Conquistadors of the Useless (24 page)

Lachenal decided to have a look, and soon beckoned me across to him. Although the corner was overhanging and contained nothing but a thin crack he reckoned it was possible. In a moment he had whipped off his crampons and started up on the left of the corner, then began a difficult traverse back into it. A first and rather shaky piton gave him enough support to tip off a large loose block which showed that nobody had tried this way before, then a second and still worse one gave him the confidence to try a long, risky stride. Since there was no crack to take third peg he placed the extreme toe of his boot on a tiny hold, held himself in balance by leaning sideways against the face with his left fingers around a minute flake, then gradually ran the fingers of his right hand across the rock like a spider, straddling with his legs until he reached a good hold. A couple of quick moves, and he was there! With the two sacks on my back I hauled myself up the rope shamelessly to join him.

Another hard pitch led to an old ring-peg on the right bank of the ice gully. Once again the obvious thing was to put on our crampons and climb the gully, but putting on crampons in our present position would have called for some real acrobatics, and anyway the gully still looked tediously steep. The slabs on our left were very smooth and disposed like the tiles of a roof, but they seemed to lead to a good ledge which in turn looked as though it offered comfortable egress on to the bottom of the ice field. Lachenal was now warmed up. He went for the slab without hesitation, and finding himself quite at ease on this sort of terrain, at which he was a past master, he soon reached the supposed ledge. He called down:

‘It's no more a ledge than a piece of cheese. There's only two good holds and nowhere to put in a peg. Watch out you don't come off, I 'm not sure I could hold you.'

I wasn't very thrilled with this piece of news, and called up:

‘Listen, Lili, if it's as bad as that come down again, we'll go up the ice.'

But a furious voice shouted down:

‘You cowardly bastard, there's no time to waste. It'll go from here on. Hurry up, for God's sake.'

When I got to him I saw that the ‘ledge' was no more than a shallow scoop where one could stand on one or two reasonable holds without getting tired, but also without any possibility of safeguarding whatever. What worried me a good deal more was that, far from growing easier, the slabs steepened up ahead of us and were largely covered in verglas. The growing exposure and the total lack of security made me feel quite sick, a sensation rather like that of a burglar caught on a too-steep roof, not able to move up or down.

Lachenal was off again without leaving me time to argue, dodging between the slabs of verglas with cat-like neatness. He moved fast, but was soon held up by a steepening of the angle. He hesitated some little time, tense with concentration, then, placing his palms flat on the rock with the fingers pointing downwards, launched into a daring mantelshelf. Only too aware that the least false move on his part would take us both down to the first ice field in one bound, I crouched on my holds with nerves stretched to the limit. Only my confidence in his fabulous skill gave me any hope of a successful issue, but I knew now that if he met with an unclimbable obstacle higher up he would never manage to reverse what he had done. There would be no chance of getting a peg into this concrete-like limestone. Bit by bit he would grow exhausted until at last he slipped, and that would be the end. How much easier the lot of the leader, who, in the heat of action, has no time to reflect on the danger!

Now I could see Louis' foot being placed with infinite delicacy between two streaks of ice. He raised a hand and felt around over his head until he appeared to find a roughness, then began to straighten up gradually. But would his foot stick on? Instinctively I clutched at my holds. Very slowly he brought the other hand up to the level of the first, then stepped up quickly. He had done it! At last my tortured nerves could relax a little as I heard the sound of a peg going in. Then he called down:

‘That's it. It looks as though it should go now. But this peg's not much use, so don't come off. I can probably help you a bit.'

Knowing how much worse I was than Louis at delicate climbing, and having to cope with the weight of the sack into the bargain, I embarked on the pitch feeling like a condemned man. At the crux it took me some time to work out the unusual move he had made. Balancing up on the palms alone seemed extremely precarious, and I called out:

‘Hold it tight then.'

Immediately I felt the rope take part of my weight, and this made all the difference. He had not deceived me about the following slab. It was still steep, but much richer in holds – yet we still could not see the ice field, and the risk of coming up against an unclimbable section remained. With a few movements like a wild beast Louis disappeared above my head. The rope continued to run out steadily, then stopped. Every second seemed an age, and I was just starting to get worried when he called out that he had found a good natural belay. I found him in a high good humour sitting on a ledge, and collapsed beside him. After such nervous tension we needed a few minutes repose, and passed the time discussing the situation.

Far from saving time by avoiding the gully we had undoubtedly wasted a good deal, and only my friend's extraordinary talents had got us alive out of the snare. This grave error of judgement was undoubtedly due to our lack of experience on limestone faces. But in any case there was nothing dramatic about the situation: we were now at the second ice field and there should be no major difficulties until we reached the Ramp. On this ‘high mountain' terrain, which was our speciality, we ought to be able to make up all the lost time. But not if we hung around talking all day.

We were on the ice field in a matter of minutes, disappointed that the dryness of June had not caused the ice to shrink back and leave a ledge of bare rock along its foot. In fact it ended in space. The slope was about fifty degrees and quite bare of snow, but the ice, which was grey in colour, turned out to be soft enough for us to crampon without cutting steps. We could also have moved together without worrying about security measures, as we often used to do, but there seemed no point in running unnecessary risks. The weather was set fair and even if we had to bivouac again it wouldn't matter, so we put in an ice peg at the end of each rope's length.

Our line went gently upwards and across to the left, and we made good time. The sun was beginning to get round on to the face and warm things up, and a few small stones whistled past, but we soon reached the top of the ice field where we were sheltered by the wall above. We now went along the wall until our way was barred by a small buttress. Rather than descend to go round it we decided to climb it direct, but the rock was so rotten that we had to move as softly as Indians on the warpath, which took us another half hour. Presently we came to a piton. The old loop of abseil-cord that hung from it showed that it had been put in for purposes of retreat, probably by Rebitsch and Vörg.

The way still lay to the left, so we continued traversing towards the rocky buttress which separated us from the third ice field. Somewhere along here we had to find a way over this, but there seemed to be nothing above us but smooth slabs plastered with ice. Suddenly the keen eye of Lachenal spotted a peg: ice or no ice, that must be the route! Climbing in crampons on this difficult ground he wrought miracles, but it called for every bit of technique he possessed as well as two more pitons to get to a stance. Soon afterwards we reached the crest of the buttress, where two rusty, twisted pegs were the sole remaining relics of Mehringer and Sedlmayer.

Instantly I remembered the photographs of their handsome faces, Mehringer's all lit up with childlike joy, Sedlmayer's more sombre, a sad smile at the corners of his lips. Half exhausted from their heroic efforts they must have sat down here to wait for the weather to improve, fighting for many hours against the mortal cold until the snow gradually covered their bodies and they went out like a match in the rain. The seasons with their storms passed over, the ropes turned to straw, and one day the rock was bare again as in the beginning of the world. No token remained of their spirit but these pegs.

I quickly put away such thoughts. Our bodies were full of life; the warm sun bathed us in its rays until joy flowered in our minds. A few more hours of stirring combat and we should be standing above the abyss, ruffled by the breeze on the summit.

It was now 1 p.m. The time had flown inexplicably, and we must be getting on. Caught up in the intensity of action I was for continuing at once, but Louis, who was being griped with hunger, insisted on stopping for some food. I had to give in, but after all what did it matter? The sky was blue as in a dream, and there was no fear of bad weather. We flung down our sacks on an inviting little platform and argued as we gobbled down our food. From our position on the buttress, which stood out from the surrounding slopes, we commanded an excellent view of the face. The question was, would it be possible to find an alternative route to that of the first ascent? But wherever we looked our gaze was lost in the immense walls of the Gelbewand. The Ramp was now quite close also, and we examined it with distaste. It appeared to be a kind of outward-sloping gutter, and its lower part steepened into a vertical chimney between two smooth walls. From where we sat it looked absolutely frightful, but all our experience made us distrustful of first appearances and we decided to reserve judgement.

Although these immediate prospects naturally rather obsessed us, we could not help also seeing the peaceful countryside stretching away to the horizon. The tinkling of cowbells and an occasional hoarse shout floated up from the pastures, dotted here and there with brown chalets, which covered the rounded hills before us. Occasionally a more strident note would break in: the world of machines was also not far away, in all its ugliness and discordancy. There is something altogether singular about the Eigerwand, the most terrible of all mountain faces which is yet almost like a seat in the gods over the stage of life. On the Walker the climber is utterly alone in the heart of the mountains. Wherever he looks there is nothing but rock and ice and the thunder of avalanches, and never a trace of life. He feels as though he were on another planet, and nothing comes to untemper his determination. Here in this mineral world where only the ravens were at home, we were still accessible to all the contrast of civilisation. What mad pride forced us to abandon the sweetness of life for this vertical desert?

Just as on the previous day, a few clouds would form from time to time and drift up around us, then the wind would chase them away, showing the valley still bathed in sunlight. Suddenly a thunderous noise made us jump: over on our left an avalanche of boulders was bounding down the second ice field, exactly where we had been a short time before. We had been sitting idle for too long, it was time to get moving again. Lachenal suggested my taking the lead for a change. Still somewhat doubtful about my right hand, I was torn between the fear of letting him down and the desire to recover the old sensations of mastery over the forces of nature. In the end he persuaded me, and I set off first across the steep ice slope leading to the Ramp.

This part of the climb is continually peppered with small stones, some of which are as big as a tennis ball. It is a genuinely dangerous place, and I kept an eye peeled for the arrival of trouble as I cramponned delicately across. We reached shelter at the beginning of the Ramp with heartfelt relief; we were most surprised to find it completely different from what we had expected. Far from being a narrow, difficult gutter, it turned out to be a comfortable couloir. It was so easy we were almost disappointed and climbed up it together, eager to see what came next.

Presently the Ramp came to an end in a high narrow chimney splitting a wall that bristled with overhangs. There was no doubt that this was the route, but unfortunately a heavy waterfall was foaming down it. It was in fact so heavy that we seemed likely to get washed off it if we tried to climb it. We weren't expecting to be held up by a liquid obstacle, and felt rather stumped. Surely a thing like this wasn't going to stop us when the goal seemed so near! One thing was sure: we wouldn't get anywhere without trying, so I stoically began to pull on my waterproof cape. Suddenly Lachenal, who had been looking up at the wall, called out:

‘Just a minute! It looks as though it might go up there on the right, where the crack goes through the overhang. It's just the thing for a thug like you, and it looks easier above. You could traverse back left between the other overhangs to the top of the chimney.'

I wasn't altogether convinced by this piece of reasoning, but even the overhangs seemed preferable to the waterfall, so I decided to have a look. A few yards of easy traversing to the right brought me to a little grotto, in the roof of which was a crack some eight inches wide. This, it appeared, was the route Lachenal had in mind for me. After putting in a long piton for security I tried to climb up into the crack, but the only way lay up a fault of yellowy, rotten rock which came away in the fingers, and I didn't even manage to get up the seven or eight feet separating me from its base. After several attempts I got disgusted, and was preparing to return to my second when I suddenly noticed that the wall on my right, though very compact, was rippled with horizontal wrinkles. The idea came to me that by climbing up the wrinkles one might reach a sort of mantelpiece of rock twenty-five feet or so above, from which there seemed to be a line of weakness back towards the chimney.

I had now reached the condition of divine madness which makes a man oblivious of danger and renders all things possible. Normally I would have considered the wall quite beyond the pale, but now I felt a great upwelling of decision. I was just starting up the wall when I felt the rope dragging me back. The peg I had inserted in the grotto was turning it through too sharp an angle and so blocking it. I looked round for somewhere to plant an alternative piton but there was nowhere, not even the least suspicion of a crack. The rock was as solid as a concrete pillbox. Finally I found a hole about an inch deep, too thin for an ordinary peg, but I remembered that I had picked one up that morning on the bivouac ledge not much larger than the prong of a fork. Sure enough I found it among the jingling ironmongery round my shoulders, and it might have been made expressly for this cracklet. With such doubtful security I then went at the wall.