Conquistadors of the Useless (50 page)

Egeler, De Booy and I had climbed together so much in the Alps that we were already close friends, and this was another attraction. I had often had occasion to appreciate their courage, enthusiasm, sense of humour and comradeship, and in fact had rarely met climbers with whom I felt so much in sympathy, so that one way and another I was overjoyed to accept their invitation.

Our main objective was the Nevado Huantsan, a fine peak of 20,981 feet which happened to be the highest unclimbed summit in the central Andes. It looked as though this would be taking on a great deal for a party of three with limited equipment, due to the length and difficulty of the route. In order to get acclimatised and acquire some notion of local conditions, therefore, we decided to have a shot at the more modest Nevado Pongos (18,733 feet) first, which despite considerable difficulties in its upper portions, was climbed in a day and a half from base camp. For me this was something of an achievement, since, thanks to air travel, I took only eight days from Paris to the top of Pongos, of which the journey from Lima accounted for four.

Huantsan proved to be quite a different kettle of fish. Our first attempt failed, very nearly ending in tragedy. We were retreating down through the night when De Booy, seized with cramps after a false move, let go the rappel rope and fell twenty-five feet free, then shot down a steep ice slope more than two hundred feet high. By one of those miracles which occasionally occur in mountaineering he fetched up on the glacier virtually unhurt.

After a few days rest and a spell of bad weather we had too little time left to envisage the classic method of building up a succession of camps. The mountain would have to be stormed and revolutionary tactics were the only hope. Having found a good route and placed a second camp at around 18,000 feet, we decided to go straight for the summit from there, carrying with us everything we would need for a week.

At first our sacks weighed over fifty pounds. With such a load on one's back it was both exhausting and delicate to traverse the narrow, corniced ridges, where we were constantly forced off on to steep ice slopes on one side or the other. After a first night in the tent the going got easier and our sacks lighter. We crossed the north peak, 20,013 feet high, and descended into the saddle separating it from the principal summit. On the third day the mountain was finally vanquished after some very difficult ice climbing. It took us another two days to retreat back down the mile and a half of ridge to Camp Two, so that we had been absent for five days altogether. The porters, convinced that we had met with an accident, had packed up and gone home!

In two months from the time I had left I was back in Paris, reaching Chamonix the following day. Forty-eight hours later I was bivouacking with two British clients at the foot of the Pillars of Fresnay on .Mont Blanc, and the day after we did the third ascent of this very difficult route.

This short expedition to Peru is one of my happiest memories. Despite the daring shapes of the peaks with their huge cornices and elegant ice-pendants we had not been through any experiences intense or dramatic enough to rival those of Annapurna, nor had we conquered any adversary so redoubtable as the Fitzroy. We had not even done anything especially notable from a technical point of view. Yet, though I might easily have become blasé through too-frequent adventure, I had in fact returned home radiantly happy, aware of having lived through moments of hitherto unequalled quality.

With little equipment, with no other aid than that of cowardly porters, always ready to steal or to desert, the three of us had ventured out into a savage, semi-deserted range, peopled only by a few Indians reduced to the state of beasts by four centuries of subjection. Tiny and alone in the midst of this frozen world we had fought our way past every obstacle to our chosen goal in the limited time available. The very meagreness of our means safeguarded the proportions of the peaks and restored difficulties to their true value, giving us back mountain adventure in its original purity, as known to Whymper and the pioneers.

On the ridge of Huantsan, without a support party or means of communication, we had been in the truest sense cut off from the world, a rope of three friends linked together for better or worse. Nothing but our common ideal impelled us towards the unknown summit. The utter silence, the remoteness from all human concerns, the friendship without reserve, all gave to our conquest a flavour more piercing than that of other, more celebrated victories.

Nor had the climbing been the only satisfaction derived from this voyage. As had happened before in Nepal, the old Inca empire had shown me another world, another point of view, a new kind of poetry. I marvelled at the land's richness in contrasts and extremes, its people at once colourful and dirty, splendid and crude, ecstatic alike in happiness and sorrow, hospitable yet dishonest, artistic yet drunken and dull. As I returned to the kind soil of France I retained a heavy sense of nostalgia for that country of high relief where adventure still lurks at the roadside, and to return became one of my most constant dreams. As with so many of my young dreams, four years later this one came true with greater richness even than I had imagined. Against all expectation, the first adventure was father of the second.

Up to 1952 I had hardly taken a photograph, let alone a film. At the time we did the Walker and the Eiger Lachenal and I were such purists in matters Alpine that the thought of profiting from our adventures never even crossed our minds. The most elementary cameras seemed fussy, cumbersome objects, liable only to spoil our pleasure, and in point of fact we never took a single photo during the five years of our partnership. My point of view had changed little by the time of the Annapurna and the Fitzroy expeditions. We had specialist photographers with us – it was up to them. I had come to climb mountains. On the Fitzroy I was at such a pitch of tension that I several times told Strouvé to go to hell when he wanted me to pose or to climb down a few feet so he could film me, and it was largely my fault that we took no camera with us on the final assault.

Somewhat later, on Aconcagua, we spent quite a lot of time kicking our heels. For lack of anything better to do I asked Strouvé to show me how these mysterious gadgets worked, took a few photos, and even carried a light cine-camera to the summit. On my return to Paris I was quite surprised to see how well the pictures came out. It then dawned on me at last that, contrary to what I had so stupidly supposed, photography was a straightforward technique rather than an occult art. About the same time I began to realise that our expedition films were and would always remain priceless souvenirs of some of the greatest days of my life.

In setting out for Peru I felt rather sad to think that for lack of a professional cinematographer we would have no record of our adventures. My friends had an ordinary camera and even an old movie camera as well, but they had little experience and less film, added to which the movie camera was too heavy and fragile for high mountain use. A few days before leaving, I had a violent and inexplicable impulse to try making a film myself. Being practically without funds, I borrowed 100,000 francs from a friend, and with it bought thirteen hundred feet of Kodachrome in magazines which would fit the light camera we had had in Patagonia.
[2]

That same evening I met a friend, the well-known film-photographer J.-J. Languepin. Hearing of my purchase he threw up his hands.

‘What on earth are you hoping to do? Even if you only take at sixteen per second you haven't enough there to make anything worthwhile. Anyway, without experience you'll only make a mess of it.'

I could only reply with some embarrassment:

‘Oh, you know how it is, it's just to have something to look back on and show my friends.'

After a moment or twos' thought his rather glassy stare relaxed into his normal kindly expression.

‘Come round and see me tomorrow morning,' he said. ‘I'll give you a few hints. After all you're no dimmer than the next man, and with a bit of luck you might just bring back something interesting.'

Throughout the expedition I followed his advice as closely as possible. I forced myself to carry the camera all the way up the final ridge of Huantsan and, what is more, to use it, despite the wind and cold. Skilfully edited by Languepin and augmented by the pictures taken in the valley with the Dutch camera, the film eventually amounted to nearly forty minutes. Needless to say, it was far from being a masterpiece. Many of the shots were clumsy or imperfect, yet in a simple way it gave quite a complete idea of our adventure. In particular the shots taken on the final assault were something new at that time. They were not all very spectacular, but for the first time audiences could see for themselves the authentic actions of climbers on a difficult peak, and several persons competent to judge thought that the film might interest the general public.

Without expecting profits in any way comparable with those of the Annapurna film, it seemed that one might earn enough to finance another expedition to Peru, and I began to follow the idea up excitedly. The promoter was interested, but thought the film too short. He therefore suggested shooting another feature on climbing in the Alps in order to complete the programme. At this point I thought of making a film on ski mountaineering. Skiing was a much more popular sport than climbing, and it seemed that in this way we might attract larger audiences. My own experience in both departments would make the whole thing relatively easy, or so I reasoned. As usual, the problem was money. To make a good film, even on 16 mm, is very expensive, and I had next to nothing. Fortunately various firms in the ski business promised aid in return for publicity in the credits, and by borrowing left and right I finally realised enough to make a beginning.

The plan was to feature the descent of extremely steep slopes, several of which had recently been done, but on reflection I decided to limit the field of action to the north face of Mont Blanc which, though less difficult than some others, had never been skied down. In the event, the filming turned out quite an adventure in itself. We were several times cut off by bad weather in the Vallot hut, at 14,304 feet. The weeks went by, and our cinematographer, Jacques Ertaud, had to leave to fulfil another contract. Luckily Georges Strouvé was able to take his place.

Hardly had he arrived when, in the course of filming a connecting shot, I misjudged a turn and fell over a seventy-foot ice wall, at the foot of which I went head over heels down the slope, only managing to stop myself a few yards from the edge of a precipice. As I got to my feet a pain in the back told me I had done something to my spine. Fine weather chose this moment to arrive, but in spite of a slight dislocation of one vertebra I managed to finish the film. Bill Dunaway, an American friend, accompanied me on the descent, and Strouvé, with the help of Pierre Tairraz, was able to shoot nearly all of it.

The film was mildly humorous in tone. It turned out most satisfactorily, winning first prize at the International Festival of Trenta, and against all expectation
La Conquete du Huantsan
obtained the second. The lectures given with the aid of these two films never attracted vast crowds, but they more than repaid the time and trouble that had gone into their making. Thanks to the sums thus realised I was able to return to Peru in 1956, with my Dutch friends, for an even more wonderful adventure than our first.

With two successful expeditions, 1952 was a particularly splendid year for me, but 1953 was rather difficult by way of contrast. After the painful experience of finishing off
La Grande Descente du Mont Blanc
my back was extremely stiff, and although the pain was quite bearable it was annoying, making guiding rather a problem. By the time September came round I was so far from trying any big climb as an amateur that I had to consult my father in his professional capacity at Aix les Bains.

My hope of participating in another French Himalayan expedition began to materialise during the autumn. After the conquest of Annapurna the French Himalayan Committee was in a position to apply for an attempt on Mount Everest, but unfortunately fate was to decide otherwise. In 1951 a British party had explored the Nepalese side of the mountain, which up to then had never been reconnoitred by any European. On their return they declared that, contrary to what had always been supposed, there was a distinct possibility of climbing the mountain by this face.

As a consequence of this discovery several nations asked the Nepalese government for permission to attempt the mountain. After a long series of negotiations it was decided that the Swiss should attack in 1952, the British in 1953, and the French in 1954.

Despite the shortage of time the Swiss succeeded in organising a powerful expedition, but, unluckily from their point of view, the lack of a light and efficient oxygen apparatus brought the assault party, consisting of Raymond Lambert and the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, to a halt at just under 28,000 feet. This was a remarkable achievement in itself and gave every hope for a future success, but the actual altitude was no greater than that twice attained by the British before the war on the north ridge. After this third trial it seemed highly probable that there was a physiological ceiling at around this level. If men as tough and well-trained as Lambert and Tenzing could not take another step, it was no more than logical to conclude that the air no longer contained sufficient oxygen to support life.

The British made the most of their two years' respite. With the aid of a great deal of money they organised a truly enormous expedition, consisting of no less than thirteen Europeans and forty Sherpas, all under the command of a high-ranking officer. Thanks to the huge scale of the supporting pyramid and the efficiency of the open-circuit oxygen apparatus which enabled them to breathe a mixture of air and oxygen comparable to what one might find at around 20,000 feet, the giant of the earth succumbed almost without a struggle. This victory marked the end of an era which had lasted more than thirty years, and was a turning point in the evolution of mountaineering.