Conquistadors of the Useless (36 page)

One day after a prolonged series of ascents I did the south ridge of the Fou, a sustained and strenuous expedition. My ageing client was rather slow, and we did not get back to Montenvers until late afternoon. Tired as I was, I had to go on up to the Requin hut the same evening to meet two Canadian clients. By the time I had finished eating it was 9 p.m. Our climb was to be the ordinary route on the Dent du Requin, a classic which does not command a very high price. The Canadians were extremely nice people who would have understood perfectly if I had cried off due to utter fatigue. To put it bluntly, it would have cost me little to miss the climb altogether. But I set out all the same. My headtorch broke down on the glacier, and as it was a dark, cloudy night, I got lost in a maze of crevasses. I wandered around for some time before finding the way out, and by the time I reached the hut shortly after midnight I was ready to drop.

I rose again at 3 a.m., light-headed and heavy-limbed. Ten times the tariff of the climb would have been a small price to pay for the privilege of staying in bed, but there stood my clients, all unconscious of my inner struggles, happy and excited at the prospect of a fine day on the mountain. There could be no evasion: like a soldier charged with a mission, I simply had to act without knowing why. The ritual words and gestures were gone through, and presently I found myself outside in the dawn wind, plodding painfully up the track. At this point I blacked out for a moment and almost fell full length – but the clients had noticed nothing, and I managed to pull myself together. As we climbed I lost some of my stiffness and felt better, and presently we reached the top. That evening when I delivered my clients back to Montenvers, delighted with their ascent, it was drizzling steadily, and I thanked my lucky stars for the chance of a good sleep. My two Canadians had not the faintest idea that the day had cost me a more heroic effort than our escape from the Walker!

On yet another occasion after a long, hard series of climbs, I felt my forces beginning to fail me on the ordinary route of the Petit Dru to such an extent that I seriously began to wonder if I could reach the summit. My client was on bad form that day, and had been climbing very slowly and laboriously from the beginning. Preoccupied with my own troubles, I had not noticed at first what a state he was in. Suddenly I noticed the mortal pallor of his cheek, his dazed eye and distended nostril: obviously he couldn't go on like this much longer, and to preserve my honour all I had to do was outlast him! Pitch after pitch went by and the wretched man looked more and more piteous, but he would not give in.

My secret match with him, not to reach the summit, but to avoid the shame of being the first to suggest giving up, was reaching the desperate stage when at long last the poor fellow sank down on a ledge. Sadly and politely he informed me that he could go no farther. He was terribly sorry from my point of view, but he had tried his best and it just hadn't worked. Now he couldn't climb another foot ... I did my best to look concerned and put out, but could hardly restrain the animal joy that ran through me at the prospect of being able to lie down and sleep. Honour was saved!

1. 1.
   Translator's note.
   The number is now eleven.
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1. 2.
   Translator's note.
   Though often by professionals climbing as amateurs.
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1. 3.
   Translator's note.
   And now also in the Himalayas.
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1. 4.
   Translator's note.
   The heroine of a romantic novel about French Canada.
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1. 5. ‘C'est bien malheureux' = ‘How unfortunate' or ‘bad luck'. ‘Ce n'est pas mal' = ‘not bad' or ‘not bad at all'.
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1. 6.
   Translator's note.
   This list now includes Nilgiri in the Himalayas.
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1. 7.
   Translator's note.
   The palm has now passed to the central Pillar, climbed in 1961 by Whillans, Bonington, Clough and Djuglosz.
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Towards the end of the 1949 season word began to go round about a possible French expedition to the Himalayas. According to the rumour Lucien Devies, the great power behind the scenes of French mountaineering, was determined that France should begin to play a worthy part in the conquest of the world's highest and most difficult mountains. Up to this time her role had been negligible – there had only been one French expedition (to Hidden Peak in 1936) as against thirty odd from England, nearly as many from Germany, four or five from Italy, and even three from the USA despite the relatively recent growth of the sport there. The conquest of the first 8,000-metre peak would make up for this neglect and give us the place we deserved in people's estimation. It would also give our best mountaineers, for whom the Alps were becoming too small, an adversary worthy of their ideals and skill.

The rumour turned out to be well-founded, as I learnt in a conversation with Lucien Devies that October. Devies had been one of the best and most enterprising French mountaineers in the years before the war. Climbing sometimes with the great French ice-specialist Jacques Lagarde, sometimes with the celebrated Italian climber Giusto Gervasutti, he had many remarkable achievements to his credit, among them the first ascents of the north-east face of the Punta Gnifetti, the north-west face of the Olan, and the north-west face of the Ailefroide. Only bad luck had prevented him from making serious attempts on the Eiger and the Walker. He is still climbing actively, though illness and advancing years have forced him to give up the more grandiose ascents. Unable to realise all the dreams and projects of his youth, he has altruistically made them possible for others. All his formidable energy and enthusiasm have been devoted to the general expansion of mountaineering in France, and in particular he has aided and encouraged the leading climbers to attack the exceptional climbs of their day. Lachenal and I already owed him a great deal.

In 1949 Devies simultaneously held the three most important offices in French mountaineering, being president of the Club Alpin Français, the Fédération Française de la Montagne, and the Groupe de Haute Montagne. His combination of enthusiasm and power made our Himalayan enterprise possible; indeed I partly suspect that this had been one of his aims all along in the immense efforts he had furnished to bring about unity and efficiency at a national level among our various mountain organisations. Our conversation revealed that he judged the moment ripe to follow the trail blazed in 1936 by Jean Escarra and Henry de Ségogne.

Whatever way you looked at them, the auspices were favourable. French climbing had gone ahead by leaps and bounds since the war both in terms of quantity and quality. Nearly all the first repetitions of the great pre-war routes, put up originally by the Germans, Austrians and Italians, had been made by French parties. Thus we could hope to field a very powerful team which ought to be technically capable of conquering an 8,000-metre mountain, a feat which had been attempted over thirty times by parties of various nationalities, but so far without success. The highest peak then climbed was Nanda Devi, at 7,816 metres.
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Furthermore, political conditions had improved a good deal since before the war, when they had rendered attempts on the eight-thousanders mainly impossible. These mountains all stand within the borders of three countries: Tibet, Pakistan and Nepal. Prior to 1940 Tibet, traditionally closed to western civilisation, had opened its doors only to the British Everest expeditions, but with the subsequent waning of British influence in the east the country had become impenetrable to foreigners.

The north-western portion of India containing the northern Himalaya and Karakorum ranges, where most of the attempts on eight-thousanders had been made up to that time, had recently become part of the new state of Pakistan. Political and religious disorders were still common, and the government's control of the remoter valleys was not yet fully assured. In such circumstances a party of Europeans might easily find themselves in a delicate position. Finally, the Pakistan government had greatly complicated the technical problems by forbidding the entry of Sherpa porters.

By contrast with these two nations the small independent kingdom of Nepal, hitherto closed to Europeans, seemed to have changed its policy completely. During the previous summer two expeditions, one of American ornithologists, the other of Swiss mountaineers, had been the first to receive permission to enter the country. The outlook for 1950 was therefore quite hopeful, and the Fédération Française de la Montagne had begun negotiations with the Nepalese government for a French expedition. If this were granted, the next job would be to choose a mountain offering some chances of success from among the eight-thousanders, the majority of which were in Nepal.

Then would come the task of choosing a team and getting down to details of equipment, organisation and transport, all much more complicated than one might imagine. On Devies' recommendation Maurice Herzog, general secretary of the Groupe de Haute Montagne, had been appointed putative leader. Devies also mentioned that I had been thought of as a possible member of the party, and asked if I would be willing to go. It seemed like the fulfilment of all my dreams. A man's dearest wishes rarely bear any relation to mundane reality, and the Himalayas had always seemed so impossibly remote that I had never dared to imagine climbing there in very deed. In those days conditions in France were so unfavourable to enterprises of this order that any such thoughts, soberly considered, seemed doomed to disappointment.

And now at last I was going to see those fabulous giant summits, for me a paradise where all was great, and beautiful, and pure. The Himalayas represented the total adventure, the gift of self to an ideal so often sought, so rarely found. Of course they also meant the mysteries and charms of the Orient, new kinds of men, new and prodigious forms of nature. Visions thronged my imagination, avid for experience.

But first I returned in November to Canada with my wife and one of my most promising climbing friends, Francis Aubert. Letters arrived at intervals through the winter from France, keeping me in touch with developments. The Nepalese government was slow in coming to a decision, and by the time our permission finally came through there was less than two months before the date of departure. The result was a terrific flap and also a great deal of hard work. Despite their busy professional lives, Lucien Devies, Maurice Herzog and Henry de Ségogne, to say nothing of many others I lack space to name individually, threw themselves into the labour with a sort of holy passion which in the end accomplished the desired miracle.

The first major obstacle was to find enough money. The state, which often lavishes funds on much more dubious enterprises, was not excessively generous, but made a grant of six million francs, barely half the necessary minimum.
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A public appeal was launched, bringing in gifts from all over the country. Thousands of mountaineers made small or large contributions according to their means. A small group of eminent men, all enthusiastic climbers in the twilight of their careers, worked ceaselessly to get us the substantial donations without which our plans would be impossible. Among these were the late Louis Wibratte, president of the Bank of Paris and the Low Countries; the late Jean Escarra, professor at the Paris Faculty of Law; and, among the living, Henry de Ségogne and Lucien Devies.

These important businessmen and administrators did not hesitate to go round knocking on the doors of the influential, and thanks to their position they were able to convince bankers and industrialists of the worthiness of our cause and of the prestige that would accrue to France if we succeeded. All the camping and mountain sports equipment manufacturers agreed to support us, and the majority not only fitted us out for little or nothing but, in many cases, developed special kit into the bargain.

Thanks to their efforts we were able to make considerable progress in the design of Himalayan equipment. Reading the story of Himalayan mountaineering between the two wars, one is equally struck by the heroism and tenacity displayed by men of all nations and by their lack of imagination when it came to developing suitable gear for the job. One can virtually say that no progress was made in twenty years. I think we can claim to have cleared our minds of a dead weight of tradition, and although we certainly made mistakes it is not too much to say that our expedition marked a major step forward in Himalayan technique, and that all subsequent successes have owed something to our discoveries.

Far away in Canada, I had comparatively little idea of the scale and difficulty of these preparations. Herzog and Lachenal wrote only that the trip was definitely on, and that was enough for me. For the first time in my life I was scared stiff of breaking a leg or hurting myself in some way. I took part in no further competitions and only skied at a reduced pace, which is rather awkward for an instructor. By the terms of my contract I could not get back to France until a few days before we were all due to embark, and on arriving in Paris I was somewhat taken aback by the scene of frantic activity at F.F.M. headquarters in the Rue de la Boétie.

Lachenal was responsible for the crating and packing, which was being earned out at the warehouses of a company which specialised in the work, and I was detailed off to help him. I found myself confronted with a small mountain of tinned foods, crampons, ice axes, cookers, tents and sleeping bags, all mixed up together. After my lofty ideas of an organisation worked out to the last detail and the last ounce, this was coming to earth with a bump! Horror stricken, I raised my arms in despair and cried:

‘Do you really think we're going to make any impression on all that swag?'

But Lachenal, always the optimist, quietly replied:

‘We've got several days yet, and everything we really need into the bargain. We'll manage somehow without the non-essentials. The main thing is to get away on time.'

And as usual he was right. The necessities of a Himalayan expedition are completely different from those of even the biggest Alpine ascents. Whereas in the Alps one is only away from civilisation for three or four days at most, in the Himalayas it may be as many months, and part of this time will be spent in an area of complete sterility. A big Alpine route is really a series of individual exploits carried out by the members of the party in turn, but the ascent of an eight-thousander is purely and simply a matter of team-work. On the highest mountains the individual is powerless. His willingness to pull his weight with the team is far more important than his technical skill or even his physical capacities.

It will be seen that in such conditions human qualities are of prime importance. In the rarefied air of great altitudes, where fatigue, danger, wind and cold push men to the utter limits of endurance, even the best become irritable. Driven in upon themselves, they reveal their profoundest nature, and faults become magnified to alarming proportions. Selfishness and irritability cause inefficiency to such an extent that whole expeditions have been paralysed by dissensions among their members.

Organisers of expeditions therefore try so far as possible to choose compatible parties, and sometimes deliberately exclude tigers on grounds of excessive individuality. The committee set up by the F.F.M. under the presidency of Lucien Devies to decide on a team for the 1950 expedition looked both for technical excellence and for the sort of character that could be integrated successfully in a group. The choices were made with great broad-mindedness and impartiality. Naturally all the major sections of the French Alpine Club had their particular favourites, whom they did not hesitate to push hard. It was therefore particularly meritorious of the committee to resist all local pressures and overlook regional or personal rivalries.

Maurice Herzog was chosen leader. This appointment, which caused a good deal of argument both then and later, was in my view fully justified. The objections were mostly on the grounds that he had done none of the greatest ascents of his day, and could therefore not be considered one of its leading climbers. What he did have, however, was an all-round experience of the mountains rivalled by few other French mountaineers. He had come to the sport in childhood and had done most of the classics at an early age, subsequently making a large number of important ascents. Without any particular natural gift he had made himself into a good rock climber; and above all he was a complete mountaineer with all the right qualities for the Himalayas, including excellent ice technique and exceptional physical stamina.

If Herzog's selection was justified on technical grounds, it was even more so on intellectual and human ones. Quite objectively, he was the best qualified among the two or three French climbers who could have been considered for the post at that time. A graduate of the H.E.C.,
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an officer in the reserve, a businessman of standing, he was thoroughly accustomed to organisation and command. His flexible and friendly nature enabled him to get his way with individualists who would only have rowed with an overt authoritarian, and the fact that he had climbed with almost everybody in the team could not fail to facilitate his task. In one way and another, then, Herzog perfectly fitted the committee's conception of a leader who would not only be capable of organising the various camps from base, but also of assuming personal responsibility for the final assault. Over and above all his other qualities, finally, he possessed the virtue indispensable to any good head of an expedition: faith. He had been one of the project's initiators, and he brought to it the faith that could move mountains. Without this quality of Herzog's Himalayan mountaineering would have followed a different course.

In order to assure as tightly-knit a party as possible, the committee selected by ‘ropes', that is by pairs who normally climbed together. Thus they hoped to eliminate many causes of friction at the outset. The selection of Couzy and Schatz was no doubt partly due to this motive.