Conquistadors of the Useless (26 page)

Our water bottles were still fairly full thanks to the various torrents we had crossed during the course of the day, but we simply lacked the willpower to make a hot drink on our little meta-cookers. I didn't take long to doze off, but soon woke up feeling strangled; I had slipped off the ledge in my sleep and was hanging on the rope. I clambered back to my resting place, but as this was no more than a notch in a little ridge on which I was straddled I slipped off to one side or the other every time I went to sleep. Despite my utter exhaustion I spent a wretched night. Lachenal was better placed, but he was so cold in his drenched clothes that his teeth never stopped chattering the whole night long.

Round about three o'clock in the morning we heard the rumble of a storm in the distance, but although the occasional flash of lightning lit up the clouds around us nothing happened on the Eiger. The drizzle had stopped and it was getting colder.

We were now seriously worried, and began to discuss our best course. On the Walker our retreat had been cut off in any case, so there had been no decision to make – it had just been a matter of getting up or getting killed. The situation here was more complex. We knew that the previous summer Krähenbühl and Schlünegger had got as far as this before being caught in a storm, and had managed to retreat to safety despite the snow, the avalanches and the shaky pitons. There was therefore an undeniable possibility of saving ourselves by going back, however dangerous the attempt might be. Although I was in despair at having to give up when the goal was so near this seemed to me the wisest course. Lachenal on the contrary calculated that we could be on the top in a few hours, and that it would be more dangerous to go down than to go on. If he told me once he told me twenty times that the well-known Grindelwald guide Adolph Rubi had personally assured him that the couloir from the Spider to the summit was just an easy scree slope, and I had to admit that Heckmair's account in
Alpinisme
seemed to confirm this theory. After all, his party had gone up it in spite of bad weather and frequent avalanches.

But in my heart I was only half-convinced. Without quite liking to say so, it seemed to me that Louis' judgement might be affected by the apparent proximity of success. He had dreamed yearningly of this climb for so long that he would go to any length for it. In the end, however, his enthusiasm and his will to win carried the day. In the bitter murk of dawn the way down looked anything but attractive. We had come here for an adventure, and now we had got it we might as well make the most of it.

By five o'clock we were already at work on the tottering crockery of the traverse. The air was heavy, and all the indications were that it would snow before long. We could only go as fast as possible and hope that providence would grant us a few hours' respite. After two pitches on which I felt that the whole mountain might collapse around us at any moment, I came at last to a solid platform. An abandoned lantern and a piton with a loop through it showed that last year's attempt had ended here. A short traverse on ice now led to the foot of an uninviting-looking wall, the first few feet of which overhung. To begin with I couldn't find any cracks that would take a good firm piton, but eventually I succeeded in inserting an ice peg in a wide crack in the rock at arm's length, on which I then heaved up for all I was worth.

The morning frost had covered the damp rock with verglas, and the holds were all encrusted with old snow. I climbed in crampons with my sack on my back to save time, but in the circumstances I was far from happy on such a vertical face. Every hold had to be cleared individually, and progress was both slow and painful. After forty feet I was close to a ledge, but once again there was an overhang in the way and all the cracks were too wide to hold a peg. Well, I would simply have to do it without. I could just reach a small incut hold which might solve the problem … but no, I was too tired, and I could feel the weakened fingers of my right hand opening out under the strain. If I tried to force it I would peel off. Three times I tried, and three times I had to return hurriedly to my holds. The last peg was twenty feet below, too far to justify deliberately risking a fall, but at the same time I could hardly let six feet of rock stop me now. By feeling around with my left hand I discovered a better crack, and in a very awkward position managed to plant one of the specially thick pitons that Simond had kindly made for me. What would have happened if I hadn't talked him into doing it I don't know! With this security, anyway, I was able to go to the limit. I gathered myself for the effort, and a moment later I was on the ledge.

Most unfortunately my peg hammer had caught under the overhang as I moved up, and the violence of my effort had broken its leather sling. Its loss was a potential disaster. From now on it would be practically impossible to recover any pegs we put in, and I dreaded to think what would happen if anything went wrong with the other hammer.

The ‘Traverse of the Gods' turned out much easier than I had expected. The rock was certainly loathsome enough for anybody, but there were several old pegs
in situ
which made it safe. We climbed the Spider as fast as we could go, not stopping to take any belays or cut any steps. Fortunately the ice was fairly soft, and broken bits of rock sticking out of the snow here and there also helped. Victory now felt quite close, and we rushed into the base of the couloir with shouts of enthusiasm. At first its easy angle seemed to confirm Adolph Rubi's predictions. We penetrated into a constricted gully, and an old piton showed that we were on the right road. Shortly, however, we came up against a thirty-foot step of compact, vertical rock covered in verglas an inch thick.

I got up six feet or so, placing the two front points of my crampons on tiny holds, then nearly came off. There seemed to be nowhere to put a peg, and I returned disconsolate. Louis then tried in his turn, and got a peg through the verglas half an inch into a superficial crack behind. By some miracle he then managed to move up on this precarious support and repeated the operation on four more equally doubtful pegs before he arrived at the top of the pitch. It was a real
tour de force
. I made vigorous use of the rope in climbing up to join him, and had no trouble in tweaking the pegs out with one hand.

The slope now gave back again, and we were able to move up steadily in spite of the verglas which covered everything. After a few more pitches we once again fetched up short against a step of light-coloured rock. The step was split by an overhanging crack which we could have laybacked quite quickly in normal conditions, but this technique was ruled out by the verglas. I thrutched my way painfully up to the overhang, where I eventually succeeded in planting a long ice peg.
[4]
By bridging until I was practically doing the splits I got another peg above the overhang, but it was hammered into a pile of slates that didn't inspire me with much confidence. There was literally nothing else to pull up on, so for lack of any alternative I grabbed the peg with both hands and tried to walk my feet up the wall. They kept skidding on the ice, but I had almost done it when there was a ping! and I found myself twenty feet lower down, behind Lachenal but still upright. The whole thing was so sudden that I hadn't even the time to be frightened, and the strain had been taken so gradually that I felt no shock whatever. Louis goggled at me clownishly: ‘What's the idea – are we playing birdies?'

Then he added more seriously:

‘Nothing broken? Do you want to have another go or shall I try?' Furious at the incident and still hot with the effort, I replied:

‘It's all right, I'll have another shot. Don't worry about it, it'll go this time.'

I went at it again without a moment's rest. This time I got the second peg in more reliably and mantelshelfed onto a good hold. Now I had to cross a slab to the left, an operation rendered delicate by the ice. The weather was more menacing than ever. Sullen clouds were sinking lower and lower, and sounds were becoming hushed. Everything pointed to a heavy snowfall before long. I looked desperately for ways of avoiding the icy slab, but there seemed no other way out. It just had to be done, and quickly: it was a matter of life and death.

Deliberately shutting off my imagination I pushed the points of my crampons into the black ice and set off across the slab. There was nothing for the hands and no opportunities for guile. By concentrating all my forces and accepting all the risks I got across, though more than once on the verge of falling. It did not take long to haul the sacks and bring up Lachenal, who took a pull on the rope to save time. Another overhang loomed above us: would this diabolical couloir with its verglas and its overhangs never come to an end? This one looked really unclimbable, and we could not imagine how the Germans had dealt with it. Perhaps we could escape round the corner to the left into the next couloir? A few moves took me out on to a little shoulder which overlooked it, but it looked even worse than the last one. Suddenly I noticed a rope jammed in a crack, and at the same moment the solution became clear: the Germans had abseiled to a ledge below which led round to yet a third couloir.

I grabbed the rope, taking no notice of its decayed state, and a moment later I stood at the base of a wide, steep chimney. Naturally it was full of ice and looked far from prepossessing, but with some very wide bridging and plenty of optimism it ought to go. No sooner had Lachenal reached my side than I was off, bridging so wide that at times it seemed I might pull a muscle. The rock was extremely compact and practically impossible to peg, but just as I had almost run out of rope I found a place where I could get a piton in an inch or so, and with this pitiful belay Lachenal had to be content.

It began to hail heavily and a torrent of hailstones poured down the gully, but luckily a convenient overhang saved us from the full weight of it. The difficulties now seemed to be diminishing at last, and a tremendous feeling of joy began to seethe inside me. I knew now that we were saved. The main obstacles were all behind us and there was nothing more that could conceivably hold us up, even though the hail had turned into big, thick-falling snowflakes. But an hour more in reaching this point and our chances would have been halved.

Presently we came to a steep slope of broken-up rocks. Knowing the summit so near we were torn with impatience and had been climbing together as fast as we could, but I quickly realised the danger of such haste on ground as delicate as this. It seemed best to take no further chances, but to belay carefully pitch by pitch. Lachenal grumblingly agreed, and we went on at the steady pace of the traditional mountaineer.

But how long this pitch did seem? To be sure it was positively never-ending! Presumably impatience and fatigue made it seem so, and yet … surely there was something funny going on. Perhaps Lachenal, carried away by his wish to get off the climb, was following me after all? No, there he stood, quite motionless with a belay. I couldn't understand it at all, and decided to keep a very sharp eye out. Oh, the crafty devil! He was climbing up behind me, and every time I made to turn round he would stop and pretend to be belaying.

But all things come to an end, even slopes of loose rock. More snow showed that the summit could not be far away, but we were now so weary that we were incapable of increasing our pace. Suddenly we came out on the Mittelegigrat, and this time it was really true: we had vanquished the Eigerwand.

I felt no violent emotion, neither pride nor joy. Up in the cloud on this lonely ridge I was just a tired and hungry animal, and my only satisfaction was the animal one of having saved my skin. I badly wanted to rest, but Lachenal would not allow it. He was obsessed with the idea of getting back to the valley to reassure his wife at the earliest possible moment, and had worked himself into a sort of frenzy.

But I could only prod heavily up the final ridge in spite of his invectives and we did not reach the summit proper until 3 p.m.

The adventure was by no means over, and we now began the frightful ordeal of the descent. The layer of fresh snow was already more than four inches deep, and in order not to slip we were forced to keep on our crampons. By the same token, of course, we were constantly turning our ankles on hidden stones, and my bad ankle gave me hell. Lachenal, who seemed miraculously immune to fatigue, ran in front of me cursing his head off. Since we were still roped together I had no choice but to follow, but the pace exhausted me and in the depths of my heart I began to hate him for a hectoring tyrant.

We had made the mistake of not getting precise details of the way down. All we knew was that it was supposed to be easy and that it was on the west flank of the mountain. A quick glance at a postcard had shown us that the face was bordered at the south end by a snow couloir which didn't look particularly steep, and we had simply come to a snap decision that this must be the right way, and that the whole face looked a piece of cake in any event. Now we were searching for the couloir in the storm. An ill-defined track led off but soon disappeared and left us guessing, blinded by the wind and snow. There was a crash of thunder from somewhere close by, and our hair began to buzz disagreeably with electrical discharge.

Being caught on a mountain by an electric storm is a terrifying experience. The deafening peals, the sparks crackling on your scalp, the shocks which can sometimes even knock you down; all give a tangible quality to the danger that can strike fear into the boldest heart. Even more than an artillery barrage such a storm makes a man feel at the mercy of impersonal forces which might wipe him out at any moment. Reduced to the condition of a hunted beast, his weakness and loneliness become clear to him in all their totality. The danger is in no way illusory, and quite a large number of mountaineers have been thus electrocuted, badly burnt, or thrown from their holds.

But I had gone beyond fear for that day, and even the storm failed to upset me. I advanced as in a dream, thinking only of a place where I could at least eat, drink, and sleep. As for Louis, the storm only served to increase his excitement. Not for one moment did he think of taking shelter. His only remaining idea was to descend, and he ran here and there, shouting and gesticulating as though possessed by the devil.