Goutier Hut

I didn’t sleep much.

The situation with Chris had kept me awake for most of the night. It kept tumbling around in my head. I wanted him to summit and also have the best chance of doing so. At about 3am I thought I had come up with an excuse for swapping the pairings. If I failed to summit, then I would have to sit opposite Steve everyday at work. It would put pressure on a friendship that has spanned 35 years. Why would I want a mountain to jeopardize that? I am first to admit that our relationship has often been volatile, in a kind of competitive brotherly way. I just didn’t know how failure on this scale would affect us. I decided to offer this solution, to two problems, when I awoke in the morning. The only problem left to me was how adamant I should be. Afterall, I wanted to get to the top also.

I brought the subject up and Chris seemed to understand, but almost immediately dismissed the idea. Instead, he insisted that whatever happened over the next few days we would not, under any circumstances, allow it to affect any of our relationships. We made a pact over this.

We ate breakfast, there wasn’t much discussion over the task ahead, but there was an underlying buzz of excitment mixed with trepidation.

Pascal arrived in a bit of a panic. His car wouldn’t start so he had to get a friend to give us a lift to the cable car in the next town. Not an easy thing to ask anyone at 6am I guess.

We arrived in time for the first cable car of the day and were soon riding high above forests and mountain. We disembarked and took a short walk, passed a crazy golf course, to the high level train stop that would carry us another 700m up the mountain. After a series of switchbacks we pulled into a tiny ramshackle station. I was surprised at how many climbers got off, obviously with the same goal as us. There must have been at least 100.

Pascal set an early pace and the three of us were soon well ahead of the others. I wasn’t sure if I could maintain this all the way to the Goutier Hut. I put my head down and concentrated on my breathing. My legs were already beginning to ache.

After 45mins we reached an open area graced by a small hut. I assumed that this was the Tete Rousse hut and we had made really good time, turns out I was way of the mark. The path up to now had been no different to any rocky approach you would find in Scotland. We also passed a herd of smelly Alpine goats on the way, who seemed to have little fear of us. I wanted take a picture but the pace was relentless.

The path opened up, at the hut, to a small plateau before gradually steepening to a weaving series of switchbacks. We saw for the first time the days destination. Several hundred metres up, perched on the top of a cloud sat the Goutier. Only a solid wall of rock stood before us, about 800m straight up.

To our right lay a big, almost vertical snow slope which the Tete Rousse Hut sat upon. We climbed around the edge of this slope, emerging to the opposite side of the hut. We stopped for the first time, to harness up and have a bite to eat.

5mins later we were on our way again. We skirted around the snow field which was littered with stones, ranging in size from that of a basket ball to a bullet. Luckily we passed by without the mountain shaking any missiles down upon us.

At the other side, we roped up. The Grande Couloire lay ahead of us. 100m’s of firing zone. We had to traverse this rock and gravel strewn slope and avoid the almost inevitable rock falls. We had heard many reports of fatalities and serious injuries occurring here. The area could turn into a lethal trap, if crossed at a time when the mountain became angry. We put our heads down and hurried across, occassionally glancing up, half expecting to hear the droning whine of rock bulleting towards us. We were almost over when we heard a shout from above, I braced myself and my eyes darted about, trying to find the source of the clatter. I spotted a few rocks sliding to our right, nowhere near us, as they bounced a few metres and settled harmlessly. I have still never seen a rockfall and Im thankful of that statistic.

After the Couloire we began to scramble, straight up. I was beginning to notice my irregular breathing at this stage, I could’t maintain steady deep breathes for long. Evidently, the first signs of thinning air. Thankfully, the change to scrambling came as something of a relief. Using my hands and feet to pull myself up and over rocks, always conscience of Steve behind me and Pascal in front. I felt we climbed well together, only occassionally allowing the rope to go overly taught. Before long we reached a series of thick fixed wire, bolted to the rocks to aid climbers in reaching the high hut. On some of the more exposed pitches we caught a glimpse of the Goutier, as the clouds cleared above.

I realised that my breathing had become considerably more vocal. I was gasping and panting loudly, which must have been alarming to Steve, who was only a very short ropes length behind me. I wanted to tell him that the gasps were nothing to be concerned about and that I was actually finding them useful in keeping a rythm, but I couldn’t find the breath to explain fully. All I could manage was an occassional, “I’m OK”.

We pulled ourselves up a narrow chimney and the Goutier came into view, only 30 to 40m above us. An extremely welcome sight. The first indication that we had arrived was the smell of urine. Normally a repugnant sensation, but at that moment it was a sign that we had made it.

We clambered up onto the metal terrace which hung out over our vertical ascent. The dark entrance welcomed us as we dropped our rucksacks and took our boots off, replacing them with rubber hut slippers.

I sat in the dining area for a while, retrieving my breath, while Pascal went to sort out our bunks in case we had to stay the night. The place was buzzing with moutaineers, all garishly kitted out with the latest (and in some cases, the not so latest) goretex, e-vent, polartec and primaloft attire. All the big brands were represented from a hundred different countries. It felt good to be part of this huddled community, all of us with the same objective and the same concerns. We were all to share the next few hours of our lives together, perched on the edge of a thousand foot drop off.

Pascal returned with news that we should push on, if we felt up to it. It had been an hour since we had arrived and I felt ready again. So we agreed to make an early summit attempt and return to the hut later to sleep. As we prepared ourselves both physically and mentally, the others arrived.

The first thing that hit me was the concern on both Jacque and Chris’s faces. Apparently the journey up had been ponderous and slow, due to Patrick flagging badly. Pascal and Jacque were deep in discussion about the likelyhood of the weather staying stable. Storms were forecast for later on tomorrow but the chance of good visibility was unlikely for this afternoon. We could summit now, but there would be no views. Having reached the summit of Europe, I would have liked to have looked out over it. There was one last option. There was a very small window in the weather at around sunrise (5 to 6am) which wouldn’t hold for longer than an hour. If we could make it before then we could feasibly attempt a summit push. High winds were also forecast making the traverse across two narrow ridges called the Bosses practically impossible. These lay just before the summit ridge. We would climb to the Bosses and decide then whether to continue or not. It was all extremely tight, but we decided on this option at least it gave the party a decent rest. We were to be up for breakfast at 1am, ready to leave at 2.

The sleeping arrangements were pretty basic. They consisted of one massive bunk bed the size of the room that slept 16. Chris and Steve took the bottom bunk with another 6 from another company called Odessy. One of the two of the girls in that group were from Kilmarnock (Jodie), along with a bloke from Edinburgh, an Irish lad called Liam, an old geezer from England, the other girl was Irish (Anne Marie) and a Swede called Christine who Chris rapidly befriended. I was upstairs with Patrick and 6 other French blokes. I managed to get about an hours rest, though it was difficult with the constant giggling going on below. I ended up wandering through to the dining area and writting my journal on a scrap of paper, accompanied by a large bowl of hot chocolate.

Jodie, one of the Kilmarnock girls called me over to her table and asked if I would like to play cards. So I joined in with her group and she taught me Shit Face.

Dinner was the next thing on the menu, which consisted of a delicious broth, cheese, polenta and a dubious looking pink, undercooked sausage. All of this was followed by a tub of chocolate mouse. Not bad fair considering it all has to be helicoptered in to 3800m.

Everyone then retired to their bunks, leaving the poor unfortunates without, to crash wherever they could find a spare bench or floor space. The hut sleeps 83 and they always double book, there can be as many as 200 at one time, most expecting to have a bed. It wasn’t uncommon to leave your bunk for a moment only to find someone asleep in it on your return.

I must have eventually dosed off at around 9am, to a cats chorus of snoring from somewhere down below.