With all that went on during the Mont Blanc summit attempt, it was easy to forget the tragedy that occurred on K2 during the start of our time in Chamonix. I blocked it out of my mind, otherwise I may have let it affect my motivation and judgement. It is only now that I have read back on news articles relating to the incident. In the end, 11 are presumed dead with the last survivor now safely airlifted out and being treated in Italy for severe frostbite. It is the worst disaster to have hit the mountain in its history. A full account can be found at www.k2climb.net including a host of personal blogs by some of the expedition members.

It would also seem that the avalanche alone was not purely responsible for the deaths, part of the blame could reside with the climbers themselves. Inexperience has been mooted by a couple of the climbers themselves, especially where the positioning of fixed lines were concerned.

After all of the excitement and memories that we took with us from Mont Blanc, a sobering news story that broke tonight, brought me back down to Earth. Ten climbers have been lost on the massif, they were attempting to reach the summit of Mont Blanc du Tacul before continuing on to Mont Blanc itself. A huge block of glacier broke off high above and released an avalanche which swept them away. The party consisted of Austrian and Swiss climbers, this brings the attrition rate on the mountain to 20 this year alone. The details can be found here; http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/7579702.stm

With the incident on K2 still fresh in everybody’s minds, this drove home the reality of our new ‘pastime’ and new questions on the risks involved. These questions need answered before I attempt anything else on this scale. In the meantime… I’ll stick to Munro’s…

The following is the latest report from The Gaurdian…

Lizzy Davies in Paris and John Hooper in Rome
The Guardian,
Monday August 25 2008
Article history

A French police rescue helicopter passes in front of the Aiguille du Midi as it takes off near Chamonix during search and rescue operations on Mont Blanc. Photograph: Christian Hartmann/Reuters

Hope was fading fast last night for eight mountaineers missing near Mont Blanc after a powerful avalanche caused one of the deadliest accidents to hit the French Alps in decades.

More than 15 hours after a large chunk of ice broke off from the mountain and prompted the pre-dawn avalanche, five Austrian and three Swiss climbers had still not been recovered from the slopes of Mont Blanc du Tacul.

Seven other French and Italian climbers were injured when the avalanche swept down the mountain at 3am yesterday, hitting a path often frequented by groups heading for the summit of Mont Blanc, western Europe’s highest peak. They were recovering in hospital.

Survivors spokes of a vast tract of ice moving silently but rapidly towards them, giving little time for escape.

“The guide shouted, ‘Run fast! Run fast!’,” said Nicolas Duquesne, who sustained a broken ankle. “It didn’t make any noise. It really was impressive.

“We had just enough time to move away to the right before getting hit … We were really lucky,” said Duquesne, adding that he had to “swim” through the snow to get away. Another survivor, Italian guide Marco Delfini, said he saw “a wall of ice coming towards us and we were carried 200 metres.”

Regis Lavergne, a rescue worker, told French television there was “no more hope” of finding the missing mountaineers alive, adding that they were probably on the lower reaches of the glacier “underneath the lumps of serac [pillar of ice]“.

A large-scale search involving helicopters, Alpine guides and sniffer dogs had to be suspended yesterday afternoon for fear of more avalanches. “I don’t think we’ll manage to recover the bodies because they finished up in an area of high risk in which there are highly unstable towers of ice that could easily collapse,” Adriano Favre, the director of Alpine rescue, told the AGI news agency.

The wall of snow, which was 200 metres (650ft) long and 50 metres wide when it hit the mountaineers at an altitude of 3,600 metres, was described by an Haute Savoie police chief as “extraordinary”. Daniel Pueyo said the sheer volume of this slide had made it deadly.

Experts said weather conditions had been “excellent” throughout the night. “Last night it was cold, it was nice, so it was simply the weight of the ice which became too much,” explained Yan Giezendanner, from the meteorological station in Chamonix. “It was a big slab and that slab was big enough to reach the team of climbers.”

Yesterday’s disaster was the latest in a deadly season in the Alps. According to figures released last week, almost 100 people died this summer in the French, Italian and Swiss peaks, most of them in the Mont Blanc range.

Speaking from Chamonix, the French interior minister, Michèle Alliot-Marie, described the avalanche as “one of the worst accidents we have had for decades … Even when all precautions have been taken, as seems to have been the case here, things can go dramatically wrong.” Alliot-Marie said there was no chance of finding anyone alive after flying over the scene in a helicopter. The avalanche had been “monumental” and “inescapable”.

The route the climbers took is often busy. Groups tend to leave from their base before dawn when snow is firmest.

A spokeswoman for a British tour firm in the region, Mountain Adventure Specialists, said it would continue with tours which take in the Mont Blanc du Tacul. “This isn’t the first [accident] and it won’t be the last,” she said.

The Alps: Sudden storms add to toll

August 16 2008
Briton Reg Clarke, 70, and Dutchman Johannes Ruiter, 47, found frozen to death minutes from their refuge after being caught in a storm near Naso del Lyskamm peak in the Italian Alps.

August 14
Six people die in four separate accidents. Two Frenchmen fell to their deaths from the Bosses ridge and later two mountaineers, aged 21 and 22, died while descending the Col des Courtes. A 54-year-old hiker fell coming down the Dent d’Oche and a 65-year-old local trekker was killed after falling on rocks.

August 8
Ian Jackson, 18, from Middlesbrough, fell 50 metres to his death while abseiling after a climb in Chamonix.

July 25
Jane Jerram, from New Zealand, her British boyfriend and two women from France and Chile froze to death after being caught by a sudden storm on the Bionnassay crest, on the French side of Mont Blanc. They were said not to have had adequate clothing or equipment.

July 24
A Dutch father, 56, and his children, aged 17, 20 and 23, fell 500m down a slope in Mont Dolent, part of Mont Blanc. They had been roped together.

April 30
Five French ski-mountaineers swept away by an avalanche in Gran Paradiso national park in Italy’s north-western Alps.

Its been over a week since we climbed Mont Blanc and I cant get the mountain nor the Alps out of my head. The first few days were the hardest, trying to readjust back to domestic, everyday life. All day Tuesday I looked out of my window and half expected to see Mont Blanc glaring down on me as she had done in Chamonix. What’s more I don’t have a project to sink my teeth into anymore, its left a hole, one that’s already starting to fill with precursor musings over attempting the Eiger. 

I have also been overwhelmed with the amount of interest in this blog, over 1000 hits to date. Especially since I put the pictures up. I have to admit that I have become a bit obsessed with it. It is the last remnants of the Mont Blanc dream and I am finding it hard to let go. So, I use this as an extension to occupy my mind. I don’t think this would have been the case if I hadn’t had another week off directly after our trip. The blog has been an experiment in itself; I felt like a bit of a charlatan asking my students to reflect in this way without actually doing it myself. Now I have and I fully understand the reflective properties of such a project. The stages of writing this have given me a clearer path in which to bring it to my teaching and the iPod Touch has been central to its evolution. I could tinker with it for months to come, but I need to find a conclusion. Hopefully this should serve as one. One of the main considerations is the time involved in constructing a reflective journal. I cannot escape the fact that it is time consuming and requires a degree of daily discipline. How we time manage this is core to it being successful. Strategies in this area need developed and a way of adding the demands of writing a journal of good quality along with the considerable paperwork that a Stage Manager already has to contend with.

Well, that’s blogging… what about the expedition itself? 

What was it that made the experience unique? It wasn’t simply because the summit was the highest, though that did make everything a lot more focussed and driven. Extra effort had to be put in, mainly due to altitude. Which I undoubtedly suffered from. I felt I was fit enough but still struggled. That’s the second time I have been at altitude and the second time I have suffered by its hand. Am I particularly susceptible to its affects? If so, was I risking too much by pushing on, when I should have stopped? It was only by sheer will power that I pushed onto the summit and it could have all gone horribly wrong. I may have risked my chance of reaching the summit, not to mention Steve’s and my own long term health. I guess I was just lucky.

At no point did I feel any real tangible fear for my well being, even in the light of what happened on K2 or the young 18 year old who died the day before we went rock climbing in Chamonix. These tragedies should have phased me by some measure, they didn’t. If anything they have spurred me on.

Can I now call myself a mountaineer? A title that I have long wanted to consolidate. I know how to be one, but is that enough to actually migrate from hill walking in Scotland to climbing the Eiger? I guess that’s for mountaineers to judge. Patrick, Matt and Andy all accomplished the same outcome as Steve, Chris and myself without any prior experience. Was their success greater than ours? It must have felt much more satisfying than our own. They had a much steeper learning curve to overcome and standing on that summit must have tasted sweet, the question I suppose is how much more so and how do you measure it?

Another question that arose was triggered by a comment Steve made when scrambling back down to the Tete Rousse Hut, he stated that we didn’t really need guides for the route. I have to strongly disagree with this and I’m sure that on reflection he will also do so. The very fact that it was said retrospectively and the trip ran so smoothly is probably an indicator that the statement was said in haste and we did indeed require guides. 

If nothing else, the guides brought us security if required. It was our first high altitude foray and we hadn’t taken time to learn French. Small logistics such as organising breakfast and picking up weather updates from other guides in the Goutier Hut, all went towards the bigger success of the trip. Knowing the pace to set and the time intervals involved were also crucial to the journey. We hit the summit bang on time and though a great deal cold be put down to luck, every little bit of information and experience helped. Knowing to get down to the Grande Couloire early to avoid an avalanche of rock fall was a great indicator of Pascal’s knowledge. He got us over the couloire, both ways, with only the briefest indication that this area was potentially lethal. It was no coincidence that we were crossing it at the times we did without incident. Chris and Patrick experienced stone fall on both crossings because of the sheer weight of traffic above them, perhaps caused by Steve and I on the ascent. 

In the Goutier it took Jacques a good half hour of negotiations to get Matt and Andy a bunk for the night. I cant imagine how we would have dealt with that, perhaps by being British and resolute? I doubt it. I also got the distinct impression that both Pascal and Jacques were not only well known, but respected by both the hut staff and other guides. Ervin was new to the area and probably still needed to build up that respect, even with Everest on his CV.

There were many details that went into build the big picture and we found ourselves discovering them after Steve’s statement. “That’s what you pay a guide for”, became a fairly regular statement. At least someone raised the issue.

I regret not taking a photo of all 6 of us on the summit, Steve and I had already been there for 15 minutes or so and it was getting seriously cold by the time the others arrived. We were actually just about to descend when Chris’s cheery face appeared. It was a great advertising opportunity for Icicle and one we probably should have addressed, I just didn’t think of it at the time. 

The biggest disappointing factor was the fact that we were in such a mixed group. Don’t get me wrong, they were all great guys, all had their own agenda’s and expectations of the trip. I had the idea that the training would be much more technical. I wanted to do ‘actual’ crevasse rescue and more rope work. If I am to attempt Cotopaxi, unguided in the future then I will need much more than a few chats over coffee with Kingsley. My expectations were perhaps too high and I didn’t speak up enough about the itinerary beforehand. I now feel that I need to go on another specialised course or suchlike. This is by no means a criticism of Icicle. They tailored the course to the least experienced of the group and could do little else. Odd numbers also didn’t help.

Initially, when I put those first feet on the summit I was relieved that I hadn’t let down the team, especially Steve who was breathing down my neck for most of the route. He’s a big lad and his presence was pretty intimidating, which I have no doubt helped to me drive along. It wasn’t until I got back to Scotland that I started to see what I had done for myself. I had stood on the roof of Europe and apart from Steve and Chris, no-one else I knew had done so. My neighbours didn’t understand the achievement, so said little to me about it, but why would they? Unless you actually attempt something similar then you have no idea. It’s an exclusive game, this mountaineering lark and the higher you go… the more exclusive it becomes. In a way, I prefer them not knowing, its more personal that way. 

Mountains give you drive and focus, there can be no doubting that. Hopefully I can now transfer this to life itself and the inevitability of work on Monday. The real trick is how you use and merge these experiences with the rest of your life.

And finally…

My warmest congratulations to those who know what it is like…

To Matt and Andy, who’s good humour and stoutness got them to the top. Well done guys (Good luck with your next summit Matt e.g. marriage).

To Patrick, who we all doubted, but found something at the Goutier Hut that dragged him to the top. Two things Patrick mate; waterproofs are a good idea at 5km above sea level and factor 200 sun screen makes you look much worse than you actually are! – Amazingly well done!

To Chris, who was on a knives edge for a good bit of the trip but always had the tenacity and stubbornness to find a way up, regardless of the obstacles (usually with a fag hanging out of the corner of your mouth and sponsored by RedBull).

To Steve, the most ancient of friends and the hardest to write about. Some sort of karma thing happened when we were roped together, it wasn’t just pot luck or who was next to who… I’m pretty sure.

Website

http://www.icicle-mountaineering.ltd.uk/

Blog

http://icicle-chamonix.blogspot.com/2008/08/100-on-mont-blanc.html

We had a deserved lie in this morning. I was looking forward to our wee road trip to Annacy today, Chris had been before and had vowed to return. He described it as being like Venice, only smaller. We packed up a small picnic lunch of red wine, Bree, fruit and a baguette before venturing out into France.

We headed North West before turning South before reaching Geneva. After about an hour of driving in the glaring sun we reached Lake Annacy, just south of the town itself. We parked in a carpark and crossed the road to the grassy park that flanked the water. It was very hot by now so we all went for a dip in the lake after having a quick bite to eat. It felt uncomfortable just lazing around and I felt a pang of guilt doing so. However, I put up with it as I lay in the sun, half dosing and drying. Being a Sunday, it seemed that the whole town was out. It felt much more like a seaside beach than an Alpine lake. 

We hung around for a few hours, letting the sun re-energise us. A great crested grebe sauntered past, elegantly stretching its neck and slipping under the water gracefully in pursuit of some unfortunate fish. 

We then wandered into town, trying to find the old section which hosted an ancient bastille. The first sight of the old town was a bit of street entertainment. Two incredibly muscular female acrobats performed their street act in a large circle of spectators. They balanced and flipped onto each other, showing amazing muscular control and balance. Then a bloke popped up and did some balancing on a stick and we lost interest. 

A fantastically clear and wide river ran through the centre of the town, old cobbled alleys criss-crossed the streets, spanning the river with a myriad of small bridges. The prison sat centrally, growing out of the water, its strange to think that this place of imprisonment was once a place to be avoided at all costs. Now it was a major attraction, generating a whole and healthy tourist trade for a town with little else apart from an attractive lake. 

Cafe’s and restaurants lined the narrow pathways than were now drenched with tourists. Every building had rustic exterior shutters on their pastel coloured plastered fascia’s. Old brown dead ivy hung dry from the walls dropping leaves onto the green surface water. A swan stood out of the water on one foot, preening itself. We wandered under a myriad of archways and passed a host of side vendors selling all sorts of produce before stopping for a beer on a wide pont. 

You couldn’t help feeling charmed by this place, especially after the commercial nature of Chamonix. We had to get back to Chamonix by 6pm in order to return the car, otherwise we would be driving without insurance. 

Back at Chamonix, Steve and Chris dropped the car off while I carried the bag back up to the apartment. We had arranged to meet in La Boccalatte. They had trouble parking so I sat there for around an hour, drinking beer and deciphering the menu. It turns out the Boccalatte was an Italian alpinist from the turn of the century who pioneered several routes before dying in a rockfall in 1936.

The others arrived and we ate a hearty meal, Steve bought a bottle of red wine for wuppance ha’penny for after the huge packing mountain we had to summit this evening. 

At the flat we got stuck into organising an environment that hadn’t been tidied in 9 days into a few small rucksacks. I had managed to accumulate two extra rucksacks and climbing harnesses for Jacob and Aaron and a cuckoo clock. Somehow, after 2 hours, I managed to get everything tucked and squeezed in. We sat listening to Nina Simone and sipping really good red wine. We watched the sun suck Mont Blanc slowly into darkness. Satellites traced across the sky and the night became a pin-pricked dark veil.

Chris decided to hire a car today, for tomorrow. So, todays mission was to find one. We were also due to move to another chalet as today was the last day of our Icicle contract. When we told Sarah where we were due to go she had a fit of laughter, which wasn’t a good sign. Apparently the place is a nightmare, so we inquired about extending our stay in our current apartment. Sarah sorted it for us and it actually worked out cheaper, she also organized our airport transfer on Monday.

With all of that sorted we went back upstairs much relieved that we didn’t have to pack up. Steve decided to take a picture of Chris in his pants, with a fag hanging out his mouth, an Icicle T-Shirt, climbing helmet and cooking sausages, for Kingsley. This caused much mirth. While they were out I grabbed a couple of hours to myself, the first in all the time we had been here. It was good just to chill and try and take in what we had achieved.

The guys returned with a framed picture of Chris on his pants and the news that we were to pick up the car at 6pm. It was great to not have Mont Blanc, or the mountains in our heads anymore. The had been offloaded for the first time in 6 months. I guess it was today when thoughts of home really started to kick in.

We picked the car up at 6 and drove up to the Mont Blanc tunnel with the intention of going to Italy, just to have a look and maybe some pasta. When we arrived at the toll it was 34 euros, far to expensive for just a quick visit, so we headed back up the valley onto Switzerland.

We drove passed Les Drus which looked amazing. A real forefinger shaped mountain with the moon nestled on it’s shoulder. Switzerland looked no different than France, though we never stopped for long enough to mingle with the locals. The trip was more of a practice run, so Chris could get to grips with driving on the wrong side of the road.

We returned to the flat and went to a local Japanese restuarant. It was Chris’s idea to get some fresh and ‘clean’ food. Both Steve and Chris ordered some beef dish while I had Sushi.

On returning from the toilet, Chris had a particularly satisfied looking cheesey grin on his face. He gestured to the toilet saying that we had to try it. A bit bemused I wandered down into the most sofisticated latrine I had ever seen. The seat was heated and a rather impressive control panel allowed you to set temperature and oscilation. It also had a button for both front and rear wash cycles. A function that simply stated ‘wand wash’ will remain a mystery, until we come across that particular model again, who knows maybe one day all cludgies will be like this?

Chris had arranged to meet Jodie, Anne Marie and Liam for a pint afterwards, so we headed down to where they were at.

On the way down an old cobbled street we passed an open set of shutters where a young girl was standing and singing the most beautiful aria. She was singing to no one and yet to all who passed under her window. It was do French that we all smiled at each other as we passed the moment like it was a secret.

Jodie hadn’t made it to the summit due to some nugget called Terry getting altitude sickness 250m from the top.

We had a pleasant evening with them, witnessing a bizarre stag night in the process. There seemed to be a bit more than a passing attraction between Chris and Jodie, she was lovely and the two seemed well matched. Phone and emails were exchanged and we stumbled off home, full of beer and memories.

Anyone for a wand wash?

The last thing Pascal said to us was “see you tomorrow at 09:30, for climbing zi rock”. And he turned into the wind and was carried off over the mountains. Well maybe not, he had to run for the train.

At that moment it was actually the last thing I wanted to hear. But I got up anyway and went down for breakfast. Last night Chris was having serious sausage withdrawl, he couldn’t stop talking about his plans for breakfast the following day. I think he feared that he may turn into a rodent or something if he ate any more muesili. So he made plans for a sausage and baguette feast. He was still in sausage land when we left for breakfast.

I explained to Kingsley that Chris was upstairs in his pants, fag hanging out the side of his mouth, cooking sausages and wouldn’t be joining us. The mental image was not condusive to a happy breakfast, but it planted a seed in Kingsleys mind that he would find difficult to ignore.

We had the guides for one more day so we went down to a local rock face after hiring rock shoes. Pascal and Jacques were there, along with the three of us and Patrick. Matt and Andy had done what they set out to do this week and didn’t have much interest in climbing any more rock, so they went shopping or something.

Chris emerged after his sausage binge with a glazed euphoric expression and a bigger than usual grin.

Steve and Chris were eager to learn more about equalizing belays and how to set them up ok multi pitches. I just wanted to learn the basics as I had never lead a pitch before. So I teamed up with Patrick. Steve and Chris paired up to work on more advanced stuff.

The site (Les Gaillands) was fantastic and the weather was great. Jacques and Pascal were particularly chilled and the day bumbled along nicely. And there was no walking involved as it was right in Chamonix. A series of natural pitches, most of them prebolted, awaited us. The entire site must have been over 100m in length and at the highest point, 50+m.

The most startling aspect was the amount of children climbing, they were everywhere. Some of them were no older than 4years old, some were lead climbing up to 30m. It was a very busy looking Summer School. These French kids had absolutely no fear of height whatsoever. It was a joy to watch.

Jacques and Pascal flew up the first pitch to attach top ropes for us. They both had different styles of moving up the face, but it was the elegance that impressed me the most. Pascal moved gracefully from hold to hold, grouping them in fluid sets of movement. Jacques seemed to contemplate his ’sets’ more, moving slower and precisely. Both were completely natural on rock.

Steve and Chris looked shocked that they weren’t roped or wearing helmets.

Once the top ropes had been fixed and Patrick had been reminded what a figure 8 was, I quickly climbed up without any real problem. The route was incredibly easy. Patrick then had a go. We then tried a few more pitches that were slightly more difficult. Pascal then took us through a series of belay building solutions. Most of these were beyond my comprehension. I did get the basic theory though. Steve was getting off on this the most. I struggled through some of the easier anchors.

We had lunch in a wee cafe hut, right next to the pitches. There was even a BBQ area for climbers, everything was there for you. It was excellent.

After lunch, Patrick left us and we went to an area of cliff just around the corner where we could practise our belays in earnest. Chris, Steve and Pascal climbed together, which left me with Jacques and some 1 to 1 tuition.

He is a brilliant teacher and didn’t skimp on the details. He also put things into context for me, transferring what we were doing on that practise rock to a high mountain setting. I lead my first ever multi-pitch climb and it was in the Alps! We climbed as high as we could go and when Jacques was up beside me he insisted that he was the beginner and I would tell him what to do. We must have been at least 50ft up tied to the rock by a very thin sling. I set up an abseill using a prussick after making both myself and Jacque safe. Whenever I got stuck and asked Jacques for help, he simply grinned and said, “you try”. It forced me to check and double check the logic behind what I had done.

A small orange lizard scuttled upside down along an overhang.

I then abseilled down to the first belay point, recoilled the rope and continued to the bottom. Jacques soon joined me.

It had been another excellent day. We had all learned more today than probably all of our climbing time in Scotland put together. And it was from two real mountain men with more than 50 years experience between them.

We left Pascal for the final time, checking that his Renault didn’t need a push first. I was sad to see the big chap go. Jacques gave us a lift back to our apartment and we then bade him farewell also. And that was that, we were once again left guideless. The Icicle adventure was officially over. We only had a night out with Matt, Andy, Patrick, Kingsley & Sarah to look forward to now. Oh… and the ubiquitos Kingsley talk at 17:30. This one was on Alpine weather.

My legs were still on fire from the summit day, though climbing had loosened them up somewhat. Pain still choked just about every muscle I owned.

At the talk, we covered most of the basics on Alpine weather. I am really interested in this particular topic, slowly though I was loosing the will to live. It had nothing to do with Kingsleys style of delivery or content, I began to feel a wave of exhaustion hit me. The area around my kidneys began to ache and my skin crawled with goosebumps. My head felt twice as heavy as it should have been and swallowing became almost impossible.

I went back upstairs and lay down. The last thing I remember was Steve saying something as I slipped into oblivion. I awoke at about 2am, starving. All I could find to eat was a chocolate bar, orange juice, 3 sad looking uncooked sausages and a cupboard full of Dextrose and various other energy suppliments that Steve had brought along. But I felt much better.

At 3ish Steve and Chris stumbled in and collapsed on the couch, babbling drunkenly about this and that. They appeared to have had a very good night. We hung about chatting for a bit and listening to music before heading for bed. Unbelievably, I fell asleep straight away.

We hung around in the hut for about half an hour, trying to regain a portion of our strength for the gruelling descent. Our rucksacks became heavy again as we refilled our water supplies and repacked our crampons.

Steve lead as it would be easier for Pascal to perform any emergency manouver from the end of the rope. It took us around an hour to reach the bottom of the scramble route, where we dashed across the Grande Couloire again. For a second time the mountain allowed us to pass unhindered.

We boot-skiied across the Tete Rousse ice field and took our harnesses off. The wind whipped up and threw horizontal rain at us. Pascal went on ahead followed by Steve as I struggled to get my waterproofs and gloves on.

The rain didn’t last long and I decided to stop, sit on a big rock and soak in the Alps and the Chamonix valley. It was time to reflect without all of the urgency that had driven us along thusfar. A weight had been lifted and I felt a shift in how I was participating within this magnificent landscape. I was no longer forcing my way through and surviving, I was now a pastoral observer. The main hazards lay behind us, there were no more monsters to fight. I took my gloves off and sucked in all of the surrounding mountains, rivers, glaciers and valleys, in one long, slow and deep breath. Holding all of these things in my lungs made my head feel light so I exhaled them back and got to my feet.

Steve was waiting for me further down, chatting to a couple of young lads who were on their way down also. So they accompanied us. The last leg of the return was propably the most gruelling on our feet and I couldn’t remember it being nearly as long. Finally the high level train station came into view. I hobbled onto the tiny platform and rejoined Steve and Pascal. I was desperate to take the pressure of my feet as I could feel blisters developing. It was then that we were told that the train was broken. It would be another 2 and a half hours before it would be operational again. And it was raining again. We waited for conformation of this before deciding to walk down the track to the cable car ourselves, another hour away. I felt that this news would not go down well with Patrick when he arrived.

Chris emerged from the mountain path on his own and agreed to join our team back to the cable car. We followed the railway lines down to a ruined building then cut across and around a well maintained path. The route was fringed with all manner of Alpine flowers, the sun emerged and warmed the grasses and flora, releasing drowsey scents into the air. It was a pleasant, high level Alpine stroll. We reached the cable car and were soon back at 1000m.

Pascal left to get the train home and we got the bus back to Chamonix.

That evening we met up with Andy, Matt, Patrick and Dean (who had made a sucessful summit of the Eiger) and we all went for an Indian and a couple of celebratory pints. While we were chatting in a local bar, the heavens tore open and heavy downpour came down. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who gave a thought to the climbers high up on the Goutier right now.

Back at the apartment we stood an watched a spectacular lightning display dance over the mountains above us. The soundrtrack was provided by an orchestra of thunder claps.

I awoke, if you could call it that.

My mouth and eyes were moistureless. The room was like an oven and I could feel beads of sweat running down my back as I turned over. God I felt rough. I was desperate for a pee but I couldn’t move, I felt paralysed. It was an altitude hangover.

To make matters worse, the toilets were outside, we were almost 4km up and my headtorch was in my bag on the floor. I considered just peeing the bed. The room had no electric lights so I had to fumble around to find my torch after a daring drop into darkness from the bunk. I found it and whilst in the process of putting it on my head I snapped the elastic. I opened the outside door and gasped as the icy wind ripped through my fleece. The toilets outside the hut are a traumatic experience and I will abstain from going into detail here. Suffice to say that without my torch on my head, I failed to see a low steel beam on the way down and duly smacked my forehead on it. I grabbed the terrace railing to regain my balance and vomitted into the darkness. I sat on the stairs for a moment, trying to work out where I was and what had just happened. The cold eventually forced me back inside.

Inside, the bunk room was alive with dancing head torches. I sat at Steves bunk trying to find some kind of focus. Chris noticed something was wrong and when I told him I had just thrown up, Steve suddenly piped up with the option that I could rope with Patrick because the pace would suit me better if I wasn’t feeling well. Chris then reiterated the option. This annoyed me as it sounded premeditated at the time, as if they had been discussing the option in my absence. So I stubbornly refused, insisting it would pass. In retrospect, I realise that I was being way paranoid, but that’s how I felt at that time. If anything, it brought me back into sharp focus and gave me more determination.

We ate the earliest and highest breakfast I think any of us had ever eaten, then bound our crampons to our boots. Heading around the back of the hut, we roped up and joined the procession of disembodied head torches up and passed a huddle of tents.

We knew that the first several hundred metres to the crown of the Dome du Goutier would be a relentless plod. There was nothing to focus on bar the line of 100 souls lighting the route, our own boots trudging along and the stars. Far below Chamonix slept, drunks staggered home and children slept, unaware of the ghostly procession that faded and flickered high above them in the clouds.

I was thankful of the flat plateau we reached at the top of the dome. We stepped over a fracture in the crest and we were given a brief reprieve from the ascent. Shooting stars were being flicked across the night as I took a fleeting opportunity to glance up.

Again, I found myself vocalising my breathing. I didn’t care how unhealthy it seemed to Steve or Pascal, it gave me a focus and rythem. Whenever pain seared up my legs, I matched it with deep systematic breaths. Forcing more oxygen to where it was needed most. Pretty soon, all I consisted of was walking and breathing. This continued for an hour or so, I occasionally droned out a Budhist mantra that I had been taught many years ago, “Nah Meiow Yoh Hoh Rengay Keiow”. I’m not even sure what it means (or how to spell it), but it formed a deep repetitive resonance in my head, it took over and drove me on. After a while it moved from the conscience foreground of my mind to the subconscience arena of meditation. Whenever this cycle was broken I stumbled and tripped.

Jacob and Aaron filled my head whenever I needed more. I couldn’t force myself to think of them moving, they came only as still photographs in my head. The important thing was that they were there.

Pascal stopped at the Vallot Refuge, a small metal emergency shelter, just before the Bosses. He told us to drink while he tried to get on an awkward looking pair of waterproof trousers, under his harness, without taking it off. We stood there in the sub-zero air for 10 minutes at least, shivering and waiting. The hut was only 20 or so metres away, I couldn’t help thinking that it would have been a better place to stand.

The right side of my face had frozen and I couldn’t feel my nose. There were pins and needles shooting along my arms and up the backs if my legs. We walked on to the beginning of the Bosses. Nothing was said about the wind so we continued on. For the first time I dared to believe that we could do this. This was it. No more drunken fits of bravado in Glasgow bars. No more team talks in the Icicle apartment or around a resturant table. We were here and it was happening.

The Bosses sprawled and meandered over two knife edge ridges. A deep crevace cut and cracked it’s way alongside us. And the wind spat spindrift in our faces, instantly freezing to my beard. I pumped my fingers constantly on my walking pole, trying to regain circulation. Away to the east the sky had begin to bruise.

We began to climb steadily again. Curving along the trodden channel, created by a hundred success stories that morning.

At 05:30 we emerged on the summit of Mont Blanc.

The timing was perfect. The sun cracked the sky wide open revealing the continent of Europe. It must have been -15* but at that moment I didn’t care. A formal handshake with Pascal, followed by a hug from Steve and a couple of photos pretty much ended our visit to the top of Europe.

We were about to turn and leave when Chris, Jacques and Patrick topped the ridge. Perfect. I couldn’t believe that we were all in the summit at the same time. I was sure we were going to pass them somewhere lower down. So we got our ‘three on the summit’ photo that was looking highly improbable up to 15mins ago.

It was now bright enough to see without headtorches. I took one last glance over to the Matterhorn, away in the distance and managed a smile, then turned on my heel.

It was now fully light and we could see the route we had come up only about half an hour before, for the first time.
It turned, dipped and twisted over great undulations like a massive snowy fun ride. The exposed elements of the route became crystal clear. We had been walking in the darkness, just out of the headtorches range the ground dropped thousands of feet. Had we really been that close? Apparently so.

The snow was glowing gold as we cramponed along. Chamonix was basking in the early morning sun, the bakers would be setting out their stalls and the early workers would be breaking their fasts. To our right, the Aiguille du Midi pointed a triumphant finger skyward, ticking off another successful summit. Light streamed through the massive sundial, casting a 7 o’clock shadow over the clock that is Chamonix.

We paused a couple of times for photos, the sun had made us more relaxed. Even though we had only been through this way only an hour before, it was all new, shiny and white.

We reached the Goutier at around 08:30. The dinner room was setting out for breakfast, a new set of 100 plus souls had arrived. I felt like a veteran arriving back at HQ after a successful mission. I treated myself to a hot chocolate and a tangerine, the only food I had consumed since 1:30 that same morning. It tasted like a breakfast had never tasted before.

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.