Conquistadors of the Useless (27 page)

We had been finding our way down between the limestone ledges and steps for quite a long time when suddenly we saw the white slopes of the couloir in front of us. Once again we were on easy ground, and we ran downhill shouting with joy at the prospect of an early end to our sufferings. All at once, however, the couloir ended in a cliff. It was too high to rappel down, and there seemed no way out either to left or to right. We appeared to have put our heads in a trap. Presumably the correct route was farther to the north, and we would have to climb back up some way to find it: the question was, would we find it before nightfall?

Once again all our cares returned. It was growing late, the storm was at its height, and in our present state a third bivouac would be dramatic. For a moment we recalled the tragic end of Molteni and Valsecchi, who died of exhaustion only three-quarters of an hour from the hut after conquering the north face of the Badile, and I could not prevent myself wondering gloomily if a similar fate awaited us. During a brief rent in the cloud I thought I saw a possibility of descent on the left bank of the couloir, but Louis was adamant for the right bank and luckily I was too tired to argue.

Painfully we trudged back up the couloir and took the first ledge leading back on to the west face. This turned out to be an almost impenetrable labyrinth of rocky bars and ledges of unequal extent. The rock was still very compact and we had practically run out of pitons, so that we couldn't have rappelled even if it would have done us any good. It was only the short chimneys and gullies, which every so often led from one ledge to the next, that made descent possible at all. It appeared that we might find ourselves blocked for good at any time by a higher, unbroken step, but the solution always turned up at the last moment.

Lachenal's vitality and concentration were still unimpaired. With incredible skill he ran this way and that across the snowed-up slabs, seeming to be everywhere at once. Thanks to him we continued to descend at a fair rate in spite of the complexity of the route. But always our minds were weighed down by a painful sense of drama. What was to become of us if we met with an unbroken piece of cliff? Would we have the strength to toil all the way up again, and would we survive another bivouac? And then, all of a sudden, our anxieties were dissolved. Everything was simple. Thirty feet below us the face died out in a gentle snow field. Turning our backs on the world of rock and storm where we had experienced such unforgettable hours, we ran down the slope that led to the world of men.

Telephone calls asking for news of our progress had meanwhile robbed our attempt of its secrecy, and at Eigergletscher people were getting extremely worried. The German-Swiss are a cold and not always very likeable race, but I must say that on this occasion we were treated with the greatest kindness by everybody at the station hotel. Crowds mainly pass through during the day, and that evening we were almost the only guests. The whole staff went out of its way to attend to our comfort and make us feel at home. We were literally ravenous, and for hours had thought of little else but the feast that awaited us. Perhaps it is one of the major virtues of climbing that it gives back their true value to simple actions like eating and drinking. But alas, now that we were actually seated in front of a sumptuous meal we were unable to do more than choke down a few mouthfuls.

We passed a wretched night, tortured by chronic thirst. We kept on having to get up and drink, but the liquid would only quench our thirst for a few moments. In such circumstances it was impossible to sleep. I have never understood why the Eiger should have affected us in this way. The Walker is a more strenuous climb and very little shorter, yet it didn't try us to anything like the same extent. Since then I have done still harder climbs, notably the final step on the Fitzroy Peak, but have always been able to eat and sleep normally afterwards.

We were up early, and had hardly set a foot out of our room when a journalist was upon us. He had come up on foot during the night, hoping to scoop our account. Before long telephone calls started coming in from all over the place, and the first train up that morning disgorged a dozen reporters and photographers. This sudden craze to hear about our adventures came as a surprise. It had not occurred to us that a mere second ascent would arouse such widespread interest, and the idea that our names would appear in the headlines all over Europe had never crossed our minds for an instant. Our new routes, our extraordinary performance on the Droites, even our dramatic ascent of the Walker, had never excited more than a few lines in the local papers.

In those days mountaineering was still something of a world on its own, in which the Press had no interest apart from accidents. Blood and death are saleable commodities wherever they come from. The public reacts to tragedies even when it doesn't understand them, because they appeal to the most basic human instincts. Anyone can imagine himself in the same position. But the story of a climb, however remarkable it may be, can only be boring for those who do not understand the technicalities of the sport. To hope for any notoriety from mountaineering would have been a doomed pastime in 1947.

I would be lying if I suggested that we hoped no one would ever hear of our ascent of the Eigerwand: vanity is one of the prime movers of the world, and neither of us was a saint. But although it was one of the most redoubtable faces in the Alps it had already been climbed once, and this was bound to have dissipated much of its hitherto fabulous aura. The second ascent of the Walker, for example, had passed almost unnoticed, whereas its original conquest had been the object of tremendous publicity. We expected our Eigerwand climb to increase our reputations among the limited circle of the elect, but had absolutely no inkling of the ephemeral glory which became ours in the event. We were dumbfounded, and to this day I still wonder what served to focus the interest of the Press on what might so easily have passed unnoticed.

There exists nothing more contrived than this kind of fame. Take the example of the event which caused more ink to flow than any other in the history of French climbing, the ascent of Annapurna. In the first instance it received no more than a couple of lines in two or three Paris dailies, and only on the following day was it generally decided to give it prominence.

Once the curiosity of the journalists had been satisfied we found ourselves again alone with our problems. It only remained to catch the train like any other tourists, of which we looked a particularly shabby version with our emaciated faces and damp, torn clothes. By the time we had paid the hotel bill we had practically nothing left to buy food, but fortunately we were treated to a meal by a second wave of reporters who were lying in wait for us at Berne. We were even recognised and stopped in the street by a passer-by who offered us a drink. At Geneva we received a triumphal welcome from members of the famous Androsace climbing club with whom we passed an evening celebrating at my friend Pierre Bonnant's house. This display of genuine human warmth gave us more pleasure than all the blown-up headlines. The following day our friend Paul Payot, later mayor of Chamonix, drove over with our wives to fetch us home.

A day later I went up to a hut with members of the
aspirants-guides'
course. Everything was back to normal. Thenceforward I knew that fame consisted of no more than a few headlines, a few raised glasses, and the pleasure of a few friends. As for the Eigerwand, it was no more than a great memory. Other adventures were waiting for us on other mountains.

In my view the Eigerwand is the greatest climb in the Alps. It does not call for extreme rock-gymnastics, but by reason of its peculiar character modern climbers get up it very little faster than their predecessors, despite all the advances in technique and equipment. This is by marked contrast with most other routes. If one compares it with the greatest feats that have been performed farther afield, such as the Cerro Torre, the south face of Aconcagua, the Fitzroy, the Muztagh Tower, Chacraju, and others, it is not, if you like, any longer an exceptional exploit. But this is less due to any diminution in its value by the progress of mountaineering than to the fact that present-day climbers are willing to make greater efforts and take greater risks than their forefathers.

However good he may be, and however favourable the conditions of his ascent, anyone who returns from the Eigerwand cannot but realise that he has done something more than a virtuoso climb: he has lived through a human experience to which he had committed not only all his skill, intelligence and strength, but his very existence.

These days the story of the Eigerwand is almost complete. Early in March 1961 four German climbers, Walter Almberger, Toni Hiebeler, Anton Kinshoffer and Anderl Mannhardt, made a winter ascent of the face after six bivouacs and seven days of climbing. This exploit, unequalled in the history of the Alps, was conceived and organised by Toni Hiebeler, who was also its real leader although he did not climb at the head of the party. The project was thought out with a care and ingenuity never before brought to bear on an alpine problem. Months were spent in the perfecting of every detail. The most modern equipment then in existence seemed inadequate to them, so they proceeded to develop their own boots and clothing.

Bad weather foiled the first attempt at the height of the Stollenloch, through which they escaped. A week later they returned to the face through the tunnel, then set off resolutely up the really difficult part. They carried so much food and equipment that they could have lived and climbed efficiently through ten days of bad weather. These loads gave them great security, and they climbed with a methodical care that reduced the risk of a fall to the minimum. This apparently prudent technique was not however without its disadvantages. The huge weight of the sacks and the strict adherence to the rules of safety in fact exposed them to the enormous danger of being on the face for a week.

It is permissible to wonder if somewhat lighter kit and less careful methods might not actually have reduced the danger by cutting two or three days off the time taken. They gained their victory thanks to their own courage and ability – and to an exceptionally long spell of fine weather. What would have happened if a long and violent storm had caught them in the middle of the face? The margin between victory and disaster is sometimes very fine. The hard law of the human tribe raises up victors as heroes; the vanquished are relegated to the ranks of weaklings, lunatics and fools. Hiebeler and his party have become heroes.

The hours I passed on the Eigerwand are among the most thrilling I have known, yet of all my ascents I number it with Annapurna and the Fitzroy as one I would not willingly repeat. The falling stones, the loose rock, the almost perpetual verglas and the difficulty of retreat raise the level of risk beyond what is normally reasonable: after all, the number of people killed on the face is nearly equal to the number who have climbed it. One may tempt the devil for a good enough reason and get away with it once, but one cannot make a habit of it and last long.

After our ascent, therefore, it seemed most unlikely to me that I would ever revisit the mountain. Of the other ways up it only the Lauper route is of much technical interest, and the Oberland seems rather remote when there are so many other good climbs all over the place. But one should never be too sure. Ten years later I had another exciting experience on the Eiger, which I will now relate.

In 1957 I numbered two excellent Dutch climbers among my clients. Since they had begun climbing seven years earlier I had taught them practically all they knew, and their natural abilities had made them into accomplished mountaineers. Somewhat unusually, their tastes and talents lay particularly in the direction of ice climbing. Together we had done some of the hardest north faces in the Mont Blanc range. On two occasions they had even taken me with them to Peru, where we had done some difficult first ascents. These shared adventures had made us into close friends.

That season, knowing how many good ice climbs there were in the Oberland, we decided to go there. The weather was ideal, and we had already done the north-west face of the Wetterhorn and returned to our base in the Grindelwald valley when the excitement began.

‘Look, I can see them! There, on the big snow field, by that angle of rock.'

‘Oh yes! Now I can see them too. But there's three of them – can't you see the third?'

Rather irritated at being woken up by these excited Belgian voices just outside my tent at eight o'clock in the morning, I rolled over and curled up again in my sleeping bag without paying much attention. As I dozed off again their meaning gradually began to penetrate the layers of my subconscious, and before long I was wide awake. I remembered a local guide telling me the day before that there was a party on the Eigerwand – no doubt this was the sight that was setting everybody chattering. I shook Tom and Kees and rolled out of the tent, a pair of binoculars in my hand.

Everybody on the campsite was staring up at the sinister, five-thousand-foot wall, which towers so close above the valley that parties can sometimes be seen on it with the naked eye. People were gabbling away in twenty different languages, and I heard a prodigious number of fatuities and much wrong information being exchanged. Some said that thirty men had died on the face, others that it had never been repeated. The Babel was liberally interspersed with remarks like: ‘You must have to be off your head', and: ‘Only a madman would try such a thing.'

Propping myself against a car wheel I examined the face minutely and had no difficulty in seeing not three, but four climbers. They were on the upper part of the second ice field, keeping close to the rock, heading for Sedlmayer and Mehringer's death-bivouac on the buttress. It looked as though they were all roped together in one party, and their progress was incredibly slow. I knew from experience that the slope was not more than forty-five degrees. There was no sign of bare ice, and although the snow had probably not frozen hard in the mild conditions you could see that it was good enough to move quite fast on. Ten years earlier Lachenal and I had gone at least twice as fast across these slopes in spite of bare ice. I was unable to think of any good reason why these men should be moving so slowly.