It was now early March – getting near the end of winter. The First Band had, at last, fallen to the onslaught of Layton, Dougal and John, now recovered from his dislocated shoulder. We were ready for the final push up the face. I was going with them, up to whatever should prove the high point of the fixed ropes; I would then leave them for their climb to the summit, race back up by the West Ridge, and meet them at the top.
– CHAPTER TWELVE –
EIGER DIRECT: THE CLIMB
It was the 7th March and we were at last committed to the face; with a bit of luck the constant yo-yo between Scheidegg and the snow cave would be over. John and Dougal, out in front, had forced the Rock Band the previous day, spent the night in a small snow hole they had hollowed out under a rock overhang on the ice-field between the two bands, and were now climbing up towards the Second Band. Layton and I were hauling gear up the First Band. Ours was the support role. Layton had jumared up first, and most of the day went slowly as he hauled sack after sack up the face. I alternated between the snow hole and the foot of the slope. As in war, siege tactics on a mountain entail constant long periods of inaction, broken by spasmodic moments of frenetic activity. There is one big difference though: the moments of inaction are precious in their own way – you can gaze over the hills, feel the peace and silence of the mountains – peace that is the more real for the very presence of a lurking threat of change in the weather, or a mistake on a fixed rope.
Then it was my turn to follow Layton up the fixed rope – the second time I had ever been on jumars. The rock was sheer and the rope dropped down in a single span of 300 feet. Economising on weight, we had used 7 mm perlon, being the thickness of an ordinary clothesline and, in theory, strong enough, with a breaking strain of 2,000 lb. – in practice it inspired little confidence. Wherever the rope went over a sharp edge of rock, it flattened out under tension till it was not much thicker than a piece of tape; how much wear before it was cut through? Only time and experience could tell.
You clip the jumars on, one for your thigh harness, one for your foot. I got the lengths of the slings wrong again, and as a result turned that first ascent into a terrifying struggle. You have to first pull in all the spring in a 300 foot length of rope by putting your weight on it, then shooting down the ice slope about thirty feet, bouncing like a red ball at the end of a string, all the time imagining what is happening to the rope, high above your head, as it saws over sharp edges. But you can’t afford to think of that. Blot it out of your mind and start jumaring, pushing up the clamps alternately, your life depending on that thin thread that stretches forever in front of you. Glance over to the left; you’re level with the Eiger Window. A train has just pulled in and the tourists are gawping through the window, just a few feet away – a few feet which might as well be a thousand miles, for your life and your whole world revolve round that thread of rope. You’ve moved above the window – no longer in sight – no longer exists – nothing does, except the need to push the jumars up, alternately, with your rucksack, attached by a sling to your waist harness, dangling spinning below your feet.
A jerk – you drop three inches. It’s the rope – it’s gone – broken; death, tumbling horror, fear, and a heart that pumps at twice its normal rate. But you’re alive! The knot in the sling attached to the karabiner in your waist harness has jammed on the gate of the karabiner, and had then freed itself, letting you drop those few inches. Although this happened quite frequently, the jab of horror was always there – frightening in a way that climbing emergencies rarely are. You are so helpless, the pawn of a rope fixed in position by another man, the potential victim of a piece of rock that might be slowly sawing through your life-line as you, your own executioner, bounce and struggle your way up.
The angle began to ease. Nearly up, I reminded myself to adjust the length of the slings to my jumars for the next rope length, and then took stock. Layton was already near the top of the next rope-length, up a steep ice runnel. A cluster of rucksacks, all of them our responsibility, hung from a peg, and the evening sun was just touching a rocky spur over to the right. Clouds had come rolling in that afternoon, blotting out Kleine Scheidegg, and we were now alone in the world. John and Dougal were somewhere above – I could hear John’s yodel. No sign of the Germans, they were somewhere to the right, but exactly where, I did not know. They had favoured the rock spur, but with a bit of luck they would now be in difficulties. We had chosen the short hard road, had conquered it, and now had an easy run out to the foot of the next major barrier, the Second Band.
No time to dream. Layton had reached the top of the next rope-length and I started after him. Swing across to the right, up over a short steep wall, and the angle eases. No need for two jumars here. One’s enough – just kick into the snow and push the jumar up. Suddenly it is steeper, the rope’s at an angle and the jumar jumps off; I begin to topple over backwards, but grab the rope with one hand – a moment’s struggle, and the jumar is clipped back on again. A narrow escape, but I just keep going. A little hole in the snow – the cave where John and Dougal had spent the previous night and, presumably, where Layton and I would spend tonight. But there’s more work to do in the evening sun, more loads to ferry up to the foot of the next barrier.
Now I can see John and Dougal, small insect-like figures against the white of a snow ramp cutting across a great rocky depression in the Second Band. The Germans are to their right, hammering away up an impossible-looking rock-wall, sheer, featureless and seemingly very high. There’s a shout. One of the Germans has fallen – it happens too quickly for my straying eye to catch – one moment he is spread-eagled on the rock, and the next, he is dangling about twenty feet below. More shouting – he’s talking and sounds cheerful, so he can’t have hurt himself.
The sun fades fast, washing the rock and snow in a soft yellow glow which gives an illusion of warmth. John and Dougal, 300 feet above, are climbing into the dusk; they reach a ledge in the dark and have an uncomfortable, cramped bivouac. I return to our own little hole between the two Rock Bands, to find Layton already folded into it. It is very small, womb-like, reassuring. The petrol stove roars in the night, and we brew ourselves rose-hip tea to wash down our ration of viandes sèchées (a wafer-thin dried meat) and assorted nuts.
The raucous excitement and melodrama of Kleine Scheidegg has vanished. We are back on the big mountain wall, confronting our own special over-simplified reality. I love the rock and the snows, and these few moments of peace give me supreme comfort in my sleeping bag. I lie curled in the tight confines of the snow hole, tired but able to rest, hungry and able to eat – sheer contentment for a few moments of time.
Next morning the weather was still fine, and we jumared up to the camp site prepared by the others. We were now to experience the fable of the tortoise and the hare. Undoubtedly, we seemed able to climb more quickly than the Germans, and tended to pick the better routes. This enabled us frequently to get out in front, but because of our fewer numbers, we were never able to sustain our advance and, on several occasions, the Germans were to move through us, taking advantage of their reserves in numbers and their greater carrying power.
This is what happened that morning. John and Dougal had had an exhausting day and little sleep that night, their bivouac having been so poor. As a result, we were forced to spend the day after their successful ascent of the Second Band consolidating our position, ferrying up loads and digging out a good bivouac site.
The Germans were better rested and, having failed on their line up the rock buttress, climbed our fixed ropes in the early morning. They pushed on through, up the easier ground that lay above the Second Band leading up the side of the Second Ice-field. That night their front pair bivouacked about 500 feet above us, to the side of the Flat Iron, having pushed on without leaving any fixed ropes behind them. This meant we had no choice but to reclimb the route they had followed, leaving the fixed ropes in position. In the meantime, Layton, ever energetic, had raced back down to Kleine Scheidegg the previo
us night to pick up some more supplies, returning in the dawn to join us for our push towards the crest of the Flat Iron.
Once again, John and Dougal took the lead, while Layton and I followed, humping loads. Jorg Lehne and some of the Germans were immediately behind us, using the same fixed ropes. It was strange: even though we were still undoubtedly in competition, with each party prepared to steal a march on the other, there was also a growing friendship as we came to know, and at times to help, each other. Peter Haag and Karl Golikow, a delightful, friendly character, who always wore a broad grin and had a few cheerful words for us, or for anyone, were out in front, tackling the rocks leading up the side of the Flat Iron. Dougal and John, alternating the lead, slowly worked their way up the side of the Ice-field, and I humped my big rucksack, taking the occasional photograph and chatting to Jorg Lehne or Layton.
At last, we seemed to be nearing a summit push, though I was not at all sure, at this stage, what part I was to take in it – whether I should continue with the team once they abandoned their fixed rope, or go back down. I had surprisingly little ambition to be out in front, with my mind attuned to the challenge of getting a photographic record and not to the climbing itself. As a result, I became more aware of the risks than if I had been more deeply involved in the climb.
The day slipped by and as morning merged into afternoon a few herring-bones of cloud acted as forerunners to the smooth grey ceiling that was always a sure herald of snow. We had more loads than we could take in a single carry, and it meant that I had to go back down to haul the last rucksack up to the top of the Flat Iron. It was a heavy, awkward load and I was beginning to tire. By the time I reached the top of our line of fixed ropes, it had started to snow. There was less than an hour left to dusk, and we still hadn’t found a deep enough bank of old snow in which to dig a snow hole. The Germans, who had got there before us, were already ensconced, their hole dug, petrol stove roaring, and the bleakness of our own position became more evident. We had felt carefree and confident that morning, but all this had vanished in the cold grey of twilight.
‘There should be something on the top of the Flat Iron,’ John suggested.
‘I’ll have a look,’ said Dougal, always ready to tackle the hardest, most unpleasant job, especially if it meant leading out in front. He worked his way across the steep snow slope, immediately below the rocks of the upper part of the face. There was a thin layer of powder snow on top of hard ice.
His progress was painfully slow, his protection apart from the occasional ice piton, non-existent. It was nearly dark before he reached the crest of the Flat Iron, site of the infamous Death Bivouac, where Sedlmayer and Mehringer had frozen to death in 1935. He still had to find enough built-up snow to dig a snow hole and seemed to spend an eternity prodding about on the crest of the arête before finding the right kind of snow and, equally important, a place to anchor the rope.
‘Okay, you can come across,’ he shouted. ‘Be careful on the rope, the peg over here isn’t too good.’
It was impossible to pull the rope in tight, and it described a sagging arc across the rock-studded ice that lay between us and the crest of the Flat Iron. By this time, chilled to the bone, tired and apprehensive, I had lost much of my enthusiasm for the North Wall of the Eiger.
I was the last to traverse across. By this time it was pitch dark and I couldn’t see where to kick in with my crampons. I slipped and hung sagging on the rope and, in my fear, cursed and swore into the blind night. Being a traverse, it was particularly awkward, with the constant risk of a jumar jumping off the rope. By the time I reached the others, Dougal had disappeared headfirst into the snow, burrowing away like some new species of mole. There was no shortage of volunteers to do a spell of work in the snow hole; there was warmth in digging, shelter from the wind, and a comforting sense of enclosure in the bowels of the snow. Another hour slipped by, feet frozen, hunger gnawing, we dug away or awaited our turn to dig, crouching in the snow on the threshold of the hole. It was past midnight before there was room for all four of us. We piled in, crammed together between the rock-wall of the Death Bivouac and the outside snow wall, which seemed precariously thin. But there were still two sacks on the other side of the fixed rope – one of them Dougal’s, for he had led over the crest of the Flat Iron without a rucksack. The other one contained our precious brew kit and stove.
‘I guess someone’ll have to get them,’ said John.
There was a silence, each person dreading the prospect of another traverse on that sagging rope in the dark of the storm. We could hear the powder snow avalanches, soft yet menacing, swoosh down the face.
I was cold, frightened, and knew that under no circumstances did I want to leave the security and relative luxury of the snow hole.
‘I’ve only come this far as photographer, and I’ve done a hell of a lot more than that. I’m sorry, but I’m not going back over that traverse!’
Layton muttered something about his feet being bloody cold; then Dougal, without saying a word, swung himself out of the hole to make the dreaded traverse. We sat there, in the cave, silent – each held by his own special thoughts. Mine were of shame at my cowardice – guilt that I hadn’t volunteered – mingled with the relief of being still huddled in the snow, sheltered from wind and danger. As the time dragged by, John kept looking out of the entrance, shouting into the wind, but getting no reply. Then, at last, Dougal came back, fulfilled in the challenge he had accepted, in a state of peace that at that moment and for some time to come, Layton and I could not know.
John volunteered to get the other sack, and was back sooner, since Dougal had succeeded in tightening up the rope, thereby rendering the traverse much easier. At last we could have a brew, and we fumbled in snow-filled rucksacks for candle, matches and gas stove. Dougal lit the candle, tried to light the stove, but the cartridge appeared to be empty. He started unscrewing it; with a sudden whoosh, the gas, perhaps blocked in the jet, escaped. It ignited with a flash, and the whole cave seemed filled with fire. I was nearest the door, and the instincts of survival took over. Diving for the entrance, I only just stopped in time as I remembered there was a 3,000-foot drop on the other side. At the same time, John, with a great presence of mind, grabbed the blazing canister and hurled it through the entrance.
I received a dark look. At that moment my stock was very low. I have often thought back on this incident. No one enjoys memories of a situation which became too much for him, of panic in the face of an emergency when he reached that fragile borderline of giving up. Compare this with my reaction to the storm on the Brouillard – a situation which, in actual fact, was potentially more dangerous than this one on the Eiger. Then, I had been in control; on the Flat Iron I was not. It all comes back, I suspect, to one’s level of involvement and responsibility. In an emergency, I realised and felt I was just the cameraman – I did not intend to go to the top, having already opted out on grounds of risk, and therefore was all the more risk-conscious. John, on the other hand, behaved magnificently, reaching his own heroic stature to the full, and more, the depth of his involvement in the venture, his responsibility as leader. And so did Dougal, his involvement provided with a cutting edge of desire to explore the very extremities of his own potential.
Fortunately, the damage had been slight and the fireworks more spectacular than dangerous. We found a fresh cartridge, loaded it into the stove and in the early hours of the morning drank our first brew for nearly twenty hours. Then we all slumped into sleep, piled one on top of the other, like young wolves in a crowded lair. In the dawn, we could see the light glimmering through the walls of the snow cave. John poked an axe into the outer floor, and looked down through the hole it left. You could see Grindelwald – a good 8,000 feet below. We had burrowed our cave into the curling lip of a cornice, and the outer wall actually overhung the slope of the Third Ice-field!
It had dawned fine, once again. The Germans were already at work on a line of grooves that led up to a gully in the centre of the face.
Because of their greater logistic back-up, they had managed to get away early and stay out in front. We were going to have to find an alternative route if we were to avoid following them for the rest of the climb. The team now seemed poised for their summit bid. There was barely room for four in the snow hole, and I wanted to get my film back to Scheidegg, to send it to the Telegraph. There was little enough temptation to stay with the team and complete the climb with them. I don’t think it was the risk involved that really deterred me, though awareness of it was ever present – perhaps more so than I have experienced on another route, before or since. It was primarily my lack of personal involvement, combined with concentration upon the photographic coverage of the climb.
I left that morning for the valley, after taking a couple of final photographs of Layton and Dougal setting out across the Third Ice-field to climb a groove leading to a ledge system at the foot of the prominent pillar in the centre of the face. The most obvious way up was by a gully on its right-hand side, but the Germans were already installed in this. Dougal, however, was doubtful about its feasibility, for it was barred near its top by a huge bulge of unstable-looking snow. They resolved to return the next day, and attempt a traverse of the base of the pillar, across steep blank-looking rock, where they hoped to find an easier gully on its other side. But their hopes were to be dashed.
That evening the clouds rolled back over the face and by morning a full-blown storm was raging. We talked over the problem, on the walky-talky, with me sitting in comfort in Peter Gillman’s room at the Scheidegg hotel. The little radio crackled with static, and the voice of John Harlin was frequently smothered, as if it had been engulfed in spindrift.
‘Layton’s coming down this morning,’ he told us. ‘There’s no point in three of us staying up here. Dougal and I’ll sit it out. We can’t afford to let the Germans reach the top of the Pillar in front of us; we’ll never get in front if they do. Two of them seem to be staying up.’
The Next Horizon Page 20
