Neither Lachenal nor I would ever have suggested that artificial climbing was not difficult, or that it did not demand remarkable qualities: we just didn’t care for it. The thing we loved about climbing was the sensation of escaping from the laws of gravity, of dancing on space, which comes with technical virtuosity. Like the pilot or the skier, a man then feels freed from the condition of a crawling bug and becomes a chamois, a squirrel, almost a bird.
Far from evoking this feeling of mastery and ease, artificial climbing gives the reverse impression. Progress is slow, laborious, and due solely to mechanical subterfuges. Fettered to the rock, the climber feels thoroughly clumsy and fragile. Art, strokes of genius, have no place in his success, which is due only to hard labour. Nearly all the big Dolomite climbs involve long sessions of more or less artificial climbing, and quite apart from the fact that their scenery did not attract us, this alone would have been enough to put us off.
For precisely the same reason we never dreamt of trying the three or four then unclimbed faces of any amplitude in the western Alps. I would also add that in 1947 the all-out use of wooden wedges in cracks too wide for ordinary pitons was definitely ‘out’. At that time nobody dared to have recourse to such methods, but it was only due to their use that the west face and south-west pillar of the Petit Dru were eventually climbed.
Only two faces then still virgin could have provided us with adventures comparable in kind to the Eigerwand and the Walker, to wit, the north-east face of the Grand Dru and the north face direct of the Droites. If we had had a little more spare time during the summer season we would certainly have made all-out attempts on these. We did in fact bivouac at the foot of the Grand Dru twice, and I also made an attempt on the Droites with Tom de Booy, but on all these occasions we had no luck with the weather.
As for solo climbing, much practised by German climbers and certain Italian ‘sestogradists’, it makes certain techniques so difficult as to bring even the greatest aces down to the level where they are once again forced to fight hard and run major risks. This branch of the sport not only calls for absolute mastery but also an altogether unusual force of character, if not an actual kink. Lachenal and I never went in for it, for reasons less technical than moral. We frequently did not bother to rope up on difficult ground, and still more often climbed simultaneously, roped but not belayed. Theoretically, therefore, we should have been capable of doing difficult ascents solo. But Louis was an extremely sociable man, who hated being alone. Personally I often enjoy it, but in the mountains it makes me acutely conscious of nature’s threats, and I become quite incapable of getting up pitches which I would easily do unroped if I had some company.
In my view mountaineering is an essentially individual experience, and I have always considered absurd the opinion, voiced by some authors, that the forging of bonds of friendship is its primary motivation. If this were really so, why would anybody risk his life or exhaust himself on the most fearsome climbs? If friendship really needed any such catalyst the ascent of easy summits would serve as well. True, we encounter every summer, bands of happy warriors singing, guzzling and drinking their way up and down the ordinary routes, finding in the fresh air and exercise an incitement to ‘good fellowship’, but this temporary glow is no more real friendship than the same thing generated at a banquet or a party. It may indeed be that these feelings are genuinely the purpose of such outings, but in any case they are only a very minor form of mountaineering.
It is equally true that dangers and labours shared, as in war or on difficult climbs, may link men in a mutual esteem that over the years may deepen into genuine friendship. But friendships born of a particular situation have a way of fading once it is over, effaced by all the petty circumstance of life. Whatever the legends so carefully maintained by some, the mountaineering game is far from a garden of universal fraternity. It is simply that the dangers of the sport, together with the fact that it is carried on in little groups of two or three, create an environment favourable to human warmth, which therefore happens to be commoner, or perhaps I should say less rare, among climbers than among most other communities.
The majority of climbers are complete individualists. Dislikes and rivalries are common among them, and comparatively few go on climbing together year after year. Odder still, it is not unknown for two who positively dislike each other to climb together because the arrangement enables them to do the climbs they want.
Personally I hold friendship one of the most precious things in life, but like everything of real value it is rare. We do not become friends with just anybody simply because we happen to have shared danger or for that matter pleasure with him. It is a powerful emotion, like love, which has to be cultivated; and in the same way it becomes devitalised if given too often or too easily. I have felt a deep and enduring friendship for some of my mountain friends, especially Lachenal, and there is no doubt that climbing is a finer experience when done with such a person, but it would be stupid to pretend that it cannot be done otherwise. If so, it would soon become a rare activity. Anyone who hopes to do a lot of climbing cannot always pick and choose too carefully. It is interesting to reflect that the man who has become the great evangelist of climbing for friendship’s sake was at one time in the habit of climbing with the first comer.
I have always refused to go out with people I disliked, but circumstances have often forced me to do so with those who were indifferent to me. Their presence added nothing to my pleasure, and I would have enjoyed myself as much climbing on my own had I been capable of it. But some moral weakness which I have never properly understood has always made me incapable of climbing difficult rock on my own, and even unroped I need the presence of another human being.
In winter all climbs become much more difficult owing to the presence of snow, cold, wind, and the shortness of the hours of daylight. Anybody who wishes to do big ascents at this time of the year, without turning them into expeditions, runs even greater risks than on the most formidable walls in summer, but some climbers have thus found a way of satisfying their lust for battle. In many ways I share their enthusiasm, and yet, perhaps paradoxically, I would reproach them with carrying heroism too far. When wind and cold render conditions too inhuman as, for example, on Himalayan summits where the lack of oxygen enfeebles him, the climber’s technical capabilities are greatly reduced. The climbing therefore becomes extremely slow and he is robbed of that feeling of lightness and mastery which should be one of his main joys. But for all that I wish I had had the opportunity to do more winter mountaineering.
However great our passion for the mountains we cannot spend our entire lives climbing. I am so designed by nature that I have to train hard to keep up my standard, and in winter I have always been too taken up with racing and my work as a skiing instructor to spare the time for serious mountaineering. Lachenal, by contrast, had such natural gifts that he needed almost no practice to keep on form, and in consequence pulled a number of big winter ascents as it were out of a top hat.
As I remarked above, during the years which followed my ascent of the Eigerwand I devoted myself more completely to my profession. No doubt this was partly due to a material need, but also I think because my guiding was sufficiently enterprising to absorb a lot of my energy and courage, leaving little hunger for further adventure. The virtues of the profession have been much inflated in books and the Press, and it has become almost a cliché to call it ‘the most dedicated job in the world’, an empty phrase which I have also heard applied to medicine, aviation, seafaring, and even bicycle racing. In this women’s magazine-story type of literature the guide is always endowed with the most remarkable qualities: not only is his mountain skill positively superhuman, but he is brave, strong, good, honest and generous – a proper little plaster saint. Nothing could be more naive. By the mere fact of being a man no guide could possibly be such a paragon of the virtues. Alpine literature as a whole is, of course, astonishingly conventional, but on the subject
of guides it really surpasses itself. If an author isn’t lost in a rosy haze of folklore he usually gets completely carried away by his hero’s legendary reputation.
Personally I do not know of a single book which treats the subject in objective or even remotely credible fashion. It is quite true that the work calls for genuine physical and mental qualities, and that in order to succeed in it one must be reasonably tough, skilful, bold, and capable of devotion to duty. But whatever the old wives’ tales may say, it is by no means necessary to be either a saint or a champion.
Professional climbing has virtually nothing to do with what I call ‘grand alpinisme’; that is to say the passion, crazy or otherwise, for climbing the most improbable crags and peaks. Comparatively few guides go in for this kind of thing. Their work almost invariably involves them the whole time in much easier types of ascent, and it is in fact very difficult to combine the two because, since they both take place during the same short season, they cancel each other out. Guiding is poor practice for the extreme climbs, which demand a specialised and lengthy form of training, and in any case their motivation is so different that they require quite other qualities. Only a fortunate few, usually amateurs turned guide in order to live among the hills, manage to practise both arts satisfactorily, and even then one or the other usually becomes predominant after a few years.
The guide’s job is to teach people how to climb, or to lead those who, for one reason or another, cannot or do not wish to confront the dangers of the mountains without a mentor. Thus most of his clients are beginners, weak climbers, or persons whose age or occupation does not permit them to become really fit, but who nevertheless long for adventure among the splendours of the high hills. By definition such persons are incapable of doing the hardest climbs, even behind the most brilliant of guides.
In the majority of cases, therefore, the professional must resign himself to relatively simple ascents. His function is not to break records but to teach a skill, to enable tourists to do climbs which would otherwise be out of the question for them. It is no more relevant to expect a guide to be a virtuoso mountaineer than to expect a physical-training instructor to be a decathlon champion.
These facts are so basic that they are implied in the very regulations governing the profession. There is no need to have done a lot of hard climbs to obtain your diploma. The candidate simply has to have a good all-round experience of the mountains, and to be able to lead the classic routes quickly and safely. As for pure rock climbing, it is sufficient to be able to lead grade IV pitches without any trouble, a level attained by a great many amateurs. The only difficult part to master is necessary facility on mixed ground, snow and ice.
It will be obvious from all this that to become a guide does not call for any really exceptional qualities, and that it requires less tenacity and toughness than ‘grand alpinisme’. But this is far from saying that it is just another job, even in its more humdrum aspects on the ordinary routes. For those who practise it from conviction and love of the game it is still a genuinely noble profession.
Up on the mountain, at the head of his party, the guide is still sole captain under God. He may be poor and in some sense a manual worker, but in his hands he holds the lives and trust of men. To be master of life and death is the privilege of kings, and few influential men dispose of such power. It is the same responsibility that surrounds pilots and ships’ captains with their especial glamour. The guide lives in an environment of majesty and splendour where the pettiness and malice of society have no meaning, and it is rare to find one who has failed to absorb something of the largeness of his surroundings. The plaster saint of legend is of course equally rare, but at least you will practically never find a guide with the mentality of a lackey, a tendency which circumstances might well have encouraged.
Like any other human activity, professional mountaineering attracts all sorts: there are good guides and bad guides. The most brilliant technically are by no means always the best at their job. For its proper conduct the work calls more for moral qualities than physical dexterity, and this primacy of mind over matter is one of its main claims to dignity. One of its most attractive sides is, after all, the giving of happiness. A good guide must possess the considerateness to create an atmosphere in which his client can savour his pleasures to the full. Dedication is required not only to aid other mountaineers in distress, but more immediately to help a client to surmount his own weakness. Patience is a necessity, to put up with moving all day at a snail’s pace without irritation. Psychological insight plays its part in bringing the tired and discouraged client safely to the journey’s end. And only a steady courage can face up day after day to the risks which even the simplest climbs involve in such circumstances.
This does not exhaust the list of necessary qualities. To become and remain a guide, one must have a quite exceptional taste for physical effort, without which no man would be able to continue doing climbs of ten, twelve, fourteen hours, or even more every day in the season. Considerable ingenuity is required to devise ways of avoiding wasted time and effort, and also to make the best profit out of a season replete with activity but terribly restricted in time.
The ordinary routes will always be the daily bread of guiding, but a man with the right qualities has a chance of raising the standard of his work, and a few may even get the opportunity to do some of the great climbs in a professional capacity.
Comparatively few mountaineers have the ability to do the big climbs, even as seconds, and those who do are mostly gifted youngsters either living close to the hills or, as in the case of undergraduates, disposing of ample holidays. Climbing is their major passion and they give all their spare time to it. By intensive practice they quickly acquire considerable technique and experience, and the best among them are then able to undertake the great routes. These young enthusiasts rarely have enough money to consider engaging a guide, or, if they do, they generally prefer to climb with other amateurs. Many feel that the presence of a guide, whose technical mastery is a foregone conclusion and who knows every inch of the mountain, robs the sport of precisely that spice of adventure which is its main motivation. A good many also find such efficient help mortifying to their pride.
Mountaineering is a young man’s pastime. Marriage, careers and growing responsibilities account for the gradual retirement of a good three-quarters of those who take it up. A few, however, are so possessed by it that they continue throughout their prime and even their entire lives. Desk jobs, age and lack of training soon reduce the abilities even of the best, but simultaneously, by the same token, their financial means tend to increase. Some climbers, in growing older, find all the happiness they need in simple contact with the hills, and are quite content to do progressively easier climbs. After all, if growing skill makes adventure harder to come by, the reverse must also hold good. But others are so taken with the majesty of the greatest routes and summits that they want to keep on frequenting them, and such men, when they have the means, do not hesitate to hire the services of a good guide.
A professional lucky enough to cross the path of such a client thus gets the chance to raise the level and interest of his work; occasionally he may even find a phenomenon with whom the greatest climbs can be attempted. But these are few and far between: in France for example, there are no more than a few dozen for the big climbs, and hardly any for the greatest. In fact very few of the really top-class ascents have been done by guided parties – the Walker once, the Eigerwand twice, the right-hand Pillar of Fresnay once, the north-east face of the Badile two or three times, the east face of the Capucin three or four, the north face of the Triolet twice. Up to the present none of the three severe routes on the Drus and practically none on the sesto-superiore climbs in the eastern Alps have been done by professionals climbing as such.[2]
Fortunately there is also another category of capable clients, namely that of naturally gifted persons who begin their climbing days with a guide and remain faithfu
l to him as their own powers increase, whether out of habit, prudence or friendship. I have had several such, notably my Dutch friends and clients De Booy and Egeler, who I think constitute a unique case in modern mountaineering. They first obtained my services by the ‘first come, first served’ system of the Chamonix Bureau des Guides, at a time when they were still more or less beginners. By gradual progress we reached the point of doing several of the hardest ice climbs in the Alps together. Still more extraordinary (and only known once before in the annals of French guiding) they took me with them overseas, where we conquered some of the last unclimbed summits in the Andes.[3]
In recent years the opening up of practice crags close to the big centres of population has considerably improved the normal rock climbing standard of clients, but in spite of that all guides lumped together probably do not carry out above a dozen unusual climbs in any given season – and the majority of those will be done by two or three specialists. The restriction is imposed quite as much by economic as by technical considerations. A guide is working for his living, and even if he has other sources of income at other seasons he has a right to expect a just remuneration for his toil and danger. The shortness of the season, the instability of the weather, and above all the fact that his money has to come from quite a small number of people, make his remuneration precarious and slight, relative to his perils, qualifications and responsibilities. Taking all these factors into account, the earnings of a guide on the great climbs are derisory compared with, for example, those of an airline pilot.
Still, the price of guided climbing may seem high when it is considered that it must be borne by one or two people at a time. Quite a lot of people can afford the tariffs for the simpler, classic ascents – among my clients I have had a carpenter, a garage mechanic, and a number of school teachers – but for the bigger climbs the cost is too high for most, so that even those who would like to do them and have the ability must give up hope of realising their dreams. And yet the guides do not make much out of it. A big climb takes two or three days instead of one, and the effort they call for makes it essential to have a rest in between. Unlike ordinary routes, they can only be embarked on in perfectly settled conditions, which may entail further loss of time. Financially speaking, it is better to do a climb every day at a fee of a hundred new francs than to make a killing of three or four hundred every now and again. For this reason alone, then, a great many guides do not particularly push their clients into attempting anything very outstanding.
Conquistadors of the Useless Page 26
