Conquistadors of the Useless (17 page)

To be so exercised over such simple problems may nowadays seem ridiculous, but one must remember the mental climate of the time. Both food and equipment were very much heavier than they are now, but above all we were weighed down by traditions as old as mountaineering itself. People always carried a little more food and gear than they really needed, ‘just in case'. It was not unusual to take twenty-odd pounds on a classic route, and forty or more would have been normal enough for something like the Walker. No wonder sack haulage had become a matter of course at every difficult pitch.

Nor were the loads our only preoccupation. As I remarked earlier, people used to climb in nailed boots as clumsy as canal barges, carrying gym shoes with them to change into for the harder rock climbing. Quite apart from their weight, all this changing to and fro would have lost us a lot of time on the Walker, where the pitches of rock and ice alternate. We knew that even before the war the Italians had evolved climbing soles of hard moulded rubber to replace the traditional clinker and tricouni nails, and that these could be used on all types of going. We had also read that when these ‘Vibrams' were fitted to light, carefully designed footwear, the most severe pitches could be done in them. But pre-war prosperity had not yet returned to either Italy or France, and articles of secondary importance like this had to wait their turn to be manufactured. In any case neither of us was rich enough to cross the Alps in search of new boots.

A year or so before this, it had become fashionable in French mountaineering circles to screw bits of tyre to one's boot-soles as a substitute for the unobtainable Vibrams. Although they were rather slippery on ice, these improvisations gave worthwhile results. I had tried them out myself, but placed under loose-fitting clod-hoppers I did not find them as good as my gym shoes. I had formed the impression, however, that the awkwardness came much more from the large volume of the upper than from the sole. The conviction grew on me that, placed under a light, closely-fitting boot, they could be worn with satisfaction alike on snow, ice or difficult rock.

No satisfactory form of footwear could be found on the market. The existing models were all too roomy, too floppy or too fragile. At this precise moment Lachenal's cobbling talents came to our rescue. Starting with my idea of something half-way between an espadrille and a mountaineering clod-hopper, he deftly produced with his own hands two pairs of boots which were to all practical purposes the same as what every mountaineer wears today. As soon as spring came we began to experiment with them. They were everything we had hoped – better even than gym shoes, because the greater rigidity of the soles enabled one to stand on smaller holds. Thanks to the perfecting of our equipment and our tactics, we began to nurse a secret hope of doing the Walker with only one bivouac.

Winter over, I found myself without a penny to my name. Once again I was faced with the problem of what to do. My great ambition was to be an independent professional guide in the traditional style, which, since the golden age of mountaineering, has meant accompanying climbers and tourists on holiday into the mountains.
[4]
Shortly after qualifying for my Guide's Certificate I had been admitted, by an act of favour then very rarely accorded to those not born in the valley, to the Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix. Thanks to this kindness of my autochthonous colleagues there was some hope of succeeding in a profession which is almost automatically closed to natives of the plains; but I could hardly have chosen a more uncertain way of life.

In order to understand the difficulties I faced, one most know something about the profession as it then was, and in particular about the Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix. Literature and the Press have had a lot to say about them both, but very few people have any real knowledge of the subject.

Founded in 1823, the Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix was born of the local peasants' need for an association to assure fair conditions of hire in the traditional occupation of leading tourists in the mountains. They rightly thought that such an association would improve rates of pay, and also attract more climbers to them through their guarantees of competence and good character. There was no National Guide's Certificate until about twenty-five years ago, and in those days nobody was admitted to the rank of guide until he had proved his competence through several years of mountain portering. Later on a badge was issued under the control of the police. Persons found guilty of dishonesty or immorality were excluded, and drunkenness and slovenliness were severely punished, sometimes by expulsion. A tariff was established for every climb in order to avoid cut-throat competition; a benevolent fund was set up to aid the families of guides lost in the course of their work; and finally a bureau was opened to enable new clients to find their guides without having recourse to the all-too-interested advice of hotel porters. This bureau was also very useful to the guides themselves, if at any time they were short of a known client, inasmuch as it made a twice-daily distribution of engagements on a ‘first come first served' basis.

Such an organisation, at once social and commercial, was in advance of its time, and shows a remarkable degree of initiative and community feeling on the part of this rather remote society. It was subsequently imitated in most of the high alpine valleys. The grouping of guides in a regulated association proved beneficent in every respect. The professionals were able to earn a better living, and so develop a sense of pride in their profession. It avoided febrile competition and all the vices to which it can give rise, in particular the sort of public prostitution which grew up in certain Swiss valleys where guides accosted potential clients in the street, just like tarts in Montmartre. I have no wish to imitate some popular literature in suggesting that it was a band of saints, but it did give its members an
esprit de corps
and a belief in the nobility of their work which led to high technical and moral standards. Thanks to the development of these qualities the guides of Chamonix have often shown devotion and even heroism in the rescue of injured climbers. The Compagnie has also helped in the construction of huts like the Charpoua, the improvement of pathways and the installation of fixed cables on popular climbs which would be dangerous without them.

This century-old institution has stood up well to the test of time, and has adapted itself to the changing face of mountaineering both from a commercial and from a technical point of view. Admittedly all this has not happened without argument, and sometimes the Compagnie has dropped a bit behind the times: like any other human institution it falls short of perfection. But broadly speaking it has never ceased to do a good job, procuring enormous advantages for its members and rendering important services to the cause of alpine climbing. Any attempt to earn a living as a guide in the Chamonix valley without belonging to this society is almost certainly doomed to failure. A good many outsiders who, like myself, had become guides out of sheer enthusiasm have made the attempt. To the best of my knowledge only two have succeeded, and in any case they were admitted to the family circle after a time.

One of the society's oldest traditions used to be never to admit anyone not actually born in the valley, and up to the last war only two exceptions had ever been made to this rule. However, since 1945 the number of locals wishing to become guides has considerably diminished, and the habit has grown up of accepting young men of suitable quality provided they have connections with the valley such as, for example, having married into a local family, or having owned property in the area for a number of years. In this way some twenty or so ‘foreigners' have become Chamonix guides since the war. I was one of the first, and I have no doubt at all that it was solely due to this privilege that I had any hope of earning a living as a professional in 1946 without being forced into the employ of the army, the U.N.C.M., or some such organisation.

My various first ascents and repetitions of famous climbs had made my name known among the climbing
cognoscenti
, but I was still unknown to the public at large. I had done plenty of big climbs as an amateur, and my experience as an instructor in several organisations had in fact given me a solid professional experience, but for all this I would never have succeeded in finding enough clients to earn a living without the ‘first come first served' system of the Bureau des Guides. Even with the system an independent guide's life is uncertain and hard. Very often it is in fact only a supplementary, seasonal job to a man who, at other times of the year, may be a labourer or a peasant. Even when rounded off with ski teaching it is not the sort of occupation on which a man grows fat, and this was still truer in 1946 than it is today. Finally it is subject to all the whims of fate. To say nothing of serious accidents, it only needs a long stretch of bad weather or a sprained ankle to bring you to the verge of starvation.

To embrace such a career of one's own free will, unimpelled by any sort of family tradition, calls for a love of the mountains and of independence amounting almost to foolhardiness. Nevertheless I was about to take this hazardous step when René Beckert, Director of the Ecole Nationale de Ski et d'Alpinisme, offered me a job in his establishment.

This school, which has since gone on from strength to strength, is chiefly intended by the State for the training of mountain guides and skiing instructors. It also aims to promote mountain sports in a number of ancillary ways such as giving courses to amateurs of a certain standard, holding conferences, publishing manuals, making films, and so on. The instructors at the school are recruited from among the best skiers and guides, and their work, without being invariably very difficult, does demand a constant output of energy and initiative. To anyone who believes in its aims and objects it offers a fascinating way of life.

At that time E.N.S.A. was still young, and had not yet had time to settle into rigid moulds. The courses were intensive, and whenever the weather permitted the climbing would go on day after day. Between courses, by contrast, the instructors had several days of complete liberty, which they could use either to climb for their own pleasure or to round out their incomes by guiding personal clients. Beckert's proposition was therefore extremely tempting, not only because it flattered the vanity from which I am no more exempt than anybody else, but also because it offered a steady and interesting living while still leaving me the time for the routes of which I dreamed, notably the Walker. The concluding argument was that the chief instructor was none other than my friend André Tournier, whose qualities I had grown to respect so much in the J.M. With such a boss there would be no question of unreasonable treatment or incompetence. In the end I was overwhelmed by so many advantages and signed my name on the line. All my problems evaporated and life became one long enchantment.

Lachenal had also found an interesting position as an instructor in another State organisation, the Collège National de Ski et d'Alpinisme, more commonly known as the Collège des Praz from the name of the village near Chamonix where it was based. This institution had similar ends to the E.N.S.A., with which it was later amalgamated, but the instructors it trained were intended for the U.N.C.M. and other such bodies for the propagation of mountain sports which were formed after the war. The courses were longer than at the E.N.S.A., and the general education side was particularly stressed. Its chief was a man remarkable for his intelligence, energy, organising ability and climbing prowess. This was Jean Franco, the leader of the group of climbers from Nice who had overtaken me on the north face of the Dru. Subsequently he was to play an important part in the history of French mountaineering by a brilliant series of ascents in the Alps, and also by his leadership of the successful expedition to the 27,000-foot Makalu in 1955. The fine team of instructors he had chosen and his own strong personality got his collège off to a flying start. It soon exceeded the somewhat restricted role for which it was originally destined, becoming a sort of post-graduate department of mountaineering which shed lustre on the years following the war.

At the collège, Lachenal found ideal conditions for his development both as a climber and as a man. He made rapid progress, and his altogether exceptional class began literally to shine forth. Working in different establishments did not hinder our preparations for the Walker. During the week our professional climbing built up our fitness and stamina to a high level, and every Sunday we would set out hoping to do something really big and difficult. Unfortunately the weather was always against us, and invariably we would end up on some relatively minor route, or beating a retreat in a blizzard. July came, and we had still done nothing of note. It is difficult to drive two cars at the same time, to work as a guide and still climb as an amateur. That season of 1946 really brought the fact home to us, and we realised how much easier the accomplishment of a big ascent was to a party of amateurs who had nothing to do but wait for favourable conditions than to a pair of guides climbing constantly in different parts of the range. The problem was further complicated for us by working in different establishments, because our free days did not always coincide, and, when they did, the weather was wrong.

We made four more attempts to do a serious training climb, but were rained off on each occasion. August came and we had still had no practice in really difficult climbing, though our many classic routes had made us very fit. The Walker was out of condition, and as the bad weather seemed interminable we began to talk about other things. Suddenly, however, a warm wind sprang up and completely changed the picture. On the 3rd August four of the best Parisian climbers, with Pierre Allain as their moving spirit, went up to the Leschaux hut; but we were so depressed and tired from overmuch work that we did not even think of following them. Since we weren't in a fit psychological state to tackle the Walker, we decided that the north spur of Les Droites might be suitable. It was as long as the Walker and had only been done three times. Nobody had yet succeeded in climbing it in one day. Thanks to favourable conditions and our general fitness we reached the top only eight hours after the attack, and from there we were so transported by joy that we reached the Couvercle refuge in an hour.