When we woke at 9 o’clock in Camp II, at 19,350 feet, it was already very hot, and the tents were suffused with golden light. But it was hard work to get our frozen boots on – they were just like blocks of wood. In future I put them at the bottom of my sleeping-bag. I poked my head out – the sky was blue and the view magnificent: a wonderful chain of peaks and ridges stood out round us at a height of 23,000 feet. Quite close above us was that jagged ridge which we called Cauliflower Ridge. It was a continuation of the north-west spur on which we had spent ourselves to no purpose. We could now see its whole length; we had, in fact, climbed only about a tenth of it! And to our surprise there was an enormous gap in the centre, cutting off all possibility of progress. So we had no more regrets.
Shining in the distance was a mountain of crystal – Dhaulagiri; and nearer us were the proud and inaccessible Nilgiris. To the right, towering above our Lilliputian camp, was the Great Barrier with its flanks falling directly to the basin of the upper Miristi Khola. To the extreme right, a great swollen glacier and a jolly looking peak – the Triangular Peak or Black Rock that we had seen from the East Tilicho Pass. I turned round: an enormous ice face bristling with seracs and seamed with crevasses sparkled in the sun. Far above, so high that one had to tilt one’s head backwards to see it, was Annapurna, resplendent, dominating everything as a goddess should.
I inspected the face we had to attack with some anxiety. It was all so disproportionate, on such a different scale from our puny resources. What was to be our plan of campaign? I had to estimate the party’s fitness, take into account the rather sketchy equipment we had at our disposal up here, and allow for dangers and difficulties and, above all, the time factor. There were such hundreds of things to bear in mind. But I had made up my mind to push on actively, establishing camps, whatever the weather, short of an actual blizzard. It could all be reduced to a mathematical formula: to pile up the maximum weight per distance during the day, at the same time taking care to conserve the physical form of the climbers for the final assault. On this last stage to the top deterioration would be bound to set in: at that moment we must be able to call up all our reserves of energy and resolution, without losing sight of the needs of the descent.
By morning we had forgotten the previous day’s weariness and were all ready to take advantage of the fine weather to go up and establish Camp III. Over the gaiters which we wore above our boots we adjusted the extra-light-weight crampons, which from now on we used almost continuously. We took one tent with us, leaving the other where it was, with some food. We each carried about 22 lb. Before leaving camp we took a last look at the whole of the ice face, all unknown ground. On starting out we tried to pick out in advance a route between the many ice walls blocking the way, for once among them we should be hemmed in and unable to see more than fifty yards ahead.
We roped up in the same order in which we had camped – Lachenal and Rébuffat together, and Schatz and I on the second rope. It was nearly 10 o’clock – high time to start. After carefully closing the one remaining tent at Camp II we steered towards the snow-shoot at the foot of the great central couloir which descends from the summit slopes. On the section of the plateau between us and the couloir there were few crevasses, so our route was straightforward. When we put our feet in the snow they were numbed by the cold, yet the air was so warm that we soon took off our eiderdown jackets. The gigantic wall of snow and ice seemed to tower higher and higher above us. On the left a ridge of bare ice, typically Himalayan in its formation, surprised me by its transparent blueness, which was intensified by the lateral position of the sun. On the right the Cauliflower Ridge, immaculately white, proudly displayed its tracery and seemed to taunt us: ‘If ever you get as high as me …’ In this strange world where everything tends towards the vertical, one’s notion of balance is quite peculiar: all these vistas of chaos render one’s first impressions unreliable.
After we had been going for an hour we had only got as far as the first slopes of the snow-shoot. But what worried me was what came next: thousands of tons of a titanic flood seemed to lie frozen in indescribable confusion. The nearer we got to the wall, the steeper appeared the average angle. Seracs crashed down with hideous din, and the rumbling of avalanches put us all on edge. For the moment there was nothing coming down the couloir. For some minutes we should be exposed to danger, for though we would cross it at a point where it narrowed – it was never very wide – every block that fell from the upper slopes would inevitably hurtle down this funnel. Lachenal crossed first. In turn, each of us followed in his tracks under the watchful eyes of the others waiting on the edge. Above us an enormous roof of ice, that turned a livid green as soon as the sun disappeared, constituted some slight protection. But would it be enough if an avalanche came down?
All went well, the danger zone was passed and we arrived out of breath on the opposite side. The place was scarcely suitable for a halt, for the slope was so steep that the snow no longer held firm, and we did not stop. The first party rapidly cut some tiny steps, barely sufficient for two spikes of our crampons. The ice was smooth and compact, like glass, and split off with a sharp noise beneath the axe. The chips broke off cleanly, went flying down into space and disappeared at high speed, starting up little avalanches. We continued to make over to the right under the protection of the seracs, and a rickety snow-bridge brought us to a snowy platform where we were at last able to stop. The fine weather held, for the time being, and we were cheered by the sight of a few healthy-looking clouds.
At our feet lay the plateau with Camp II which we now saw in its true dimension: we managed to pick out the microscopic tent only by following the tracks of our ascent. Higher up, the next part of the route was not very inviting, and 150 feet or so above our heads the way was barred by a huge vertical wall of ice. Not a hope either to the left or to the right. If we were to be held up like this so early in the climb …
Schatz and I went boldly to the attack. We sank in up to our waists, and the ice beneath the snow made us slide irresistibly down the slope. I seized hold of one foot with both hands and using the other knee as a fulcrum I brought my foot out several inches above the snow. Then I planted my ice-axe as high up as I could and pulled on it to free the other foot left behind. I slipped and came back to my original position. My heart thumped and I was weak for want of breath. Finally we had to clear a trough, and these 150 feet took us an hour to negotiate. We were now so close to the wall of ice that we shivered in spite of the heat. I examined the obstacle: a snow-covered ledge led up to a great overhang of ice. This proud colossus, smooth and chased by little avalanches, could be surmounted by cutting steps up it – a practical route after all. I told the second party that it would take at least two hours to reach the top of the overhang and that, during this time, they might as well skirt along the wall in search of an easier way.
For a second I took off my dark glasses, but I could not stand the dazzling glare all round us. Far away below, the green of the lower slopes gave a momentary relief to my eyes. My glasses were steamed up with sweat and melted snow, and I rubbed them with my handkerchief, then glanced at my waist to make sure the knot was all right, counted the number of ice-pitons, and saw that I had my piton-hammer. A glance at Schatz to satisfy myself that he was firmly placed, then:
‘I’m starting. A bit of slack, please.’
‘Go ahead,’ replied Schatz, letting the rope out round his firmly planted ice-axe.
Unaccustomed effort at this height is terribly hard work, and each blow of the axe made me pant. First I cleared the ledge; the snow was hard and compact, but at last I had a stance at my disposal about a foot wide and three feet long on which I was obliged to crouch as my head bumped against the overhanging ice. I still had to advance horizontally for a couple of yards. I moved along inch by inch; the ledge became narrower and narrower, the wall above pushed me out further and further until I nearly overbalanced. I finished by crawling. I stopped to rest, lying on my stomach and clutching the shaft of t
he axe with which I held myself in. I now had to attack the ice on the roof. With one hand, and with nothing to lean against, I could not strike very hard. The splinters of ice showered down on to Schatz who stood stoically watching my every movement, ready to stop a possible fall. First I broke down the end of the little gutter in which I was penned. A few nicks chipped in the ice upside down served as a hand-hold for my left hand. Holding on thus with my left hand, I pulled myself up very, very slowly, scraping up against the overhanging ice, with a drop underneath. I could feel Schatz’s eyes on me. With my right hand now free, I gripped my axe and made a better hold for my left hand on the bare ice of the roof itself. Then having driven in my axe, I made a lightning grab for the hold; now gripping firmly with my left hand, I withdrew my axe and with the utmost difficulty made two steps very high up for my feet. These were for use after I had got over the overhang, to enable me to remain a few seconds in position against the wall and to help me up. I let myself down again to my original position on the ledge, breathing hard, like a steam-engine this time. I dug my ice-axe in up to the hilt and while I clung to it Schatz came up, wriggling serpent-like along the ledge. Soon he was touching me, behind. As soon as I had gone up three feet he would take my place, belay me, and pass his axe up to me.
My turn to move now. I raised myself up and put my foot on the axe, which sank in, but all the same I managed to reach the upper hold with my left hand. I was completely out of balance. I used my piton-hammer, which I had taken out of its holster, as an anchor, though its security was purely illusory. Schatz made the next move as planned, took my place underneath, belayed me and passed me his axe. Without turning round I grabbed it and with a great swing dug the pick in hard a couple of feet higher up. There was not a second to be lost – my feet scrabbled in the air and I pulled up on my left hand-hold and upon Schatz’s axe dug in the ice. It seemed an eternity; I had to fight every inch of the way. My right knee reached the level of the lower of the two footholds, groped for it, found a lodgment – a terrific relief. With another spurt of energy I got my boot up to where my knee had been, but was I going to be able to heave my leg high enough to get the points of my crampon in? I was almost there – the crampon came up with hideous slowness, one point, two, just another heave to get them right in … I was up!
Careful not to make a wrong move or to lose my balance, I pulled on the axe, holding the shaft against the ice the whole time so that the pick should not suddenly jerk out. I found something for my left foot. I stretched out, pulled up once more, and there I was in the two steps prudently prepared in advance.
‘Gosh! I’m up! … What a brute!’
Schatz, who had been desperately anxious, was waiting for this.
‘Well done, Maurice!’
‘Don’t move! A yard of slack!’
Again, without a moment’s rest, for it was a thoroughly unhealthy place, I hacked away harder than ever to make big steps in the good hard ice. A couple of yards further on the slope eased and I came to snow. I cut a large step where I could stand on both feet, and called out to the invisible Schatz:
‘Wait a bit, yet. Give me ten feet of slack and I’ll put in a piton.’
‘O.K.!’ The reply reached me through the wind which had just begun to rise.
My heart was thumping as though it would burst, my breath came in irregular gasps, and great drops of sweat poured off me. Before going on I leant on my axe and shut my eyes a second. Then I began cutting again; the ice became granulated and the work was not so hard. I was now above the overhang, with another yard to go to reach a good stance. With my axe I cleared a flat space in the ice in which to place the piton. Chips flew up: I wondered what Schatz was thinking still lying on his stomach on the ledge.
‘Ready in a minute!’
Hanging from my waist was a spike, a kind of giant fish-hook, as long as a man’s forearm and provided with inverted teeth. Using my hammer I drove this ice-piton in, with all my strength. The ice was so soft here that after a few blows it was in position. Would it hold? It would become firmer as it froze in. I now turned my attention to the spare rope – it was nylon, white and dry and clean. I opened my knife and cut off a six-foot length – enough to make a decent loop which I fixed to the piton. All this would remain fixed in place. The sixty-foot length threaded through the loop would run down the slope and hang freely out above the overhang. I tugged to test the piton. All was well.
It was my privilege to be the first to try it out. I hung on to the rope and regained my comfortable step, below and a bit to the right.
‘Hallo, Schatz. You can come up.’
‘O.K. I’ll tell you when I’m starting.’
Schatz made his preparations. He put on his rucksack, which he had shoved under the overhang, and secured his axe to his wrist by a special bit of line which the others had made particular fun of. His voice rang out in the climber’s familiar call: ‘I’m coming!’ I held him on a tight rope.
Schatz took hold of the fixed rope. I heard a jabbering, and a dirty cap appeared, then a dark face twisted into a grimace. He was not exactly handsome at that moment! He found a hold for a crampon, then drove his axe in, took fresh hold on the rope, pulled himself up, and there he was beside me. The obstacle had been overcome!
Suddenly it grew cold and clouds darkened the air. We got into our anoraks and long capes. But what were the others up to? We hallooed at them.
‘We’re over here,’ came back the answer, in the tones of people who have been disturbed. They were sitting at their ease on the lower slopes. Their reconnaissance had come to nothing. Neither to the left nor to the right was there any possibility of turning the wall. The only solution was the way we had found. And so they were philosophically waiting to see what happened next. In a quarter of an hour they rejoined us.
The slow painful advance began again, zigzagging through a wild sea of ice. The weather, too, was wild. Every step, every yard gained on the mountain cost us such an effort that it left us trembling. I was seriously worried: if we had to go on struggling over this sort of ground for long, we should never win through. The others were no more optimistic than I was.
If only these heavy day-time snow-falls would stop, the snow would then freeze at night, and over this firmer ground we should be able to make reasonable progress. But every afternoon there was a storm bringing with it twelve to eighteen inches of snow daily. So that every day our work began all over again. We hoped that our tracks would at least leave a foundation for future use. This was our last remaining hope – would it, too, prove illusory?
Through the snowflakes I could see Schatz’s grey shadow battling through the powder snow as he went ahead to relieve me. The wind continued to blow, we could not see more than fifty feet, and the angle of the slope was horribly steep. There was not the vestige of a site on which we could pitch the tent. In any case it would be preferable to have Camp III higher up: the aneroid registered 21,650 feet, though later on we found out that we were only at 21,000 feet. It seemed to us an enormous height.
It snowed without a stop, and snow-clearing was a terribly exhausting job. But anyway we were on the move. We really were making progress towards the summit, and it gave me tremendous satisfaction. We stowed the tent, equipment and food beneath a serac shaped like a crescent moon. To mark the cache for the others following later, we hollowed out a niche in the wall and stuck in a red flask, jamming it well in.
‘They’ll be able to spot that from a good way off,’ I said to Schatz, and he agreed.
Once again I noticed how much easier it was going down. Lachenal and Rébuffat went first now and had already disappeared into the mist. The snow fell thicker than ever. I was in front of Schatz and I let myself drop over a very awkward little wall of ice. Unfortunately I had not made sure of the length of the rope between us, so Schatz felt a strong pull which he was not at all expecting, and he shot down the slope. He hurtled past me, yelling. By good luck the thick snow which we had been cursing slowed him up and then stopped him,
deadening his fall. Getting up with great difficulty, he came back towards me – rather stunned, and swaying in a drunken sort of way, but not hurt. He now went ahead and I held him on a short rope as we retraced our tracks in the storm. Lachenal and Rébuffat waited for us before crossing the couloir. They were worried about Schatz’s unsteady balance and they kept very close to him, following his movements with a watchful eye. For the second time we crossed the terminal shoot of the great couloir without any incident. In the days to come many parties had to cross and recross this dangerous place, but all were spared by the avalanches.
It grew warmer, and we continued to sink in as much as ever; we failed to spot Camp II, which was hidden in the clouds. We went by guess-work, though here and there we came upon the tracks of our ascent, which were now barely visible. The wind grew stronger, the snow stuck to our glasses and lashed our faces; we tightened the hoods of our anoraks and went along bent double beneath the squalls. A glissade, a few footprints, a large crevasse – we thought we must be quite close to the camp. We bore to the right and saw, a few paces off, a tent covered with snow: in actual fact we only spotted it because some of the fabric was showing. What were we to do? We could not all spend the night here, there just was not room. And if we went down we should be available to carry more loads up.
We went on again. It was getting late, and as we descended towards the plateau visibility decreased further. There was a thick mist, but by keeping in single file we were able to steer an approximately straight course. We knew that near Camp I we had to cross a very crevassed section. There was only one way through and this was marked with cairns, but we just could not find the first. Rébuffat thought we should go lower down on the left; Lachenal, higher on the right. As for me, I thought we were on the right route. But on no account did I want the party to separate. Finally we decided to try Rébuffat’s way, though we were not altogether convinced. Actually, by bearing to the left we did reach the great line of seracs which ought to lead us straight to Camp I.
Annapurna Page 14