Conquistadors of the Useless

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

  Sketch-map of south-western Nepal. The dotted line shows the route taken by the expedition to Makalu. (Heights are given in metres.)

  The Makalu massif. (Heights are given in metres.)

  Map of Peru.

  A sketch of Jannu from the south-east, showing the route taken on the first attempt. (Heights are given in metres.)

  – Postscript –

  Towards the end of this book it must have seemed to the reader that my personality was changing, that the springs of my energy were gradually drying up as a result of too-numerous adventures and incessant activity, that the philosopher was gaining the upper hand over the man of action. The tone of the last pages gives an impression that, in accepting leadership of the second Jannu expedition, I was thinking of it as a sort of swan song to be followed by progressive retirement into a more peaceful way of life.

  Nothing could have been farther from the truth. 1962 was in fact the most active and important year of my whole career.

  No sooner had I finished writing Conquistadors of the Useless in July than I began the guiding season. In September I went to Paris to undertake the enormous administrative burden of organising a large-scale expedition. Everything was going well when, in November, a ledge gave way under me while climbing on the Saussois (a limestone crag some hundred and twenty miles south-east of Paris) and I fell thirty feet, breaking six ribs and perforating the pleura. The doctors at the hospital condemned me to bed for a month. It seemed that if I was lucky I might be able to go with the Jannu expedition as far as base camp, but that any idea of taking part in the assault was out of the question.

  No doubt this was a correct prognosis for a typical social security subscriber, but a guide’s life is not like that. Three days later I spent four hours dictating letters, and five days after that I left hospital altogether, against all the best advice, to take up my task again in spite of a good deal of pain.

  Despite the delay caused by this accident, the expedition was ready on schedule. Bigger and better equipped than its predecessor, it set out for the mountain at the beginning of March. Base Camp was pitched on the 19th. The team of ten climbers and thirty picked Sherpas was technically very strong, and armed with the previous year’s experience they carried out the attack with such address that Camp Six was set up by April 18th, a full fortnight in advance of our most optimistic predictions.

  At first I was so fatigued from the accident and the weeks of overwork that I could only co-ordinate and direct, but as the days went by I began to feel better. As soon as Camp Three had been pitched I began climbing again, and by April 15th I was once more happily at the front of one of the assault teams. Two days later I led and fixed ropes up a large part of the steep ice face between Camps Five and Six. On the 26th, although my oxygen apparatus was not working properly, I was able to lead for most of the barrier of rock slabs that had stopped us the year before. Twenty-four hours later four of my team-mates finally reached the summit which so many Himalayan mountaineers had thought inaccessible, and in the next couple of days seven other Sherpa and French climbers, including myself, stood on its ideally pure point.

  We got back to France at the beginning of June, and less than a month later I was on my way to Peru. This time our objective was the redoubtable east peak of Chacraraju, a dream I had been cherishing for six years. From the summit of the west peak in 1956, which is some three hundred feet higher, we had been able to pick out every detail of this apparently unclimbable arrowhead of rock and ice. So formidable did it seem that after our success on the higher summit we abandoned the idea of attempting it, and fell back instead upon the more modest Taulliraju.

  Shortly afterwards I was to write: ‘The east peak of Chacraraju will call for the undivided attention of an extremely strong party.’ This proved to be no exaggeration, for subsequently several expeditions of various nationalities which had gone to Peru with the mountain as their express object retired discomfited at the mere sight of it. Our group, of which the leadership had been confided to me, was organised by Claude Maillard and contained several highly expert climbers, of whom the best-known was perhaps Guido Magnone. By virtue of my previous Andean experience, and the fact that I was still in excellent trim from the Jannu expedition, I was able to remain in the forefront of operations for three weeks without intermission. Our route up the east face and north-east ridge was both severe and sustained. The last couple of thousand feet in particular were extreme, mainly on ice but also occasionally on rock, and this at an altitude where even the fittest of men are somewhat handicapped. Naturally, it was a very slow business, and on certain days the party in front would not succeed in surmounting two hundred feet. The route was in fact so tortuous that we had to fix six and a half thousand feet of rope to climb a vertical height of only two and a half thousand. Lengthy and exhausting as the task was, it brought its reward on 8th August when five of us attained the delicate ice fretwork of the summit. The following day, thanks to our fixed ropes, I visited it a second time with our film photographer, Jean-Jacques Languepin, and four more of the party reached it within the next twenty-four hours.

  1962 held yet another adventure in store. After ten years of groundwork my Dutch friends Egeler and De Booy had succeeded in getting afoot an expedition to the Himalayas, and by mid-September I was on my way to join them in Nepal. As always, their aims were both sporting and scientific, the climbing group consisting of five Dutch mountaineers led by myself. Our objective was Nilgiri, a fine mountain of 23,950 feet close to Annapurna, whence we had seen it in 1950.

  I caught up with them at the end of September, after a long forced march, at the last village before the mountain. After some rapid reconnaissances we decided to attack the north face. This was consistently steep and looked difficult in its central part, but it was sheltered from the prevailing winds and relatively safe from objective hazards. Some serious rock obstacles were swiftly overcome, and Camp Two was installed on a terrace just under 20,000 feet. Our lack of Sherpas obliged all of us to undertake some heavy portering work to stock the camp as quickly as possible. Above, our way lay up and across a very steep ice slope, an obstacle it took us no less than six days to surmount and equip with fixed ropes despite its mere 1,200 feet. Camp Three was eventually placed on the final ridge at around 21,300 feet. The last lap offered no particular difficulty, and we climbed it in a little over half a day. It was on the 26th October, a day of icy gales, that the three brothers Van Lookeren Campagne and the Sherpa Wongdi stood with me on the summit, gazing across at the north face of Annapurna.

  The first ascent of Nilgiri was not in the same class as those of Jannu and Chacraraju East, but it was quite serious enough for all that; and it was the first time in the history of mountaineering that one man had led three major expeditions to success in the course of one year, in three distinct ranges and on two continents.

  – Appendix One –

  The Ascent of Mount Huntington

  It was when I saw some of Bradford Washburn’s superb photographs in an alpine periodical that I realised what a magnificent field of activity the Mount McKinley chain would be for enthusiasts for ‘big-scale’ climbing. I began at once to brood upon the possibilities of climbing one of its summits. Thus, from 1955, I was in communication with Bradford Washburn as well as Bob Bates, Fred Beckey and other American mountaineers.

  It very soon became apparent to me that, although some very great routes were still to be opened up on McKinley, Foraker and even Hunter, nevertheless all the really important peaks of Alaska had already been done.

  This was a serious obstacle to bringing a French expedition into being. In fact, in France it is extremely difficult to focus interest in the first ascent of a face, no matter how fine and difficult it might be. Luckily, thanks to the photos sent me by friendly American climbers, it seemed that despite its quite modest altitude Mount Huntington was a very fine summit, both spectacular and difficult, and perfec
tly worthy of justifying an expensive transatlantic trip.

  I was much occupied with other projects for the next few years. Each autumn I felt a real sense of relief when letters from America informed me that Huntington was still unconquered. After our success on Jannu in 1962, the expeditions committee of the Federation Française de la Montagne put major enterprises to one side and concentrated on objectives of relatively low altitude but presenting some major technical difficulties. Mount Huntington fitted into this framework exactly and 1964 was ideal for an attempt. Thus my Alaska project became a national undertaking directly organised by the F.F.M., and in the event of a rapid success on Huntington, we also had freedom to attempt another climb – the south face of Mount McKinley or the ‘Moose’s Tooth’.

  On the 28th of April, 1964, Jacques Soubis and I disembarked at Anchorage airport with about a ton and a half of equipment and foodstuffs. On the 5th of May the six other members of the expedition arrived and on the next day the picturesque Fairbanks train took us to Talkeetna. It was raining when we arrived and the streets of this minute village were made practically impassable by mud and melting snow. Luckily, after twenty-four depressing hours of waiting the weather cleared. It was now the job of the famous ‘bush pilot’, Don Sheldon, to deposit us on the Ruth Glacier, exactly at the foot of the north-east face of Mount Huntington.

  The mountains were as big and majestic as the finest Himalayan peaks. Unfortunately, the thermometer stuck resolutely at about minus-twenty-five degrees Celsius and the wind was raising enormous swirls of powder snow. In such conditions, setting up base camp took place in the heroic circumstances of a polar expedition.

  I recalled my experiences of Patagonian storms and was haunted by the idea that this wind, which was already blowing so strongly, could turn into a hurricane, capable of carrying our tents away. Prudently, I had an igloo built in which we could take refuge in case of need.

  The weather stayed clear, but very cold and windy. We planned to attack the steep glacier slope that led to the north-west arête.

  A first party began its ascent in a couloir threatened to some extent by a barrier of séracs; the snow was fearfully deep, and the men sank into it to mid-thigh, so that progress was very slow. As they moved forward the climbers cleared the route and equipped it with fixed ropes to make later trips safer and quicker. The four exhausted men reached the foot of the terminal couloir and, having established a depot for equipment descended at once.

  Next day (the 10th of May) Paul Gendre, Marc Martinetti, Maurice Gicquel and Jacques Batkin were the first to leave. They carried only light loads so as to climb quite quickly and thus have the time to ascend and equip the last couloir. Jean-Louis Bernezat, Sylvain Sarthou, Jacques Soubis and I followed, carrying what were virtual mule loads.

  We ascended the first couloir slowly, dragging ourselves up the fixed ropes with the help of jumars, those metallic grips with a spring clip which, once placed on the rope, block themselves perfectly when pulled upon, but slide effortlessly when pushed upwards.

  The wind blew in biting squalls and the first party’s track was already almost effaced. Soubis led; his face taut with the struggle, he stamped the deep snow with all the surliness of a southerner. Suddenly I heard an anguished cry and almost simultaneously the whole central part of the couloir began to slide away. I realised in a flash that a sheet of wind-slab had just broken loose. Luckily Jacques had been able to keep his grip of the fixed rope and Jean-Louis, Sylvain and I were at that moment on the edge of the couloir so that the avalanche passed within a few inches without throwing us off balance.

  It took us a few minutes to recover from the excitement and discuss the event. But we all knew that, although the conquest of a great summit can produce moments of excitement and happiness unequalled in the monotonous materialistic life of modern times, it can also produce moments of great danger. To seek out danger is not the object of high mountaineering, but it is one of the experiences that have to be endured in order to deserve the pleasure of raising oneself for an instant above the state of ‘crawling larvae’.

  Bending under our loads we set out again on the route to the summit. After about six hours we joined the first group on the arête. Overlooking an immense rock face nearly 7,000 feet high, the whole north-west ridge of Mount Huntington was revealed to us. Edged with cornices that were sometimes gigantic, and sometimes carved with all the delicacy of lace, this arête seemed very much larger than we had imagined. It rose towards the summit in four distinct steps.

  The small shoulder on which we stood was quite suitable for setting up a camp, but there was no protection from the wind. At such a spot, in the event of a hurricane, life could be hell and there would be a risk, especially, of the tents being torn away. Without hesitation, I decided that we must dig a cave.

  We set to work without delay. The snow turned out to be very hard and had to be cut with ice axes. The work had progressed slowly and late in the afternoon we were forced to go down to Base Camp.

  The next day we set off again very early, carrying enormous sacks. The wind had fallen and, the track remaining good, we got to our destination about ten in the morning. By working all day like madmen we succeeded in digging a cave deep enough for four of us to sleep in. After a rough night, Martinetti, Gicquel, Soubis and I attacked the arête. For more than an hour and a half we followed a long and relatively easy crest, and at last reached the first big step.

  Thirty yards over a slope of hard ice led us to the foot of a forbidding wall. At first Martinetti and Gicquel climbed a hard ice pitch. Soubis and I followed, placing the fixed ropes and enlarging the steps.

  After two rope lengths hardly less difficult we came to a halt at a rock wall some sixty feet high. Gicquel passed into the lead. The holds were all more or less covered with snow, so it was with great difficulty that he climbed to the bottom of an overhang which he overcame with the help of seven or eight pitons. But he emerged on to a verglas-covered slab and, lacking crampons, could climb no further and descended. I jumared up to the high point and finished the pitch. Soubis joined me and we continued along the corniced arête. Luckily the ice was covered with a thin film of hard snow, then, despite the steepness of the slope, I was able to climb two more rope lengths without step-cutting.

  On our return to Camp One we found the cave considerably enlarged by the rest of the party. This time there was room for six of us to stretch out and only Sarthou and Batkin went down to Base Camp.

  When I went out at about one in the morning to inspect the weather, it was snowing and the wind was blowing violently. There was nothing to do but return to the warmth of my duvet. During the hours that ensued the weather did not improve and we stayed all day in the cave.

  Our life there began to be organised: to the right of the entrance was the cooker and shelves of provisions; on the left was the sleeping accommodation where we could all stretch out on a carpet of plastic foam. Since in order to see clearly we were obliged to leave the door open, the temperature inside remained around minus-eight to minus-ten degrees Celsius, which detracted somewhat from the comfort of this excellent hotel!

  During the following night the snow stopped but a polar cold prevailed which a strong wind made almost unbearable. Despite these conditions, four of us left at about 3.30 a.m. With the help of the fixed ropes, we soon regained our high point. From there a delicate traverse on the west face and the ascent of a couloir-chimney led us to the snow saddle that separated the first and second steps. Seen from a distance the second step had looked very forbidding, but at close range it was even less attractive ... it was a horribly steep ice slope, the whole upper part of which was of black ice.

  This proved the key pitch of the ascent of Mount Huntington and only succumbed after an enormous amount of step cutting. After another night in the snow cave Batkin, Sarthou, Soubis and I arrived early to work on this obstacle. I attacked at once. The bergschrund was quickly crossed and although
the slope above was very steep, it was covered with good hard snow and was climbed quickly. An almost vertical step forced me to traverse diagonally to the right. After a few yards I came upon solid ice, but what ice! It was as smooth as a mirror and as hard as glass. I have never met ice like it. In accordance with the technique taught me by my master, Armand Charlet, I progressed methodically, holding my axe in both hands and cutting big but widely spaced steps. It is certainly the only way to make long hours of step cutting possible without excessive fatigue.

  Every ten yards or thereabouts I fixed an ice peg, to which I attached the six millimetre line which I drew along behind me and which served afterwards as a fixed rope. The threaded pegs, which are usually so easy to use, refused to penetrate the Huntington ice. Fortunately I had some tubular pegs too and, by hammering them furiously, I was able to drive them in firmly.

  All would have gone well if it had not been so cold and especially if the wind had been less violent. I had never made a difficult climb in such conditions! The wind tore at my face and I was ceaselessly unbalanced by the gusts. My feet were icy in spite of the Himalayan gaiters and felted boots.

  A bulge, which for several metres sloped at an angle of about seventy degrees, slowed my progress for a moment. At last, at the extremity of the rope, I reached a rock where I was able to stop quite conveniently. Sylvain quickly joined me – his fine, clear blue eyes showed his joy but he was too frozen to smile.

  About thirty yards of verglassed rocks led us to the base of an extremely steep slope of glittering dark green ice.

  After forty yards of the roughest spell of step-cutting that I have ever experienced, I was able to reach a small rock islet. The slope was now a little less steep. Sixty feet above me I saw the edge of the arête which seemed covered with usable snow. We could have continued but our supply of fixed rope was now exhausted and, moreover, we were worn out by the really inhuman wind and cold. With one accord we let ourselves down the ropes.