Conquistadors of the Useless

by Roberts, David, Terray, Lionel, Sutton, Geoffrey

  On another occasion I was doing the south-east ridge of Mont Maudit with one of my oldest clients, then about fifty-eight. The mountain was in poor condition and our progress had been proportionately slow. In the early afternoon, as we approached the neighbourhood of the summit, the storm broke. Needles of flame stood on the pompoms of our woollen hats and I felt the old familiar panic which the presence of lightning always inspires in me. After a few minutes the storm passed over, but the mountain remained enveloped in cloud. Before long a violent wind sprang up, whipping the snow into our faces and plastering our goggles. We started down in an absolute blizzard.

  Now the ordinary route, which we were descending, consists of huge, steep snow slopes, interrupted here and there by ice walls and bars of séracs. Even in fine weather the route is hard to pick out on such featureless ground. This state of affairs being exacerbated by the cloud and the driving snow, it taxed all my local knowledge to find the way. Unfortunately my companion had bad eyesight, and with his goggles all plastered up he was practically blind. As is proper in descent he was going down first, but I soon realised that even when I shouted instructions to him he had lost the power to move steadily in a given direction; instead, he was zigzagging all over the place.

  However we had to get moving if we were not to be frozen to death. The only solution seemed to be for me to go first, keeping my client on a short rope. By a cruel stroke of fate the slope, which was quite steep, was packed hard with the ice bulging through in places. The cramponning was delicate in such conditions, and an exhausted and half-blinded client seemed likely to slip at any moment. The reader can imagine my state of mind throughout this descent, peering through the thick cloud to seek the way and at the same time trying to keep an eye on my second lest he should suddenly shoot into me from behind and knock me over with the twenty spikes of his crampons.

  In point of fact I have only had about a score of clients in my whole career who were really competent, and no more than three or four who could follow anywhere I could lead. One of these, a German-Swiss, gave me an unusual and amusing experience. Normally he never climbed with a guide, but as his friend had been injured he engaged me in order not to waste the end of his holiday. We set out for the Mer de Glace face of the Grépon, a well-known classic which is, in fact, quite long and difficult. Going up to the little Tour Rouge hut the evening before, already about a quarter of the way up the face, I had quickly noticed his astonishing facility.

  In the morning I set a brisk pace from the outset, and since my client appeared to have no difficulty in keeping up I soon pulled out all the stops. Every so often I would turn round to see how he was getting on, and always he would be just behind me, smiling and not even out of breath. Once or twice, for form’s sake, I asked:

  ‘All right? Not too fast?’

  And each time he replied:

  ‘No, no. It’s going fine.’

  Now and again he would pause for a moment to take a quick photograph, manipulating the camera with extraordinary dexterity. As the going got harder and we had to climb pitch by pitch the pace hardly slowed up at all. By the time I had turned round at the top of the pitch he would already be some way up it, climbing like a squirrel, and a few seconds later he would rejoin me. We reached the summit three and a half hours after leaving the hut, an hour and a half sooner than my fondest hopes, including halts for some twenty-odd photographs.

  It was 8.30 a.m. I felt on tremendous form, my client was climbing like an aeroplane, and we had plenty of time to do another ascent. I suggested traversing the west face of the Blaitière to the foot of the south ridge of the Fou, then rounding off the day by doing the ridge. It was an unconventional and even rather far-fetched idea, but it struck me as amusing and it would make a wonderful gallop. To my vast disappointment, my Switzer replied mildly:

  ‘Oh! No, monsieur Terray, I’m not at all interested in ideas of that sort. I’ve never climbed as fast as that before, and I found it great fun, but that’s enough for one day. What I like about mountaineering is being in touch with nature and looking at the scenery. Anyway, the weather’s perfect, and since you’re engaged for the day we’ll just stay here until noon.’

  If guiding an ascent is always more or less of an adventure, the organisation of a professional season is equally fascinating. During a prolonged fine spell the effort required is often just as great as on the hardest climbs. There is of course no actual obligation to accept every engagement or to tire oneself out, and some people may suppose that the sole motivation for doing such things is financial, yet I think I can honestly say that this has not been the case. It has been more like a sort of game in which the only rule was to do all that was humanly possible. In point of fact I have hardly ever voluntarily taken a rest day during the season; on the contrary, I have sometimes got so close to the end of my tether that I have only been saved by bad weather, as a boxer by the gong.

  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. Translator’s n
ote. The number is now eleven.[back]

  2. Translator’s note. Though often by professionals climbing as amateurs.[back]

  3. Translator’s note. And now also in the Himalayas.[back]

  4. Translator’s note. The heroine of a romantic novel about French Canada.[back]

  5. ‘C’est bien malheureux’ = ‘How unfortunate’ or ‘bad luck’. ‘Ce n’est pas mal’ = ‘not bad’ or ‘not bad at all’.[back]

  6. Translator’s note. This list now includes Nilgiri in the Himalayas.[back]

  7. Translator’s note. The palm has now passed to the central Pillar, climbed in 1961 by Whillans, Bonington, Clough and Djuglosz.[back]

  – Chapter Seven –

  Annapurna

  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.[1]

  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.[2] 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 th
e 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.