The departure
When the avalanche hit, I was eating fried mushrooms and drinking strong coffee in a picturesque converted stable in the Cotswolds. My friends Kate and Jez had been married the previous night. The morning was spent among friends from undergraduate days, slowly recovering from the festivities, and telling anyone who would listen about my plans, excitement and apprehension about my first ever Alpine mountaineering trip. I was to leave the following day for the Ecrins massif in the southern French Alps, a mountain range characterised by jagged peaks up to 4000 metres, high mountain glaciers, huge granite rock walls and narrow Alpine valleys – and could think and talk of little else.
Meanwhile, my climbing partners were having a bad day on the hill. They had already gone out to the Alps; the wedding meant that I was to miss the first couple of days of climbing and would join the others out there. The plan was that the others – a mix of Brixton Climbers and their French friends from the Ardèche - would head out first, attempt a high mountain route and hopefully be ready to get back out for another route by the time I arrived on the Tuesday morning.
So while I was drinking English champagne and dancing to a ceilidh band, the others were setting off towards their bivi in the boulder field under the Sélé hut, at 2500m. While I was stumbling into bed in the early hours of the morning, they were just beginning their 4am 'Alpine start'. And by the time of my second cup of coffee, they would be in a difficult and dangerous retreat.
Point du Sélé
In clear early morning sunshine, two rope teams of 3 people each crossed over the moraine field and then up the steep slopes of the Glacier de Ailefroide, aiming for the Pointe du Sélé (3556m), a peak joining four steep rocky ridges rising out of the glaciers. Several of the experienced mountaineers in the group had been to the same area the previous year, and noted with some concern that there was not only much more snow than they remembered but also that it seemed far too soft: they sank with every step. An abnormal spring of heavy snows lasting well into June created unusual conditions on the mountains. Beautifully clear and warm weather may seem ideal for climbing, but – in retrospect - following so soon after the spring snows it signalled a rapid thaw, unstable slopes and risk of rockfall and avalanche.
On the upper slopes of the glacier, the two teams separated to attempt the summit by different ridges. The first team – Oskari, the Brixton-Finnish climber plus Patrice and Jean-Marie, two Ardeche Frenchmen – moved up their chosen ridge, only to be confronted with extremely loose and unstable rock. As they climbed, showers of stones ricocheted down the steep rock faces on either side of the ridge, dislodging large slabs of snow on the slopes below. Progress was slow. Eventually they made the difficult (but wise) decision that it was not safe to continue, and began the complex retreat from the ridge, through a mix of abseiling and down-climbing.
On the final abseil – just as Patrice, the final climber, was finishing his descent – they heard yet another thunder of rockfall, and looked up to see a 'microwave-sized' boulder (in Oskari's words) tumbling towards them. Oskari and Jean-Marie took shelter behind a large rock. Patrice managed to dive out of the way, the boulder missing him by only metres. The team hurried to retrieve the rope and get off the ridge. But as they pulled one end of the rope they were surprised to see two ropes falling towards them: the rockfall had completely severed one side of the rope, and cut halfway through the other. Luckily, this was the last abseil and Patrice was the last to come down, so they were able to descend safely – but everyone was shaken up by the close call.
On the other side of the mountain, the second rope team (Eric and Dominique, both French Brixton Climbers, and Ivan, a Frenchman from the Ardeche) were also having difficulties. As with the other ridge, there was considerable loose rock, making progress not only slow but also risky. The team downclimbed the ridge back on to the steep snowy slopes of the Glacier de Ailefroide. As the climbers descended on softening snow, still roped up against risk of crevasses, they heard a rumble behind them and a shout of 'Avalanche!' from Eric. Suddenly they were swept off their feet by a rush of snow and slid down the glacier for several hundred metres, desperately trying to stay on top of the snow. As they fell, Dominique and Ivan were knocked into each other; both suffered nasty cuts from each other's crampons. Dominique also badly sprained his ankle. Eric, further up the slope, managed to avoid tumbling into the other climbers, but at the end of the avalanche slide found himself entangled in the rope, half-buried in snow, and nearly unable to breathe. Unable to free himself, he decided to cut the rope – but his knife was out of reach somewhere in his rucksack. Luckily Dominique had kept his knife in his pocket and was able to cut the rope to let Eric breathe normally again.
At this point, they began the difficult process of getting off the mountain. While Eric was unharmed once freed from the rope, Ivan had crampon cuts on his chest and was bleeding; Dominique had cuts to his leg and could barely walk on his sprained ankle. In retrospect, calling out a mountain rescue helicopter could have been wise. Instead, they spent 6 hours hobbling down the trail (including descending the tricky 200m rock wall just below the Sélé hut) until they met Ros - another Brixton Climber who had stayed in the valley – who took them to the hospital in Briançon to be patched up. Ivan left the next day, vowing never to mountaineer again. Dominique was confined to crutches and stayed in Ros's rental apartment in Pelvoux for the remainder of the week. Yet he seemed incredibly unphased by the whole ordeal, frustrated only that his injuries kept him away from the hills.
'Alpine training'
Planning for the expedition started long ago – in practice from when Eric, Oskari and Patrice had returned from a trip last summer full of tales and incredible photos, but in essence from the first time I heard stories and saw pictures from the Alps. For any aspirant climber, the Alps loom large in the imagination: they present a beauty, a history, and above all else a sheer scale (and level of risk) that seems unfathomable in the UK - especially in comparison to the 8m high southern sandstone outcrops where I had cut my climbing teeth.
The preparations were continuous. Every climbing trip became an 'Alpine training' trip; every exertion just added to Alpine fitness. In April, we trekked up and down the slopes of the South Downs to get used to all the walk-ins – by chance on the one snowy day of the year. In May, Eric organised a crevasse rescue session, in the notoriously icy environs of Crystal Palace Park. In June, a scrambling trip to Glen Coe and Skye helped to accustom us to walking up steep hills and exposed ridges (the Aonach Eagach is a bit like an alpine ridge, only several times wider...).
We were to base ourselves in Ailefroide, a peaceful 1500m high village and campsite. It fulfilled every expectation: meadows brimming with wildflowers, clear icy-cold streams, sheer granite faces in every direction and spiky snow-covered peaks forming every skyline.
Alternative pursuits
I stepped off the sleeper train in L'Argentiere la Besée knowing nothing of the problems my friends had faced on the mountains. The only indication that something was amiss was a cryptic text message from Eric asking me to bring my rope (they had lost 3 already). So my first sight of these beautiful and extraordinary hills was accompanied by a running commentary on the violence that they can wreak.
Understandably, the group's enthusiasm for high mountaineering routes had been replaced with a much more cautious and subdued approach, at least until snow conditions improved. With temperatures topping 30 degrees in the valleys every day, the spring snow cover was disappearing fast and we figured it would not be long until it stabilised.
We turned our attention to alternative pursuits. This wasn't difficult: Ailefroide has an incredible amount of rock climbing (from single pitch to 400m routes) within easy walk of the campsite, and there are several via ferratas near by. After setting up camp, we set off to do a via ferrata route in a neighbouring valley – a long slanting traverse of a sheer limestone cliff. While relatively safe and technically not too difficult, via ferrata can be a brilliant way of practising moving quickly over difficult ground and becoming accustomed to the exposure: you find yourself grasping iron rungs with nothing but hundreds of metres of air between you and the valley floor. The route was fun and reasonably straightforward, even after a night of patchy sleep on the overnight train. The only real difficulty was the heat: my two litres of water disappeared quickly and I sweated off sunscreen just as fast as I could apply it.
Campfire discussions that evening turned to rock climbing. I was tempted to launch straight in to one of the big multi-pitch classics of the area that rise up over the campsite. In one direction, the Fissure de Ailefroide (Dificile, English VS, 250 metres) is a traditionally-protected chimney that cleaves a massive granite face. In the other direction and in complete contrast, Palavar-les-Flots (D-/F5b obl, 400m) is a long bolted slabby ridge that extends for 12 pitches.
In the end, however, we decided to start with some practice on smaller routes, to get accustomed to the rock, the grading, and the bolt spacing (I'm far more accustomed to trad climbing than sport; following some one else's bolts rather than placing my own gear was rather unnerving). The events of the previous days had led to a strong sense of caution.
Feeling safe is dangerous
The next morning we set off for La Draye, also known as the Practice Slabs, a popular sport climbing spot located only a short walk from the campsite. Most of the routes are single pitch and there is little loose rock. With the exception of the odd long run-out between bolts, the area feels fairly safe. Nonetheless, I still backed off the first route I tried, unwilling to trust the friction of the unfamiliar rock and unaccustomed to blank but easy-angled slabs. Oskari set off to lead the route and retrieve my gear.
The feeling of safety disappeared suddenly. We heard a scream and then the horrible, unforgettable, sound of a body hitting rocks. A nearby French climber (not one of our group) had been dropped while lowering off. The rope was not long enough for the descent and did not have a knot in it; the belayer had been watching the climber rather than the rope; the end slipped through the belay device and the climber fell 4 metres, hitting his head on a boulder below. Like everyone else at the crag, he was not wearing a helmet.
It was a terrible scene. The climber was severely injured, in and out of consciousness, breathing shallowly and bleeding heavily. I gave my first aid kit (which seemed pathetically small and useless in this situation) to the other French climbers who attempted to limit the bleeding and keep him still. A helicopter was called. But then nothing. There was nothing more to do but stand and wait for help. It is difficult, excruciating, to be in a situation that is so palpably an emergency, but to be able to do nothing but wait. It seemed like hours, but in actuality was only around 30 minutes. Two sets of fire-fighters arrived, then finally the helicopter. After several sets of complicated aerial manoeuvres – as we clung to our bags against the wind and dust - they managed to evacuate him. We later learned that the climber had fractured skull and was in a critical condition in the Grenoble hospital. I hope he recovers - both for his own sake and that of his wife, who had been belaying him and was completely inconsolable, blaming only herself.
Games climbers play
When you witness a serious accident it is difficult to carry on as normal. Combined with the events of the previous days, I think witnessing the accident at La Draye made us all question why we climb and whether the inevitable risk that accompanies climbing (especially in the high mountains, but also on any crag) is worth it. None of us wanted another mountain epic, and we certainly didn't want another accident of any kind.
Climbing is a strange dialectical process of exposing yourself to risky environments then taking steps to mitigate and control those risks, through use of external equipment (i.e. ropes and protection), skill and judgement. It is a game in which winning means successfully getting out of the very same difficult situations that you put yourself in, and losing is unthinkable. Rock climbing is far from the only area of risk that we expose ourselves to in our lives – cycling in traffic and going out on a Friday night spring to mind as other lifestyle hazards – but it is certainly the one in which risk is most obvious, made painfully clear by gut fear of heights and exposure.
Yet you learn to manage the fear and to manage the risk. At certain moments of exposure high on a cliff face, my chest still tightens, my stomach still drops, my knees still uncontrollably disco, but these days I'm mostly able to laugh it off, double check my knots, grip the rock a bit tighter and carry on like normal. And after a while, climbing does feel like it's normal. You spend enough time above the ground that you trust your equipment, ability and judgement. You remain aware of risk, but it becomes more abstract, more statistical, more akin to cycling in a city or going out on a Friday night. Yes, accidents happen - climbers make mistakes; cyclists get knocked off; innocent bystanders get glassed outside pubs – but you don't expect to see it, or for these things to happen to those around you.
But the feelings of relative safety that result can themselves be dangerous. The good conditions of clear sunshine and calm winds can mask a dangerously unstable snowpack or rock ridge. The easygoing ambience of a single pitch sport crag can lead to simple precautions (like knotting the end of the rope or wearing a helmet) being forgotten or ignored.
For me, seeing the accident did little to change my perception of the probability of risk, as a basic awareness of the statistics of chance was already there. Yet it made the consequences of risks, and of making mistakes, so much more tangible and immediate. And that in turn made all of us not only more cautious in our approach but also more aware of others around us, checking every rope from the corners of our eyes. Climbing may be a type of game, as Lito Tejeda-Flores's famous essay put it, but it is an extremely serious one.
Back to basics
With these thoughts in mind, we decided to return the basics and go for a walk. Yet in the Alps even walking is far from a walk in the park. Our objective was the Glacier Blanc, a huge icy tongue extending down the valley from the Barre des Ecrins towards Pré de Madame Carle at the end of the road from Ailefroide. We wanted to check out conditions of the snow and ice and practice glacier skills, so an alpine start was called for. This meant that we had the trail mostly to ourselves, as we puffed up the switchbacks towards the Glacier Blanc hut at 2500m. I'm not sure if it was the lack of acclimatisation (48 hours earlier I had been below sea level on the Eurostar) or a general lack of fitness, but the going was tough.
As we rounded the corner after the final switchback, I caughtmy first sight of the stark face of the Glacier Blanc and the jagged peaks surrounding it. The glacier is a thing of extraordinary presence, with angry-looking deep luminous blue seracs protruding from the snow in strange, wonderful shapes. The glacier looks solid, somehow immutable despite a rush of meltwater forming cascades below. And yet it moves. With a warming climate, the glacier is retreating by 8 metres per year. Many predict that Alpine glaciers will be completely gone within my own lifetime – a terrifying prospect and a terrible act of violence to this awe-inspiring landscape.
After a brief stop at the hut (fresh coffee halfway up a mountain - incredible) we continued over rough ground and onto the glacier itself. The snow was surprisingly firm, and had been much consolidated after the solid sunshine and 30-degree temperatures of recent days. We continued up the glacier to around the 3000m point, crossing deep eerie crevasses on the way. From that position we are afforded a clear view of the Ecrins hut and the Barre de Ecrins and Dome de Niege Ecrins – the only two 4000m peak in the area. The Dome is supposed to be mostly a snow plod, but long scars of an avalanche crown across the upper slopes – visible even 2km away – reminded us that nothing can be taken for granted in the mountains.
On our return, we stopped to practice various snow belays and anchors and placing ice screws and abolokov threads – a useful refresher in snow and ice techniques. We arrive back at the car before lunch, having climbed and descended 1100m – a relatively short outing in alpine terms, but higher than Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England.
That evening we were treated to an incredible barbecue at the house of Vincent and Pascale, two friends of Eric who lived in Pelvoux village. Their house has a perfect view over Mont Pelvoux, and (in contrast to the British barbecue tradition of huddling round a damp fire with a few bland sausages) they produced course after course of incredible food. A better mood slowly returned.
Return to the mountains
Buoyed by the improving snow conditions and high spirits the previous evening, the next day Oskari, Jon, Alex and I decided to attempt a high mountain route. We decided on the Col du Sélé, a Facile route across the Glacier de Sélé to a col at 3283m, and possibly the Pointe des Bouefs Rouges (3516m, PD), at the end of a sharp ridge rising up from the col. We would set off for the bivi site near the Sélé hut that evening. Eric, the de facto leader of the expedition, was to leave that evening, along with Patrice, Jean-Marie and Derren (who had joined us briefly on route to Nice).
But first, one last expedition as a group. We went for a via ferrata towering high about the picturesque fortress town of Briançon. I had resolved to treat the route as a rock climb and not to use the metal rungs. This gave a wonderful couple of hours of smooth, flowing climbing at around English V.Diff to Severe. However, I made a strategic error of judgement: in my enthusiasm to treat it as a rock climb, I had worn climbing shoes and carried flip flops for the walk-in and descent rather than my cumbersome mountain boots. But the peak of the via ferrata was a good 700 metres vertical above the town, necessitating a rather inappropriate descent down a steep switchbacked rocky path in flip flops, kicking out rocks every few steps and cursing the whole way.
By the time we returned to camp, packed for the mountains, cooked dinner and said goodbye to our companions, it was already after 7pm. We had less than three hours of daylight left to climb up over 1000m to reach our bivi site high up the valley. Jon set a punishing pace at the head of the trail. Heavily laden with climbing and bivi gear and already tired from the day's via ferrata, the going felt tough. But after two hours of hard slog the reason for the pace soon became apparent: to reach the bivi site, we had to negotiate a steep snowfield then climb up a series of ledges on an imposing 200m rock face. The snowfield was a surprising challenge. The easy snow slopes that Oskari and Alex had travelled up earlier in the week had all but disappeared, leaving a steep, icy barrier to the first ledges of the climb. We considered putting on crampons or a rope; yet had we done so it surely would have got dark before we finished the rock face. Instead I took my ice axe from my bag and kicked steps up the icy névé, each kick only managing to create footholds a couple of centimetres deep. It was enough. Soon we were on the rock face, moving up a series of ledges and holding on to a fixed cable for safety. Eventually we topped out into a high boulder field, the sky draining pink above us. Within half an hour, we would be safely established in our sleeping bags and it would be dark.
Trust in gravel?
We rose at 4am, packed quickly and moved up the trail with headtorches blazing. By 5am, the first signs of dawn were spilling into the valley and we were roping up at the edge of the glacier. While the route was mostly a snow-plod, parts of the glacier are littered with seracs, dangerous-looking snow bridges and deep crevasses. However, routefinding was straightforward as many groups had gone before. The higher we travelled, the better the snow – a real relief and a stark contrast to conditions of earlier in the week. Moving together on the rope takes some getting used to – you can't start or stop too quickly - but after a while it was second nature, and I soon found myself walking a rope distance away from Oskari even when unroped. The glacier was steep and hard work, but not technical. Just over 2 hours later we were at the col, staring down onto the Glacier de la Pilatte on the other side. Skies were clear and the views were extraordinary, with spiky peaks and snowfields in every direction.
At this stage our team divided. Alex was recovering from shoulder surgery and could not climb on rock. Oskari and I decided to continue up the Bouefs Rouges ridge, while Jon would stay with Alex.
From a distance, the Bouefs Rouges looks like a classic Alpine ridge, dragon-backed, knife edged, and kinking slowly towards the summit. On closer examination, the whole ridge is a chossy and unstable pile of loose rock. As Oskari put it, on this ridge it isn't a question of if a hold is solid or not but rather a question of how much it moves. We travelled moving together, tenderly stepping over the worst of the loose stuff, and putting slings around any solid blocks we could find (all too few and far between). After traversing along the right flank of the ridge we moved up to its apex. The situation was incredible, with 100m drops down onto snowy glaciers on either side, but the rock in this section was little better and the climbing was slow. Every hold needed to be checked; every point of protection was suspect.
The ridge became a series of narrow pinnacles, as if it were a narrower and more exposed version of the Aonach Eagach. As I was lowering myself down from one of these, one of my handholds broke away and tumbled to the glacier below. I swung out onto a single arm (thankfully that hold held) and dangled momentarily before regaining the rock. I paused to breathe deeply: a fall while moving together would be very serious for both of us.
The pinnacles steepened and became more difficult. Eventually we came to the largest of the pinnacles. I started up a tricky move up its face, thought better of it, then reversed down to find an alternative route. None could be found. The move was perhaps no harder than English 4a or 4b, which I'd feel happy soloing on the ground, but I didn't feel comfortable committing to it while moving together with big boots and a pack in such an exposed situation. More importantly, I didn't want to down climb it on our way back from the summit! Oskari joined me at the base of the pinnacle. We looked for alternatives, and checked the clock. We had been on the ridge for two hours and were halfway to the top; the guidebook had indicated the summit should take an hour and a half from the col!
With a mantra of 'no more epics', we decided to turn back. Gaining the summit did not seem worth the risks presented by the loose rock or the prospect of returning across the glacier in the full heat of the afternoon.
The descent was harder than the climb, with more loose rock than ever. At one stage, an ice axe placement was needed as none of the rock around the ice patch was solid enough to hold on to. Another two hours, and we regained the col. After a quick energy gel, we were off across the glacier again, the softer snow of the daytime aiding the descent. The day was already hot; it is a bizarre feeling to be sweating profusely while standing on top of a kilometre long block of ice.
We regained the boulder field, collected our bivi kit and continued at pace down the trail. Eventually we arrived at the campsite, a full 2000m below the ridge, exhausted but safe and happy. Later we were to discover that the pinnacles on the ridge should have been avoidable by a lower ledge – but it no longer seemed important.
Iron men
It often happens that you don't notice how tired you've become until you stop. We had a lethargic rest day, sleeping, eating and not even leaving camp until I dragged the others off to belay me up some easy slabs (to help me overcome my fear of slab climbing) early in the evening. Alex, Ros and Dominique went home by plane, train and automobile. Then we were three.
After the rest day, I became optimistic. We had two days left, stable weather and improving snow conditions – good omens for reaching a summit. I had spent much of the rest day reading up on route descriptions. Enthusiastically reading out a passage from the guide, I glanced up to notice a dead look on Jon's face. It was instantly clear he would not be doing another high mountain route. Both he and Oskari had been going hard longer than I had. Both had open wounds on their feet from all the walking (thankfully, I somehow emerged with skin intact). And besides, they had other, closer, steeper ambitions: the Palavar ridge, a 400m D- rock climbing route that towered up over the campsite.
The route is 12 pitches long. That's 10 pitches longer than anything that Jon had done before, and at roughly British VS grade it's much more sustained than any of the long multipitches that Oskari or I had previously attempted. We went for a reccie. Staring at the route from the bottom turned into climbing the first 3 pitches just to check it out. So far, so good, with adequate belay ledges and no major difficulties. We were in good spirits, with Jon keeping us entertained by making up new lyrics to the theme tune of Iron Man. As we scoped out the fourth pitch, we met a couple of Irish guys in descent – abbing off the way they had come after 6 pitches. They talked of sustained exposure, micro-ledges to belay from, and just general exhaustion. Perhaps it wouldn't be so easy after all. We abbed down after them, determined to complete the route the next day.
Another Alpine start. Things were looking good, although it was always going to be a long day: climbing as team of 3 is slow work. I led the first pitch, and the climbing felt smooth and swift. But as I was bringing the other two up, a minor misfortune once again struck. My digestive system was giving me trouble. I knew from past experience that I'd be ok within the hour, but I also knew that until that point a tiny belay ledge (on a popular route) was no place to be. I also knew that with another 11 pitches in front of us followed by a complicated descent, we didn't have time to spare. Reluctantly, and very frustrated, I had to descend, leaving Jon and Oskari to climb on without me. (Hours later, I was to watch them reach the top then abseil down a blank wall painfully slowly and eventually return to the campsite giddy from their endeavour).
Summit fever
Sure enough, an hour later I felt fine. With nothing else to do, I decided to walk into the mountains. Unencumbered by a heavy pack and now fully acclimatised to the altitude, I set a fast pace to work out my frustration. An hour and forty minutes later, I arrived at the Pelvoux hut (despite the trail marker advising an approach of 4 hours). I continued upwards towards the route to Mont Pelvoux over a short rocky face and then onto a hogsback of scree until I reached the edge of the Glacier de Sialouze at around 3000m.
I stopped. All was still, but for the occasional rattle of rockfall down narrow couloirs. In every direction were walls of rock and ice, jagged ridges and high peaks. It is an extraordinary landscape, one that fills you with awe in the old-fashion sense of amazement twinned with fear. I looked out onto the Glacier du Ailefroide, now disencumbered with the soft layer of snow that carried my friends down the mountain, and the Bouefs Rouges ridge out beyond the Sélé glacier, that gravity-defying pile of oversized gravel that somehow still stayed upright.
More rock echoed down the gullies, falling in microwave-sized chunks. I will admit a certain disappointment as I looked up towards the summit of Pelvoux and across to Pointe de Celse Niere: my time in the Alps was over without summitting anything. So many pages turned down in the guidebook, so few routes completed. Yet the disappointment was a fleeting one. I had come to the mountains to learn, to appreciate the landscape and conditions, to gain experience, to have some big mountain days and to return safely. Looking out on such an incredible jumble of rock, ice and sky, I was just happy to be there.
Summits are destinations rather than goals.
Postscript: Lessons
I have a habit of ending climbing trip reports with a list of lessons learned, so that I may remember them and others may learn them more easily. This time it's challenging, not for the absence of lessons but the surfeit of them. Some are obvious: tie a knot in the end of the rope or better yet into your belayer, make sure you know the length of the route and of your rope before you climb, wear a helmet, check conditions before setting off, keep a knife and first aid kit handy, and don't let feelings of safety let you forget to take the obvious precautions. But such procedural instructions can only ever be part of the story. I also learned that to be successful and safe in Alpine climbing you need a heavy dose of fitness, skill, judgement and luck. And fundamentally, whether on roadside crags or high peaks, the mountains can be admired, appreciated, respected – but never underestimated. As my brother put it to me, you can be a bold mountaineer or an old mountaineer, but seldom both.
Jonathan Gaventa
July 2008
