to try Chomolonzo if the wind happened to drop a little. This 25,590-foot summit stands out well on its own: so much so, in fact, that a German expedition had once thought of taking it as its primary objective. Thus its ascent would be a notable scalp, quite apart from the fact that it would give us a perfect view of the north face of Makalu.
At Camp Five we found the tent blown down and somewhat torn. In the circumstances it was a miracle that it hadn’t been blown away altogether. The temperature was approximately minus-thirty degrees Centigrade and the gale was sti
ll in full swing, making repairing and repitching an atrociously painful business. No sooner were we inside than it rose to a hurricane worthy of Patagonia. The col on which the camp was situated acted like a wind tunnel, and some of the gusts were certainly in excess of ninety miles per hour. Fortunately we had pitched the tent end-on to their direction, and as it was highly aerodynamic in shape it stood up to the battering beyond all expectation. Each burst would force it down until it seemed to be shrinking, but as soon as the strain relaxed it would spring up again with a sharp report. Some of the seams started to give, but a few safety pins staved off disaster. We were in a state of extreme tension for several hours, and our three Sherpas were quite grey with fear, yet one grows used to anything in time and in the end we slept, fully dressed and shod, like soldiers in the front line.
At dawn the wind fell to about half its previous force. Couzy was still determined to have a try at Chomolonzo, and his dynamic energy carried the day in the face of the supplications of the Sherpas and my own total lack of enthusiasm. A long descent down gentle slopes took us to a col at about 23,650 feet which was the beginning of the Chomolonzo ridge. Setting our oxygen flow at four litres a minute we began to trudge up the ridge, which was technically easy. The wind had recovered its original violence, and it was impossible to stand upright before the gusts, but the hard snow, the lack of difficulty and the excellence of our oxygen sets made it possible to go on. We progressed by a series of charges like soldiers in attack. As soon as a gust died down a little we ran uphill as hard as we could go until the roar of the next gust could be heard coming, whereupon we huddled down with our backs to the storm, forcing our ice axes into the snow for purchase.
Conquistadors of the Useless Page 42