mont blanc - super dangereux

I cannot remember where my love of mountains began. Early childhood experiences, people met, opportunities afforded, decisions hardly recalled, who knows? My mountaineering aspirations were born among such scarcely realized influences. They developed as I extended my boundaries and mountain experiences.

Thus did the 4807 metres of snow and ice that is Mont Blanc fill my horizon with a burning desire to stand on its summit.

Its position on the western boundary of the European Alps, with its complicated topography, attracts its own weather. In the dreamy Alpine hamlets all can be calm, while the summit peak can be gripped in a maelstrom of wind, spindrift and ice. Mont Blanc can be serene and beautiful, it can be an awesome, deadly killer, whatever its mood it demands respect.

A hot day in late August 1988 found me by the shore of Lac Leman, Geneva, gazing transfixed past its spectacular water fountain, to the distant horizon where the massive gleaming white pyramid that is Mont Blanc shimmered in the sun and seemed suspended above the earth. Would I really stand atop that lofty pedestal, why would I want to? Why can be difficult to explain, perhaps understanding dilutes the desire.

mont blanc towers over chamonix

The weather in the Chamonix valley is foul and not boding well when I team up with my two colleagues. We snatch the ‘Petit Aguille Verte’, then after some serious knee breaking work on the Merdis Glas followed by a late afternoon in front of tumble dryers, we are dry enough to consider our next option, a choice of play low and go home or take advantage of a wee hole in the weather coming up the next day. Our lack of acclimatisation stacked against our success. We opt to take advantage of the weather break. What would you have done?

 A fitful sleep, to the accompaniment of a severe electrical storm complete with heavenly pyrotechnic display and rolling percussion hardly fills me with confidence. In the morning I peek out to a clear, if windy morning. Mont Blanc’s head is coyly hiding beneath a billowing raiment of white silk.

Rucksack repacked for the umpteenth time, then, past the long winding tourist queue, into the Aguille du Midi cable car. After a short, speedy ascent, we alight at the half way station and watch the remaining passengers swing and sway, ever upward, to their summit for the day.

My colleagues and I are soon crossing our first small area of glacier. Quite a tame stretch of ice, giving no clue as to the shock we are about to experience as we leave it. A simple ascent across broken ground is followed by a scramble through steep rock. We then gingerly pick our way along a narrow ledge under a towering buttress and as we round a corner our gaze is exposed to the first real obstacle of our journey, the Bossons Glacier.

super dangereux

Then we are on the glacier, a spectacular potpourri of twisted, shattered ice and towering seracs. Every few minutes we hear the sound of some serac or other huge ice monument crashing onto the glacier or down a crevasse, not the most reassuring sound, however spectacular. Roped and crampon footed we gingerly turn and twist over knife edged ice bridges perched above another pitch black, seemingly bottomless, crevasse, like some wide mouthed creatures awaiting a stumble. We encounter a well equipped party who are retreating from this precarious place, warning us of ‘Super Dangereux’ crevasses, we press on. Our passage is interrupted momentarily and we watch helplessly, for what seems an eternity, as an avalanche directly above us booms out a warning and careers headlong towards us, only to crash behind a distant fold and never reappear.

refuge des grand mulets (from a postcard)

 The final barrier is breached, not without some difficulty and a heart stopping uphill leap across another chasm among a frenzied flurry of kicking crampons and flailing ice axes. Then we are through onto steep but easier snow. It is now possible to see our haven for that night, Refuge des Grand Mulets, a silver coloured rectangular box, perched precariously amongst a rocky outcrop, high above us on the right bank of the creeping glacier. We cover the ground quickly and are soon scrambling up through the rocks and into our refuge at 3051 metres. The time is 1.00pm.

Boots discarded we settle in and take on board sustenance, in the form of bread, cheese and chocolate, washed down by copious quantities of warm tea. An afternoon of lazing about on sun drenched rocks follows. At 6.30pm we are summoned to partake of the communal meal, prepared by the Guardian of the Refuge. Choice is limited to, ‘take it’ or don’t eat. There followed a hot, greasy stew of questionable origin. Well, not so questionable really, does anybody remember ‘Shergar’’?

The day concludes in spectacular fashion, with the sun settling down over the jagged silhouettes of a thousand peaks. Its dying embers wash the sky from crimson, through countless hues to a golden finale. I crawl onto my allotted space on the ‘open plan’ communal shelf and curl-up into my individual hairy blanket. I fall asleep, tired and expectant.

Our cheery Nepalese assistant guardian arouses us from my slumbers at 1.00am. A cold breakfast of lukewarm tea, hard bread and jam follows. We then fumble about in the glow of our head torches and rope up for the day. A quick descent through steep, ice-covered rocks, a brief stop to don crampons, then onto the glacier and away.

The inky black sky is encrusted with shimmering diamonds with full moon beaming its silver smile on us. So bright that it’s reflected light on the vast White Mountain allows us to conserve our head torch batteries.

We crunch our way over the ever-steepening glacier, avoiding black chasms where we can and crossing them when we must. Our meandering ascent takes us under high beetling ice covered buttresses and a fresh covering of snow requires trail breaking and a steady rhythm. It is not long before the predicted altitude sickness overtakes the party and we go very quiet as we try to walk through it, quiet that is, apart from the noisy retching and groaning. I look behind and the distant twinkling lights of Chamonix turn my thoughts to cosy beds and warm duvets.

vallot refuge

My malaise recedes with the dawn and the changing of the sky from inky blackness, through shades of grey then blue, tinged by a pink glow. I feel ready for the next phase of my journey and soon emerge from le Grand Plateau onto the ridge beside the Vallot Refuge at 4362 metres. I can almost see the summit from here and muse; it’s not much higher than Dumyat from here, perhaps its possible after all. 

It had settled into a cold, clear, windy day at our altitude, while far below the valleys were filled with white cotton wool.

Our spirits are high as we traverse the narrowing icy ridges that lead to the summit. Then, there it is, the summit of Mont Blanc, a few hundred feet up a narrow two foot wide strip of ice, with mind blowing drops down either flank into Italy on one side and France the other.

Above our position a duet of climbers get into trouble. Both slither slowly, imperceptibly gathering speed, disaster looms. We look on in helpless disbelief. The lower of the sliding pair affects an ice axe arrest and stops; his roped companion hurtles past, in the general direction of Chamonix. We gape and for a few short seconds, which seem endless, the drama unfolds. A thin lifeline of rope snakes out to its full extent, goes taut and the descending German is yanked to an unceremonious halt. As we move forward and watch he gets to his feet, smiles, shrugs his shoulders and applauds his companion. A reasonable response. We speak to them and all appears in order so we push on. Was that a reminder by the mountain to take it seriously?

We are soon over the final ridge and onto the summit of Western Europe. A military jet rises from our left, up the French flank, in a vertical climb, spins over our heads in a victory roll before plunging down the Italian side. Am I so important, or was it just a coincidence.

I stand on the summit amidst a mixture of emotions, elation probably uppermost, as through tear filled eyes I try to make out some of the other great mountains that are thrusting out of the Alps massif. The Matterhorn, Dent Blanch, Monta Rosa and more, wow!

the summit party

Then it was time to get out of there before it changed its mind. A thought supported by our guide, Roger Payne, who said, 'hurry up and get your photographs then let's get down before the bastard kills us!'

The accursed mountain had briefly let down its guard and allowed me the privilege of standing on its summit; many have not been so lucky. It can be a lonely, frightening and unforgiving place; but maybe that’s where the fun is.

Postscript: Roger Payne, who so professionally guided our party to the summit of Mont Blanc, died on this mountain a few weeks ago. I have posted this article, written some years ago, in his memory and take the liberty of adding a few thought of my own about Roger.

roger belays one of our party across a tricky snow bridge

 I was a client of Roger's on that trip, not a real mountaineer, I would never call myself that. Client, mountaineer, it did not to matter to Roger one little bit, he had such an enthusiasm for life and an understanding of people that his whole being simply radiated friendship and whilst hardly knowing him, he made me feel special, he made me feel I could be a mountaineer, he made me feel that we were friends and despite our seriously short history together I have always regarded him as a friend.

Roger Payne was indestructible, his love of life brimmed over, he was the real deal. He gave so much in a world where most cannot give for taking.

I will never forget you Roger, you will never understand what you did for me.