6

Cracked Alpinist

AFTER YEARS OF hillwalking in the UK, the Alps came as a shock. I knew they were big mountains but, naïve as ever, I’d never expected them to look that big. My partner Christine and I refused to be intimidated. After all, we were there because they were big. We wanted to grab some altitude.

If 3,000ft (914m) was the cut-off point for what was deemed to be a mountain in Scotland, we decided that 3,000m would serve as an Alpine equivalent. As in the UK, there are many excellent mountains below this threshold but, with the limited time available to us during a fortnight’s summer holiday, 3,000ers were the challenge we set ourselves.

The traditional way to reach a high Alpine peak is from a refuge (hut) strategically placed within reach of the summit, but first you have to reach the hut and we were loath to use up an extra day of precious holiday time in order to do so. Instead, we would climb from valley to summit in a single day by setting off really early. A 2,000m ascent would be accomplished by a brisk 1,000m hike up to a refuge for breakfast, followed by a further 1,000m ascent to the summit after that.

In this manner, over several summers, we worked our way down the French Alps to the Riviera, climbing 3,000ers region by region as we went. Travel constraints and technical difficulty put many of the high peaks out of reach, but there remained more than enough to keep us happy.

Then one year we decided we needed to get even higher and climb a 4,000er, which raised a whole new set of problems. At high altitude, snow conditions have a far greater diurnal range than on British mountains. Frozen overnight snow thaws sufficiently during the day to cause rockfall. A refuge-based nighttime start would be necessary. Altitude would also be a problem.

Above all, we would be limited by our moderate ability to manage roped snow and ice work. We weren’t seasoned Alpinists. We were humble but ambitious hillwalkers. We needed a peak that more experienced mountaineers would dismiss as too easy. We found it in the Ecrins National Park.

At 4,102m, the Barre des Écrins towers over the two-mile long Glacier Blanc (White Glacier), beside which the Refuge des Écrins provides an overnight base. The Barre itself sports a difficult summit ridge that was beyond our capabilities but, next to it, across a shallow col, no more than a shoulder really, was the rounded top of the 4,015m Dôme de Neige des Écrins. Even the name appealed. The Snow Dome. And so it came to pass that, one morning in the summer of 1982, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Christine and I set off from our valley campsite near the village of Ailefroide to embark on the great adventure.

The first day involved a 700m ascent to the Refuge du Glacier Blanc followed by a further 500m ascent to the Refuge des Écrins. A good trail led to the first refuge, which marked the turnaround point for day hikers. Above here, the going became tougher as the trail climbed around the séracs (ice cliffs) that formed the snout of the Glacier Blanc. Then the trail took to the glacier itself. An almost level surface made for easy going, but the numerous crevasses that had to be jumped certainly kept the mind focussed.

It was hard to believe we were already above 3,000m, yet great peaks rose even higher all around us. With the valley and the crowds behind us, we were entering the silent realm of what an old guidebook called the Abode of the Snows. Only now did the scale and seriousness of what we were attempting truly begin to dawn on us.

The Refuge des Écrins was perched on a rock bluff above the glacier, giving a perfect view across to the wedge-shaped Barre and Dôme – a single mountain with two tops separated by the shallow col that was our first objective. The white wall of snow and ice that formed the north face, and which would be our ascent route, looked incredibly steep.

Our evening meal at the refuge consisted of multifarious dehydrated substances, rehydrated with hot water purchased from the hut guardian. Lights-out was at 9.30pm. We were allotted spaces in the ‘5.30 dorm’, on a wide bunk bed alongside a motley crew of fellow climbers. It was hot and stuffy, the snoring was industrial and someone was sick, either from wine or altitude. The whole experience was so surreal that at one point Christine was overcome by a fit of the giggles.

Sleeping in such conditions was obviously a skill we did not possess, but in any case we were roused from our bed two hours early when the hardened Alpinists of the ‘3.30 dorm’ turned the refuge into a noisy hive of activity. Sleepily, we forced down some breakfast and ventured outside into the freezing night air. Somewhere up there in the darkness was our summit. 3,000ft to go. No more than a Munro, we said with little conviction.

The snow trail made by earlier parties led across the glacier and made routefinding simple. We trudged along half-asleep, clinging to our ice axes, head torches picking out boot prints. Then the sun rose and the world transformed. The snow glowed pink then sparkled brilliant white. We became specks in a vast landscape from which all colour had been drained. Only an occasional black rock face broke the dazzling brightness. The Barre and Dôme appeared above us, mist playing around their summits.

At the foot of the north face, layers of clothes came off and sunglasses replaced torches. Like the parties in front of us, we donned crampons and roped up. Experienced Alpinists routinely move together on steep ground but, for extra protection, we moved one at a time from belay to belay. For further reassurance, I was using a short 50ft length of rope to keep Christine close. I would lead a rope length, thrust my ice axe into the snow and use it as a belay to bring her up, then use her ice axe as a belay while I led the next section.

The Barre des Ecrins (left) and the Dôme de Neige (right)

In this manner, we made slow but insistent progress up the face. The slope was continuously steep and increasingly exposed. The trail threaded a way over crevasses and around séracs. Every step required concentration, balance, precision. We breathed hard in the thin air. Some of the crevasses required an extra burst of effort to launch oneself from the lower near side to the higher far side. For us, this was serious stuff.

The route climbed directly towards the Barre then cut diagonally right beneath the summit ridge towards the col between the foot of the ridge and the Dôme. By the time we reached this traverse, the snow was beginning to soften and slabs of ice, some of them dislodged by climbers on the ridge above, whizzed past us. Now I understood why helmets, which we didn’t possess, were a good idea. Considering the altitude, we made surprisingly short work of that traverse.

All that separated us from the summit now was a short snow arête. And suddenly we were there. The mist that had hovered around the summit all morning cleared for a while to open up the view, as though the mountain gods realised we needed confirmation of where we were. It was indeed true. Somehow, we had done it. We were standing at the summit of an Alpine 4,000er.

The next day, we sat dazed in a café in Ailefroide, scarcely able to believe our success. But we had proof. Fortunately or otherwise, to dispel all doubt, the climb had bequeathed to us a memento. To avoid high-altitude sunburn, we had lathered all exposed skin with triple layers of sunscreen, but there was one part of our bodies that we had failed to realise needed even more protection: our lips. They were now as cracked and crevassed as the Glacier Blanc.

I cannot tell you how painful the next few days were. No ointment could soothe the sting. Talking was difficult through lips cemented into a pout. Smiling was agony. Eating solid food was impossible. All we could manage was soup, sucked through a straw.

But would we have swapped our achievement for relief? No chance. Tight-mouthed and pinched we may have looked, but inside we glowed like the sun-kissed morning snows, and next time we would know better. The more passers-by looked at us with pity, the more we bore our discomfort as a badge of honour. We pitied them back because they had not seen what we had seen. The pain would go. Memories of the Abode of the Snows would stay with us forever.