I drove into Chamonix past the familiar branded roundabout. Two alpinists had their heads down, fully kitted up and clearly just finished some adventure. I secretly wished I was them, having just finished their objective; worn out but content. When they freshen up with a burger in their stomachs they will revel in what they have just achieved. But for now they walked slumped, tired and hungry with a heavy pack digging into their shoulders. In 48 hours I would still be on the mountain wishing I was back down in the valley .
We traversed the glacier and up the familiar faint path around the North face of the Dru. Awaiting at our preferred bivi spot where two English guides had already hunkered down for the night. The next morning we stayed a pitch behind them until the first hurdle; the dark chimney, choked up with snow and ice. The topo mentioned we would have to take our packs off, though this wasn’t the only occasion we would.
The granite kept on coming, pitch after pitch, only one or two being memorable, the rest just a blur of endless granite. The quality of the climbing just wasn’t satisfying, maybe it was the style of climbing; trutching became the word of the day. Maybe it was our weakened resolve. Laborious grunting up offwidths, chimneys and cracks. Shoving my hands into wet fractures, no careful placements of hand and feet, just cramming in our bloodied appendages. Quartz crystals made fine slices into my palm and the ligaments in the back of my left hand now feeling the strain after pulling thousands of metres of rope while on a continuous lead.
Doubts are what stripped us of our time. Debating the route, debating whether we should continue. It’s what wore down our morale and caused mental fatigue. The weather was coming from over the Chablais alps and soon would be on top of us. I had climbed many walls with Dave and he was always a mentally stronger climber then myself, but he had been away from the sharp end for a long time. As the clag came in and the pitches became harder, Dave’s morale deteriorated. I could tell this mental block had really affected him. He said he needed a cigarette. The last time was a few years ago when on a patrol in Afghan, after narrowly missing an IED blast. We decided to bivi early at one of the most exposed and beautiful spots on the mountain. Though the view would not last long as the storm closed in around us. This would be our setback, a knock on effect that would drag this climb into day three.
Following the topo as close as possible was something we occasionally oversaw. In-situ gear hung from the next potential pitch, a red cam stuck in a crack or a sling 20m above us. When in fact it was abseil tat from a cul-d-sac pitch. More time wasting, more mental blocks, more mental fatigue.
We reached the gap to the south side. The venturi effect howling through the quartz hole, making me question whether we should even crawl through the portal to the south side. North face climbing adds a lot to the gravity of the climb. The cold and steepness, completely opposite of the sun blasted faces of the south side. Soon the storm was on top of us, my old bivi bag barely holding up. The seams leaking as I lay on a floor of slushy hail. Between the flash bang of the storm and my dripping sleeping bag sleep was not an option that night.
The next morning we navigated the summit traverse; finding it hard to route find in the imposing dense cloud. Summits are often very anticlimactic. The climb is far from over, full concentration and skills are needed to get back down safely and only when back at the car is there a sense of relief and congratulation. I could hear a humming in the air as I belayed Dave up to the summit stance. The metal work buzzed as the thunder and lightning grew closer, a sense of urgency meant we spent no time on the summit before finding our descent route.
We now stood on the knife edge, on the col between the two Drus. Looking down at the grand couloir it seemed a simple escape of the mountain, instead of climbing another four pitches to ascend the grand Dru and abseil the standard route. It was a case of working harder for a safer option. Later that night back at the hut we were very grateful we took this decision as we stripped off our dripping clothes. If we took the couloir we would have been stuck in the storm and five hours away from shelter.
As we progressed lower down the south face the hail turned into sleet and then into rain. Ledges coated in snow now trickled with water. The runoff gained momentum and I got a mouthful of much needed fresh water. Within minutes there was no missing the vertical river now flowing down the south face. We stood in the watershed fixing our ropes, water running down our sleeves and into our boots.
Dave reminded me of a most uncomfortable night on a night navigation patrol in Kinlochleven. We were on selection for a reconnaissance troop in the Royal Marines. Nothing was dry, the pitch black hid the uneven ground, streams and roots all wanting to tackle us to the ground. We looked back at our military careers as a marker of what we can deal with. Abseiling in this storm was no exception. Even though there was objective danger, the uncomfort and the exhaustion meant nothing, you can work through that and being uncomfortable ends. Darkness had fallen by the time we reached the glacier. We dragged out wet feet through the slush hoping to intercept the trodden path. The Charpoua glacier is particularly unnerving. Seemingly bottomless crevasses and hanging seracs created only one feasible path across the icy battlefield.
The next morning we hauled ourselves up the ladders back to the Montrevers train. Blooded hands and ripped clothes, our heads hanging low as we walked past freshly rested alpinists heading for their chosen route. I wonder what they thought when they looked at the state of us, probably not surprised after last night’s storm.