© J A D Healey 2014
Pat and I were both in very good time for the 7.10, we started talking about general subjects, but eventually I launched myself into all the details of my Pyrenees holiday. At Crewe we didn't need to cross the bridge for the Chester train and we reached Chester in plenty of time for the cups of tea I had promised Pat.
At Llandudno Junction I asked (as always) for the second train in the morning to Bettws-y-Coed, but, as had been their way in the last year or so, they were rather vague about it, and recommended the first one, despite the fact that it was on such a noisy platform. I persevered with my request and eventually the man in charge agreed to show us to the third train and promised to wake us with a cup of tea, in time for the second one. He took us up to a first class compartment and said that he daren't have us any further away than that, promised to put on the platform light outside, and asked us to scream as loud as we could if anything happened. Pat and I refused to be worried, there were two of us and we were armed with our ice axes, besides nailed boots.
The day definitely began when we were awakened with the promised cups of tea. When we had put on our boots and roughly rolled up our sleeping bags, we were shown up the platform to the second train, which had been standing there all the time.
It had been snowing as we had come along by the sea, the previous night, and the snow had continued to fall at the junction, but further inland there was no snow, and gradually the sky cleared and it was quite a lovely morning at Bettws, where we caught the bus to Capel Curig. I had vague thoughts of a taxi from there, but found that Pat and I were the only ones travelling overnight, and also that it was far too early for the garage to be open, so we started along the road hoping a vehicle would be going our way, but we had no luck. I had thought it was five miles, so it was a pleasant surprise to find it only four. About a mile from the Pen-y-Gwryd we passed a car parked by the road, the occupants of which were having breakfast. A little later they stopped by us and I recognised Peter Stott, with a girl. They offered to take our packs for us (they had no room for us as well!) and we let them do so, although it was only a few hundred yards to the turning down.
I suppose it must feel like this on Everest when the oxygen is suddenly switched on, we felt we could sing and dance the rest of the way without packs. We didn't bother to call in the Pen-y-Gwryd, but made straight down to the Pinnacle Club hut, where we were too early for breakfast! On the way we had an interesting experience. We saw the man attending to the rain gauge – now I had sometimes thought that would be a pleasant occupation, to go round all the rain gauges, reading them. I thought they were looked at every month or so; I didn't know that they required attention every morning, that there is a float registering the water level of the collected water on a strip of paper which requires renewing every 24 hours and that the fall is phoned through every day.
At the hut we found that Annette, the caterer, was enjoying tea in bed on the downstairs bunk, and leaving others to cook the food she had provided. The other familiar face was Jean's and cooking the breakfast were Shirley, Sheila etc., while Isobel was struggling with the other stove.
We were given tea at once, and I'm afraid I then sat and talked until my breakfast was put in front of me.
No-one seemed in a hurry to go out, but eventually we were more or less ready and Joan drove us up. John Lawton had called for Isobel, Maud was a little disgruntled. She wanted to do a lead to become a full member and wanted to lead the Milestone, hoping that it would be below the snowline. She hoped to have Isobel as her victim, obviously as Isobel had a car in which to drive round there, but Isobel eventually decided against it.
At the Pen-y-Gwryd we called in as some had brought up their dresses and wanted to leave them. I expected to find no-one about, so was surprised to find Nea; I didn't know she had been forbidden to climb.
Eventually we set off to go up the Miners Track and then up Bristly Ridge. Shirley has a way of avoiding the bog by going along the road for a few hundred yards. Some way up the track we got into the mist and soon saw two figures retreating, they were Bray, who had had enough and Dora King, who was sorry to miss the rest of the day, I think.
We crossed the ridge and then a clearing in the mist enabled us to see the way down, and make a mental note of the places where the people ahead had made detours by missing the best way.
In fair time, we were at the foot of Bristly Ridge, having a little to eat, and hoping that the party we could hear just ahead wouldn't be too slow. Before we started up, Eileen Pyatt and one or two others came over for a chat, but they weren't coming up the ridge.
Pat and I started up following the tracks in the snow, when we realised that some of those behind were slow, so we got out our ropes and started uncoiling them, for we were the only ones with ropes and axes, but when the others caught up I could see that Maud and Sheila Long weren't at all keen to rope, so I sent them on while Shirley and her friend came onto my rope (I didn't realise at that time that the friend was a full member; I didn't offer her any leading).
We caught up Winifred's party of four, who were taking belays in the English manner (I was considering the ridge more as Alpine training), the last one on the rope ahead was Joy's friend, Chris Woods.
It was fun to see my old friends (as I think of the landmarks on the ridge) under fairly deep snow. Higher up, we were able to get ahead, where there was a variety of routes and met the other three on top. Apparently they had fun when they first overtook Winifred, for they had to pioneer the way, but then a couple of unroped boys had overtaken everyone.
Right at the bottom a couple of boys had descended saying that it was too icy higher up, so I wondered what horrors were awaiting us, up in the mist, but the only ice was above the steep part, where the angle was quite easy.
Some people were all for going straight down, but I suggested that we ought to try to find the summit and we set off towards the higher ground, until we came across two climbers trying to pitch a tent. They were Crag and Cave friends of Pat, and also seemed to know me; they were having trouble getting in the pegs and it looked rather a draughty old thing for such a position. After this we didn't bother any more about Glyder Fach summit, but followed down the ridge and then down the Miners Track, getting out of the mist, eventually and realising that it hadn't been such a bad day in the valleys.
We called in the Pen-y-Gwryd for tea, which we had in the residents' lounge, sitting in the alcove by the window. There were many familiar faces, the Wells', Turner's etc., and the L.A.C. representative (K. Corley) was quite friendly, and then it was time to go down to the hut and wash and change.
Annette was still being efficient at Cwm Dyli and was disappointed that more people weren't taking advantage of the tea she was providing.
Some people would have been surprised to see me having quite a good wash in a hut (in hot water!) and then I put on my red dress and was ready for the transport up, which Joan provided again. The day out seemed to have brought up all my Pyrenean sun tan.
We had found Jean down in the hut and at the Pen-y-Gwryd I introduced my two guests to the secretary; Douglas Milner and Neil Mather were a couple of familiar faces, and then it was time to go into the dining room, Polaris to the fore! The room was arranged in four tables, the top table being in the window; we were on the third table, with our backs to the window.
It was the usual sort of meal, and we shared a bottle of white wine with Winifred and her friends, and then it was time for the speeches.
Margaret Lawton welcomed the guests, her theme was that people who used to see her climb, on learning her name, would say "I've heard about you" – she never knew what they'd heard, and she tried to tell us a few of the things she'd heard about the guests. Douglas Milner replied; he'd only had a couple of days' notice that he was expected to speak, and he was rather at a loss as he wasn't used to such polite speeches. He got his laughs at the expense of the Alpine Club, which he was representing.
Next the Fell and Rock representative, Mr. Amison, next proposed the Club and President; he was quite good, but I can't remember many of his points, and lastly came the great event of the evening, our President's speech. I'd always been told that Nea wasn't very fond of making speeches, but at the end Jean turned to me and remarked what an accomplished speaker she was. At first she took as her theme the history of the historic hotel and the various gatherings of climbers it has known, and then she went on to various matters of more interest to women, for instance, she said that a woman had made a partial descent on the Alpine Club – the A.C. representative looked astonished, until Nea reminded him that the Italian ambassador had been invited to a lecture and had taken along his wife, not dreaming that women weren't admitted, and she had to be admitted. Another amusing point was the B.M.C. official write-up of the Pinnacle Club, which she quoted – Pat said that, at the part about the individuality of the Pinnacle Club members, she immediately thought of the three of them on Bristly Ridge, elbowing each other out of the way as they all wanted to be first – none of them wanted to be the abundant expendable test material of an associate member.
Lastly Nea mentioned some of the activities of these members, their leads on Cloggy, Denise's girdle traverse of the West Buttress (but not by name) and then in the Alps was the West Face of the Pointe Albert and the Ryan on the Plan, then first feminine ropes in the Dolomites – the nordward of the Kleine Zinne and the traverse of the Vajolet Towers, as well as climbs like the Rothorngrat and Schullignat.
I considered it an inspired speech and after it we adjourned to the lounge, while the dining room was being cleared and the chairs arranged for Stowell Styles talk.
I was quite interested to hear his account of a Lingen expedition, for the name Lyngen crops up so often in Nottingham. He was a very good lecturer and showed some useful maps and some of his photos were quite good. It was very interesting to Pat and me, as one of his party was Johnny Wellborn, and we knew that in time we'd see his slides.
Soon afterwards I accepted John's transport again, down to the hut, but Pat and Jean were nowhere to be seen, apparently they'd found some cronies in the bar! Back at the hut I realised to what a state speech making had reduced Margaret Lawton. She tried to tell me she hadn't know what she'd been saying that everyone had been buying her a different drink to give her courage etc.
Eventually it was found that there was a bed for everyone, and I turned in.
Jean had promised to get up if called at 7.30 and she did too, closely followed by Shirley – I didn't stir until I'd had a cup of tea! Some of the party were for Crib Goch. I decided on Lockwoods Chimney for a variety of reasons; Pat, Jean and I had been along Crib several times recently and neither of them had 'done' the Chimney; we had a short day and had to reach Nant Peris by 3 o'clock and lastly Jean had some very painful chilblains and I thought she'd prefer a climb to a walk.
Maud was very unhappy, she desperately wanted to do a lead to join the club as a full member, but John came down and suggested that Isobel should start back for Barnard Castle pretty soon, before the roads blocked, for the snow was coming down pretty steadily – Maud seemed to think that Isobel was her only chance of leading, so I didn't suggest that she could have led one of my guests up Lockwoods, for I didn't particularly want her with me, although I'd have helped her if she had suggested it.
Eventually we set off for Lockwoods – I missed the bottom pitches through the woods but didn't bother to go down for them for I saw no point in being purists under these conditions, and we started up with Jean leading us up and through the archway.
I remembered that we had to traverse before Jean had gone very far up and she came down and led along to the foot of the wall pitch; I told her that this could be avoided to the right, and she didn't bother to look at it, but did the avoiding pitch instead. The chimney itself was most disappointing. With two little things like Pat and Jean, they had no trouble whatsoever – no question of anyone being stuck. I shall always remember the exit: it had been snowing steadily for some time, but it stopped for a moment as we emerged, and there was almost a shaft of sunlight to greet us. It was pleasant to climb the airy rocks to the summit of the little crag and then, through more snow, back to the hut.
I removed the snow from my clothes, but forgot that my head was covered, and entered with brilliant white hair!
We raced to get ready and Evelyn gave us coffee, but then Marjorie said that she was having a taxi to Llanrwst, leaving the Pen-y-Gwryd at 3.20 and we thought we might as well share it, so we sat down to listen to the conversation and also to eat the sandwiches which Lady Chorley offered us.
Marjorie and some of the others left, but we thought we'd go up later. The trouble was that we were too late. I wished I'd gone up on my own to have been in time and told Marjorie, but I didn't; I went as quickly as I could through the thick snow, but the taxi had gone when we arrived at about 3.30.
I couldn't make up my mind whether to ring up from the Pen-y-Gwryd for a taxi to meet us at Nant Peris, but in the end decided against it, hoping, I expect, to get a lift. One huge car passed us, going eastwards; it had a man and woman in it and I was really indignant that it didn't stop, when normally I should never have expected it to do so.
I didn't enjoy the traipse, my boots developed 'sabot' in the snow and my feet became sore in my fairly new boots. Then it was so much further on from the bus stop to the phone box at Nant Peris than I had remembered.
I don't know how Jean did it with her chilblains (I think it was really frost-bite from the meet at the end of January). At the phone box, it was about 4.45 (I think) – too late to get a taxi to Bangor in time for the train at 5.19, so I waited for the others and we tried to decide on the best thing to do; we started to walk along the road, but decided Jean's chilblains were too bad, so Pat phoned for a taxi to Llanberis (I was very relieved not to have to walk further myself!).
At Llanberis the driver assured me that there were no more buses to Caernarvon or Llanberis on a Sunday and let me get out and see the timetable myself. We discussed driving on to Caernarvon (and saving about 10/- and hoping there'd be a bus), or all the way to Bangor. I couldn't agree to this at first, when the driver said we could send on the money afterwards, I said it wasn't a case of not having the money, it was a matter of principle – how much money a weekend was worth. Eventually common sense prevailed and we had the ride to Bangor – a pleasant route, more direct than that taken by the bus and we liked the driver. I only wished I had been warmer, to enjoy it more.
We left our things at the station, went down to a café for a pot of tea and Welsh Rarebit, saw Jean to the bus-stop and caught the next train.
This was an interesting journey all 12 hours of it! – we settled in a carriage to ourselves, pulled the blinds down and changed into dry clothes first of all, and then we realised that we were stopping rather a long time – we learned later that they were re-laying the sleepers round Penmaenmawr way. There were all sorts of strange people on the train, such as the grown woman who had never been on a train before and wondered whether there was any difference between 'ladies' and 'gents' at the end of the corridor. Then the man who always makes for a carriage with drawn blinds, for he knows that there is practically certain to be a seat in it etc.
Eventually we reached Chester and, to my surprise, a connection to Crewe was waiting. We got in a carriage and a man immediately wanted to know what we'd been doing, that they'd been waiting an hour for us. You could tell that he was trying not to hold it against us, but he couldn't help but feel that we were responsible in some way. Apparently the train had left on time, but had stopped after going about a quarter of a mile and had been shunted back in.
At Crewe I started to examine timetables while Pat tackled some officials, and they assured us that the only way of getting to Nottingham was on the morning train via Stoke, getting in at about 9.30. I knew it would be better to go via Birmingham and asked the trains there or to Tamworth, but they were not in time to pick up the 1.40 from Birmingham. Then I found myself pleading with the men, "But the 1.40 is such a good train, you must have something to connect with it" – then after a bit they remembered the 11.56 extra train to Birmingham, which isn't on any timetable and told us to wait on platform 3 for that.
We sat in the waiting room drinking tea and I wondered whether the 1.20 to Tamworth could connect up with the 1.40 from Birmingham – why couldn't there be a 12.20 to Tamworth?
A lot of air force men were collecting on the platform, and we asked at what time the train usually arrived in Birmingham and were told 2 o'clock – only 20 minutes too late, couldn't they hurry it if they knew we had a connection? so when the train arrived I spoke to the engine driver who told me that it was due in at 1.30. That was my mistake, of course, the guard is in charge of the train, I should have spoken to him.
The train was very crowded, but the forces didn't mind making room for us, and Pat got on the rack. We lost our connection because of the time it took to collect the tickets at Wolverhampton, or some such place and arrived about ten minutes too late.
The beautiful new all night buffet was shut, but we found a fairly warm ladies waiting room and settled down in our bags, but didn't have unbroken sleep. After 3 o'clock, we didn't dare go right off to sleep again, for fear of missing the 4.37. Later, a woman came in with a couple of kids. Pat always tells the tale that one of them saw Pat looking at her and burst into tears.
Soon after 4 o'clock a couple of policemen came in, we'd spoken to one of them when we arrived. I wished I'd thought to ask him if he'd wake us, then we could have dozed with a clearer conscience.
I was waiting on the advertised platform for the 4.37 when a woman said that she'd heard a rumour that it came in on another platform, so I asked. "Yes, it's Monday morning, so of course it'll be on platform so and so I was told, in the tone as though he didn't know how anyone could be as stupid as not to realise it. I had another look at the indicator and there wasn't a word up about the change on Mondays.
Another change at Derby, and another carriage of very friendly people and we were in Nottingham, soon after 7 o'clock.
The Oread, Polaris bus was overfull, so I was asked if I'd go in an Oread car; this was rather nice as the meeting place was the Y.W.C.A. I was amazed when I saw the big Hudson which was to take us, and the luggage was soon strapped onto the rack on the roof. I was in the back with Roger Turner and Norman and in the front, the passengers were Geoff Thomson and Tony Smythe. It was a pleasant journey, stopping in Shrewsbury for tea, and so on along the A5 to Gwern-y-Gorff Isaf, where the Polaris were camping. I knew that I would be the first arrival of my party. When I hadn't succeeded in getting into Glan Dena, I had written to Mr. Williams about using his barn, and had had a pleasant reply, but when I arrived and told myself that, if the others could camp, so could I and, despite the rain, I went down to the usual field and pitched my Arctic tent, crawled into it and into my bag.
I felt I ought to put on tea for the late arrivals, but I was glad afterwards that I didn't.
The tent was perfectly waterproof, but that was more than I can say for the seam of the groundsheet, and it also came through the seams of my cape, which was placed on top. I mopped every few hours, but managed to keep my bag practically dry.
I looked out and, as I had begun to suspect, there was not another tent in sight. They were in the barn which I had written about! I waited until after 7 o'clock and then packed my rucksack left standing my sodden tent and made my way up to the Dutch barn, where I found the others. Alf was just wondering how one described the roof – he was on the windward side! – he said one certainly didn't sleep in a Dutch barn, nor did one sleep under one, he really thought one slept in 'association' with one.
I had my breakfast, left my wet things on a clothes line and sat about until people looked as though they were going out for the day, and then I agreed to go out in the pouring rain as far as Glan Dena for coffee – the snag was that we weren't offered coffee when we got there! and as we were already rather wet we set off again, along the road. I had suggested ridge walking from Y Garn. Arthur was for rock climbing – I wasn't keen on that suggestion so Arthur asked me if I had ever done the Cneifion Arête and I had to admit that I hadn't and I found myself with the party making for the Nameless Cwm. Presently my party branched off to the left, making for the rocks, while Alf Martin Ridges and friend went straight on. The rocks were nicely snowed over, and then on the ridge, the wind came in dangerous gusts, so I was most relieved when those in front suggested retreat. I had refused to rope up. I was too cold, and it wouldn't have been justifiable to go on unroped under those conditions; we descended and followed up the tracks towards the ridge – Martin had branched off to the right, but I wouldn't have fancied a difficult snow climb, for the snow wasn't particularly stable. We followed Alf who looked a little lonely. It was reasonably sheltered this side of the ridge; it was a shock to get over the unstable steep snow at the top and to be exposed to the full force of the gale. I had no patience with the expedition, it was particularly trying as we had got practically soaked by the rain lower down and now it was snowing. We'd have kept warm in the snow had we been dry. The water had trickled down my socks and had accumulated in my waterproof boots, so I sat down on the ridge, took off my boots, wrung out my socks, and dressed again. Alf couldn't understand how I managed to unlace my boots under those conditions. We went along to the top of the Gribin and looked down, but someone decided that the wind was too strong; we went a little further along the ridge until we all agreed to turn back. Martin Ridges was very disappointed, his companion had turned back and he had hoped to continue his walk with us.
Tea was provided at Glan Dena, and then we went back to the barn. It was rather funny changing in the open. I looked round and noticed that I was surrounded by men, and each man seemed to be surrounded by girls, but we were much too busy to notice any one else.
It looked like being a long evening, so I joined those who were in favour of a meal at a farm, and Alf fixed it up at Uchaf – and eventually we went along. It was pouring with rain by now, one got nearly soaked getting out of the car to open a single gate.
We had a pleasant and adequate meal at the farm and I put my woolly to dry in front of the electric fire and then we had to face the torrential rainfall for the return journey to the car (20 yards?) and someone had to open the gates. After his experience the previous night, Alf decided to sleep in his car. I was all right. I was in deep hay, the sheltered end of the barn.
It was still raining at 6 o'clock, but soon afterwards it stopped. The sun didn't come out, but it was quite a pleasant morning with a fairly strong wind. We put all our clothes out to dry and I collected the tent which was dry apart from the underside of the groundsheet.
We eventually made our way to Glan Dena and discussed plans. Ernest and Alf were for enjoying the drive home, which took their passengers from the walking party, but eventually, with John Goldsworthy, Jean Griffiths, Lucy and Sandy, we set off up Pen-yr-Olen Wen. John wasn't for going up the ridge, Oh no, we had to go straight up the side, we had a short halt before reaching the top of the ridge and then ambled on over the summit and on to the top of Carnedd Dafydd. It was very pleasant, despite the mist on the top. The wind was strong, but not too much so. There was snow and rock in patches underfoot, with an occasional stretch of clear ice to amuse those in vibrams (or did I go down once despite nails?). No-one had a watch, but at the col before Llewellyn we passed another party. I think it was about 2, and there wasn't time for those catching the bus to continue, so we all cut back to Glan Dena. We were soon out of the mist and then down to the patches of soft snow, with bog between and then further down was the bright bracken, and by the time we reached the level of little bushes there was almost a ray of sunshine to greet us. A great feeling of contentment came over me at that moment, and I strolled back feeling very happy. At Glan Dena we were given tea and then John gave me a lift along to Helig, where I was picking up the Hudson. I had left my things on the fence all day and they were practically dry.
When Geoff, Michael and Norman arrived, I followed them and finished up the food they couldn't manage, and helped with the washing up to ease my conscience, for don't I remember that women visitors may not be offered more than a cup of tea!
We stopped for more food in Shrewsbury and arrived in Nottingham at 11.30 or so.
We eventually all collected in Mansfield Road; Betty, Anthea and I got in together, then we picked up Peter, the luggage was stowed and we left at about 7.15 on a beautiful evening.
The way was uneventful (along the Ollerton Road, up the A1, a stop for petrol); we let the cafés go and there wasn't one when we wanted it, but then we found one I think beyond Boroughbridge. I went in the transport side and ordered tea and coffee, but when the others came, we went in the side with table cloths and had egg and chips and a pot of tea.
We could have lingered on, over the meal, but eventually someone made the move to get up, and we realised that we had a long way to go and set off. This time Betty took the wheel. In Nottingham she had so proudly shown Ernest her licence to show that all was in order and that it was quite clean. I soon realised why – she was no sooner at the wheel than she began to boast about the number of times she had been caught speeding! – and the licence hadn't always been free from endorsements!
For a moment she took it a little steadily while she got the feel of the thing and at first she got muddled with the foot dipper, but in no time she was keeping up our 40 mph average and driving so confidently that it was hard to believe that she hadn't driven for a year. She said that the Javelin was a lovely car to drive. At Scotch Corner, we forked left and then the road, although straight, was undulating. I found it disconcerting when the lights ahead would disappear from view, but Betty didn't worry. What lovely names: Brough, Bowes, Appleby, Kirkby Stephen, and then we were heading for Carlisle, and then Gretna, Betty's first visit to Scotland. The next part was new to me, but Ernest had been this way before and was able to describe it in daylight, the moors above Beattock and then the towns with the single storey houses and so on to Glasgow. He decided to go through Glasgow as there would be no traffic that time of night, but we rather regretted the decision for there was about 20 miles of cobbles, limited, and also we didn't want to go fast for the sake of the car, the silencer was already beginning to come loose.
We did the first 200 miles in exactly 5½ hours and, as we had spent over half an hour on our meal, we were averaging quite 40 mph of travelling time.
I had been sitting in the front for the last few hours and had tried my hardest to stay awake and look out for signposts etc. for the driver, but when we stopped just beyond Glasgow and Betty took over, I got in the back and thought I'd have a sleep. The front was warm enough, but the back was freezing, we had to take out the armrests to get in two people and about three rucksacks and there was quite a draught blowing up. It soon woke me, although I dozed a little. Betty drove on; it was too dark to really appreciate Loch Lomond. there were two halts as Betty began to feel drowsy. Once she got out for a walk along the road to wake herself up and another time she had a 10 minutes sleep and then on again. I think I missed Crianlarich, but began to take an interest in things at Tyndrum, and then on to Rannoch Moor. What a wonderful sight was the first orange of the sun. There were trees, coming up through the mist, and these were reflected in a lochan and behind the first colour from the sun. Then on, with Loch Tulla to the left and then there was the Buchaille in front, Kingshouse and all the sights of Glencoe to try to point out to those who were new to the district. It was still a lovely morning, but the clouds were beginning to gather. We passed the turning to the Clachaig, as we continued along the new road and, as we were too early for the ferry, we took the road round by Kinlochleven, putting on about 15 miles to the journey, then on to Onich, past the ferry to Ardgour and up by Loch Linnhe to Fort William, where we arrived at 7.45 – 12½ hours for 412 miles, not bad I thought.
The trouble was that we were too early, we couldn't get breakfast until 8.30! Ernest found a garage which opened at 8 o'clock and they promised to fix his silencer by 9 o'clock.
We had to wait a little while for our breakfast as we had asked for porridge and the Scots didn't seem used to supplying it. We wandered round the town; Anthea bought a Russell tie as a birthday present for her father, Betty and I sent off postcards, and then we set off up Glen Nevis, it was a road which needed to be taken reasonably steadily! After Polldubh, there was no surface on the road and it needed to be taken at a walking pace, but soon we saw John Cotterill's car, and a few tents on the right. We got out and looked around and decided on a camp site in the wood a few hundred yards up the valley.
Eventually the car was turned and parked, the tents were pitched and we were changed and ready to set out. I think it was about mid-day.
I had liked the look of the snow corrie high up on Sgurr a Mhaim, as we had seen it from lower down the valley (also I remembered my first sight of it from Carn Mor Dearg in 1948). So it was my suggestion that we ascended it, although I think the others were more taken by the ridge up to Stob Ban. Plod, plod, plod – I soon realised what we were in for. It was a rounded side we were ascending, the summit was nowhere near in view, and I knew that after half an hour I should expect to see it, and feel frustrated until I did, so I took myself in hand and said "3,500 ft – and 1½ miles, you can't possibly get up in less than 2½ hours, and, having then, so to speak, set my legs in motion for 2½ hours, I was content to let my mind think of other things, and it didn't seem such a drag. We had a short halt on the way up, we also found a bit of a path which we followed until it changed its mind and started to traverse the mountain, but soon after this we came to the zone of scree and snow. From below I couldn't make up my mind which was the lesser of the two evils, but there was almost a path going up the scree and it wasn't tedious at all. Then we came to the edge of the snow corrie, and so up to the top for a halt, feed, and to discuss the view.
I was sorry the light wasn't suitable for photography; I had taken a couple of the hills below Polldubh, one of the rainbow, and one which I hoped would be a general one of the falls, and then I kept my camera in for some time. We went down the ridge towards the nameless cross road, over several little humps, and still discussing what we should do, I had originally suggested the Horseshoe over An Garbhanach, via Am Bodach, but the others were still fascinated by the ridge on Stob Ban. We cut out the nameless summit and traversed to the right to the lochan, which had been fascinating, as the edges were clear, but there was a sheet of opaque ice in the centre, giving the thing a convex look. I remember also a little lamb here, his mother looked on horrified as he ran up to us. I had my camera poised ready, but didn't manage to get a snap before mother called him away.
Anthea then decided to go down, and Ernest accompanied her. I was in two minds what we should do, I didn't want to be late back, nor so tired that we didn't make an early start the next day, when we were for the 'Ben', but at the same time I realised that to Pete Stob Ban had become a great challenge, and Betty also wanted to make the very most of each day, so I eventually accompanied them. Half an hour or so and we were up and enjoying the evening sunshine over Loch Linnhe, a few words to John and André who had just come up the other way, and then down the ridge, which did not have exciting rock steps, after all.
After the scree and snow, it levelled out to a smoothish grass ridge, which we followed for half an hour, until we came to the steepening at the bottom. Here we might have done better to have traversed further to the left, but we went down as directly as we could. When I was in an exaggerating frame of mind, I described this part as hanging from trees and dropping down the sheer steps of rock. I think we were beginning to feel a little tired by this time and were glad to get back to camp for supper and bed.
There had been quite a shower of rain earlier, and it was still drizzling at 6.30, but. as I had guaranteed to wake our section of the camp, I made the great effort of getting up and going over to Ernest's tent. Eventually I got a reply, and the others were awake, and, to my horror, I found that we were all agreeing that we ought to get up, that we could turn back later if conditions were too bad (I had hoped for an extra hour in bed, I think I had found car travelling even more tiring than train travelling).
Eventually we were ready and went in the Javelin as far as the hostel, where we were able to get some milk from the milkman, which we left in the car for our return to camp. We used the footbridge across the river and then cut steeply up the hillside for about 700 ft, where we joined the Pony Track. We followed round all the zigzags, for I always insist that the shortcuts are the track down, and not the way up. There were many discussions about the difficulty of bringing a Ford car up this way! – and eventually we reached the col with Lochan Meall an t'Suidhe, and we cut across to the Allt a'Mhuilinn; we tried to traverse, but realised eventually that we'd better drop down to the track – we lost height with reluctance! The tops were still in mist, but Betty was getting terribly thrilled with her first view of the magnificent cliffs, with Northeast Buttress on the skyline. Eventually we reached the hut, and met George Ritchie, but we didn't stop there, we went on to the foot of our climb, before eating. Ernest was desperately keen to do a different climb, so, hoping I wasn't being foolhardy, I had suggested Observatory Ridge, hoping that conditions would be good.
We found that George, and his friends were also bound for it, but the time we got to the foot, they had changed their minds, for they said the snow higher up seemed unstable, and they were for Northeast, so we changed our minds. I was very relieved at this, for the weather wasn't improving, and I hadn't thought it really good judgement to choose the harder climb in the first place. As we ate, I looked in horror as the Scotsmen climbed up to the start of the Buttress proper – it looked to me so steep and belay-less. We traversed across to the start and then stopped to rope up, and I managed to rope up with Anthea and Betty, which pleased me, and somehow or other we managed to get in front, I forget why; I expect it was because we were ready, while the others were still arguing.
I was a little doubtful on the soft snow above a miniature bergschrund, but once on the rock I found that it was mostly a case of walking up steps in grass growing in weaknesses in the rock, and was pleased to find occasional belays.
I'd run out long lengths of rope, because it wasn't difficult, but I didn't think it quite the sort of rock where one moved together, for one thing there weren't enough belays. On the whole we moved 2 and 1, Betty and I moving together, or Betty following Anthea up. Betty and I led through most of the way up, but it usually saved time if we led a couple of pitches each, before handing over.
We were soon on the skyline and tackling the real buttress. It is years since I've looked it up in the guide book, but I remembered Abraham's words, "A great impostor, it's always possible to avoid difficulties to the left". There'd be easy rock, then snow, with the steps already made, then more rock – we seemed drawing away from Ernest and Pete, but didn't stop.
There were one or two snow showers, and the wind was quite blustery in places, but at other times it almost cleared. I know at times I'd want to point out Tower Ridge or the Mamores or Aonachs to the others, but I never did. Either the view had gone before we got together again, or I forgot.
Eventually I saw the thing I was both hoping to see, and almost dreading, the Mantrap. I was wanting to see it for I knew it was near the top and, with the doubtful weather, I thought it nearly time we got over the difficulties, and my dread was in case it lived up to its name! Betty was belayed some yards below it and it was my turn to lead. I took off my rucksack and even my camera, and then felt the holds – I didn't try to move up, I came down and said that I should have to warm my hands first, for I wanted to do it first go. Betty immediately said should she lead it, and I was overjoyed that she should. Anthea belayed her and I stood below in case of need, and Betty tackled it very confidently, and went some way up to a belay.
Anthea then went up and, when she was above the steep part, hauled up the rucksacks (I know I ought to have climbed it with mine, but I felt that after the way the others had gone up, I didn't want to make a mess of it). The next pitch was mine – I always remembered that, when Ken was leading it, he had called me round to belay him from as near as possible, as he cut up the icy snow – I always remember that at that moment I really felt the importance of seconding, and tried to pretend I liked to have ice sent down onto me. There was far less snow this time and I had to take to the rock, which was wet and numbing my fingers, so I took my time, warming my hands before making a move. Eventually I was up and traversing to the right, then up the snow to a good belay. Betty said she found this far harder than the Mantrap; I thought we'd make a good combination if she could make the bold moves and I could do those needing more technical skill. The ridge was less steep after this, but there was one final rock step. I was leading, but soon belayed and handed over to Betty, saying that I should have had to warm up my hands before trying it. We went over to the Observatory, but didn't bother to descend; we sorted out our food and awaited the others, ate and then started down. I couldn't remember how one reached the Red Burn, but, by following the tracks in the snow, one got there!
It was too soft for standing glissades, and one looked rather in disgust at the tracks of people who had been undignified enough to sit! – until one tried it oneself – I made sure that I was behind, for it is so tedious to have to make the tracks! and then I had a wonderful time! – one sat on a miniature avalanche and went down over hill and dale, turning this way and that, at the whim of the track – but one had to leave the bed of gully at times, for these was an occasional hole, large or small, into the torrent below. All too soon we had to leave the snow and take to the hillside until we reached the Pony Track.
It was lovely down here, with the evening sunlight shining straight into our faces. I suppose the valleys had had good weather all day, but I'm sure we wouldn't have changed with anyone, and we were soon down, taking the shortcuts, and then down the hillside, over the bridge, into the car and back to camp.
Betty, Anthea and I each had a tent and each cooked separately. I was the experienced camper, but I lacked the confidence in my own arrangements (not to mention cooking ability!) to say "You'll all cook with me". We shared tea, I believe, also perhaps soup, but ate our meat courses separately, but afterwards we shared a sweet. Betty had brought a tin of pineapple, to celebrate, in case she actually got in a climb on 'the Ben' and this was the evening for it. She had also been in contact with John Drury. His friend André didn't speak English, so John was pleased to bring him over where Betty could speak German to him. He also spoke French of course, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to him, for I realised quite early on that he could understand my English, so I guessed that his English was probably better than my French or German. John was horrified at André's opinion of Scotland – one large bog! John brought over some jelly and fruit which we had with the pineapple, and we spent a jolly few hours, the only pity seemed that we weren't sitting round the camp fire, but we agreed to rectify that the next evening, and John had asked us out to supper, and Betty had supplied him with quite a lot of food.
We were quite a large camp by this time, Alf had arrived on his own, for his two passengers, Alan and Michael had, on my instigation gone up the Allt a'Mhuilinn to camp (I had really wanted to camp there, but I realised that the five of us from the Javelin were one party and Ernest was against the long carry, so I gave in and camped low). Arthur had come with Dianne and B.P.G.F. (as Betty christened Ann, who of course was in the other camp with Bob Pettigrew). Bob Newton came with Derek and Eddie had come by train and Bob and Michael had come from Edinburgh.
It was a sociable evening, despite the no camp fire, and it was difficult to break away soon after 11 o'clock and go to bed. We had decided on the Ben again, so again we were to get up at 6.30.
Once more there was rain in the night, but only light, and the sky was clearing by 6.30. We didn't sleep quite so heavily this night and in the morning I simply announced the time without having to get out; that pleased me, real breakfast in bed! We took even longer to get ready this morning, and we had missed the milkman at the hostel, but were able to get milk at the dairy this side of Fort William. Betty and I had persuaded Ernest to drive round to the distillery, Betty was so keen to go right up the Allt a Mhuilinn so that she should see as much as possible of the crags, and I wanted to go that way because I consider it easier and quicker.
We went along the railway, started up the path, but then missed it and went too far to the right, but were able to cut back, cross the river and join the path. The top of the Ben was just clearing, and we tried to photograph the Tower coming out of the mist, we also tried to get photos of the waterfall, for it was a lovely sunny morning. At long last we reached the hut and sat down for a rest and feed.
It was such a sociable day; I had met Slim Sorrell at the Rock and Ice camp lower down, and he said they had done Tower Ridge the previous day and conditions were perfect, and one could walk along the Eastern Traverse with one's hands in one's pocket. At the hut, Don Cowen and George Ritchie were standing together, so I said "Same old faces" – the man to their side then said something, so I thought perhaps he didn't like being called an 'old face' and I said I didn't mean him. Now this apparently was the wrong thing to say, for as he passed me later on the Douglas Boulder, he started to enumerate the number of times I had seen him, starting with the day I had given Don a rope down for Lots Groove!
George and party were toying with the idea of route I and recommended it to me, but I didn't think we were quite the party for a long severe, tempting as looked the dry rocks in the sunshine. Don was watching Jo Brown and co. pegging their way up overhangs to reach a crack which would be equally difficult I was told. They had got so far the previous day and were hoping to complete it. Don eventually went over to watch and said that nothing would induce him to try to climb it.
Arthur and Dianne, and John and André arrived, and then we made over to the shade of the Douglas Boulder. Ernest had wanted to try Castle Ridge, but I refused, and George said it would have been suicide.
Ernest hadn't liked the division of the ropes the previous day and said he wanted them arranged differently. I knew that he'd expect to lead, and I knew that Betty would love to lead, so I suggested that I joined Ernest and Pete, as I had climbed the ridge several times before. I didn't see why Ernest should have all the leading, and I honestly believed that the party moved more quickly with me in front. At the foot of the Boulder, I started up – I expect it was because I was ready first. After a pitch of rock there was some scrambling, and then I thought I ought to give Ernest a turn at leading. On the scrambling, Ian Ogilvy, George Ritchie's friend, and other Scotsmen passed us, as they avoided the initial rock. Next came some more rock climbing, on smaller holds. I took a short cut and gave myself the lead again, for I don't think Ernest would have offered it to me, and then we led through fairly well. The rocks steepened, and Ernest had the lead of an awkward swing round to the right, which I remembered from the previous time I had been this way in 1948 (I tried to visualise the horrors of the Boulder when everything was covered with clear ice and there was powder snow on top in 1951).
I had the lead of what I considered the more exposed pitch at the top, and I found a splendid belay, but I had hardly any footholds. After some scrambling, we were on the summit and starting down. I went down, but was glad to think there was a rope above me, so directed the others to come down the correct way! It was now 3.45 and I felt we ought to discuss whether to continue. Everyone was in favour, so I didn't say any more, for I knew the party had the endurance. Betty and Arthur were romping up the rocks and I knew that we should move very much more quickly on the Ridge Proper and after all there were quite five more hours of daylight and there was no chance of the weather deteriorating.
While Ernest led up the little chimney I shortened the rope so that I could take over the lead on the little snow crests and we could all move together, the shorter rope between Pete and me being managed reasonably efficiently.
I quite enjoyed the pitches Ernest led, for Betty was following our rope pretty closely. I was sorry we were holding them up so, but she said that she didn't want to lead a first rope. At times on the polished rock on the Boulder I had envied her her vibrams, even if they were worn, but she said she was climbing entirely on her few tricouni nails in the toes of her boots and she envied me my fully nailed boots.
I noticed that on the snow Anthea didn't bother to claim her axe from Betty's pack and I said that it showed the confidence Anthea had in her (I haven't that much confidence in anyone!) and Betty immediately said that she had equal confidence in Anthea as a second (I wouldn't have left those two together if I hadn't noticed on Northeast that Anthea was a competent rope manager) and although the three of us were simply longing to get up to the top of the Tower, and into the sunshine, we were really a very happy party.
Any turns in the front would come and go. We reached the Little Tower, and then Ernest stopped at the beginning of the Eastern Traverse and I went along it. We had lengthened the rope again, so I didn't bother to stop half way, but went along to the end, hoping to get a rock belay, but there wasn't quite enough rope, so had to use my axe, nicely deep in the snow. Pete was soon along and then Ernest. I moved round the corner to make more room and Ernest then led up to the top of the Tower, Pete followed and then I moved off, closely followed by Betty who had left Anthea with an inadequate stance, but a rock belay. Some way up a rock move made an impression on me. It was very steep, but the holds seem good as you move up, but a rock bulging out into your tummy puts you off balance and once you've moved up the flat holds seem inadequate to hold you in balance and you feel around quickly for something incut. There was an edge for the left hand, but it was wet and not quite sufficient, so I felt for something positive for the right and found an incut finger-hold beneath a pile of snow and once I had that I was quite happy again. I turned round as Betty reached that move. She must have been about 10 ft below me. I had found it awkward (and I think she must have said something for) so I said O.K.? and was going to follow it up with an offer of help, but Betty shifted and said 'yes', so thinking she had regained her balance, I started on up, turning as I went, to see that Betty had come away from the rock. It wasn't a slip from her feet, but it may have been her hand. She had good circulation, so I don't think that her hands would have numbed where mine didn't.
I didn't try to repress my horrified "She's off" for it seemed the best way of letting the other know. I watched her go, but couldn't take in at the time whether her head had knocked the rock or the snow. I realised that the belay had held and I immediately took off my rucksack with my axe in the 'uphill' position and put it on the ledge in front of me, told Ernest to treat my rope seriously, for I was going down quickly and ran down as fast as the rope would allow (I didn't want to confuse the issue by giving more instructions). I didn't hesitate, but many thoughts had gone through my mind in that moment, always uppermost was the thought that it is impossible to live for more than 10 or is it 20 minutes suspended from a rope, and there speed is of the utmost importance. There were ridiculous irrelevant thoughts such as "She can't be badly hurt for we were climbing together in the summer". but apart from that there was the question of who was to go down next. I knew that even the most incompetent of men would pull better than I could, but I decided against going up and letting a man take my place for I thought Anthea might like company quickly and I was in a position to climb down and I knew I could do it quickly.
I also realised that there was another party on the Tower, waiting to descend the ridge, and I worked it out that they were either complete fools or very competent to be trying it so late in the evening. I banked on their competency and from the start shouted, "Send the other man down, thinking that, as speed was the chief essential, the other man might be quicker than Ernest. Like every other assumption I made at this time I was wrong. I found Anthea gasping for breath, she had been pulled forward onto her belay and was hanging from it (I suppose the 10 or 20 minutes also applied to her!) and in addition she had Betty's rope round the back of her waist and round her arm and was quite helpless, but she had saved about 15 ft of slack, without which I don't know what we should have done.
I tried pulling on the rope until I got cramp in my hands "Has it eased it?" I asked Anthea. "A little", Anthea was just able to get out in a very dim whisper, but she was obviously trying to make the best of it, for it had done no real good. I let go of the rope and took the first of the slack and put it round the belay, held it round my hand and told Anthea to wriggle out of the rope, which she did with difficulty, Betty falling a foot or two further emphasising that she was hanging from the rope, had we any doubts.
Here again, I did the wrong thing, I realise now. It wouldn't have taken half a moment more to have knotted the rope, and tied it on, but I didn't and that meant that I was useless, that I had to stand there holding rope. Now the immediate problem was solved, I looked up for my 'other man' my 'good climber' who had been coming down to do all the donkey work, and found no-one had yet started the descent, and when a body did appear, it was Ernest climbing in his usual sure but painfully slow manner and I knew that by the time he reached us Betty must have practically had it. He stayed above us and feebly pulled at the rope with his hand. I tried to impress upon him that there was only one possible way of pulling: that is by straightening the back and eventually I managed to get him to go down below us where he could try to get the rope over his back. We waited and waited and eventually, taking twice as long as Ernest, the 'other man' arrived and I thought that if he could help Ernest to get the rope in position, Ernest's great strength might prove its worth and he might be able to pull the rope, but Desmond, 'the other man', had different ideas. He refused to go down to Ernest and made no sensible suggestion whatsoever, all he could say was that we mustn't risk another accident. Then he looked at me and asked who had belayed, so I pointed to my sling, over the same belay as Anthea's (the footholds were so meagre that I wouldn't dream of standing there without a belay!) Desmond couldn't understand that I was belayed. He'd only say "now we must have you belayed" and took the rope to me (the other end had been thrown down from the top – I don't know why). He went through the whole 120 ft and then put it round his axe, in the snow. Next moment he'd be on again "Now whose got you belayed" and we'd go through it all again. I suggested that he went down to Ernest, but it did no good, so I ordered him politely to go down, then finally I begged him with tears in my eyes, but I literally couldn't get him to touch that rope. I'm sure we'd been an hour by this time and I realised that the problem now was recovery of a corpse not the rescue of a living body. I had got Desmond to try one thing. I had got him to send down a spare rope with footloops tied in the bottom, which a conscious person might have been able to use, as I said, so that we'd know afterwards that we'd tried it. Ernest and I discussed staying on the ledge. Personally I should have welcomed it, for it would have been cold and I should have got a joy in taking it out of myself, but Desmond was against it, and I honestly believed that, if the others were going up they might need me. Ernest was terribly upset, although docile and willing, and Desmond was all to pieces; I trusted neither of them. Anthea I misjudged; she was perfectly cool by my side, but I thought she was inexperienced and I thought that after what she had been through she must be upset. Desmond said that his companion was an incompetent beginner, and I didn't know what state Pete was in. In such a party I thought that I had better go up with them in case they made some foolish decision. We got up quite quickly and Anthea was her usual calm self, and then we roped up for the rest of the ridge, Desmond put himself first, then me and then Anthea. I approved of this, for I knew that I could second, and look after Anthea's rope, but next he put Ernest, Pete and Bunny (the other girl). This surprised us all, as he'd said that his companion was so useless, but I thought that we could but try it, and it worked.
A summit camper gave us a rope down for the steep last 50 ft and then we were up. Anthea was axeless as Betty had her axe and, as I was second I felt that I needed an axe and kept my own, but Anthea walked up completely competently.
We had shouted to some people at the observatory and then at the top we spoke to one. Anthea asked him what he was doing and he said he was staying there and that his friend had gone down for help. We all decided to go down and I thought that, at the lochan I should leave the others and go up to the hut with information. It was dark by now, it must have been a perfect evening. When I reached the top of the Tower there was a band of red still to the west, but how I hated the perfection of it all, but mostly I hated the cruel black crags around me.
It was a tedious way down, the snow was soft, no carefree glissades, but eventually we reached the Pony Track and saw a light near the lochan. We made over to it and found that it was the other summit camper who had fetched help, both from the hut and from the Rock and Ice camp. I learned with horror that they were already on the way up, so there seemed no point in going to the hut, and I went down with the others. No short cuts this time, down the Pony Track, I was for going to Achintee but fortunately Anthea persuaded us it would be quicker to go to the hostel, and had made a mental note of its position before the light finally went out. We banged on the door and the warden looked out of the window and said that he would phone the police, and they would send a car for us, if we started walking along the road. We thought the car would never come, but eventually it arrived, and dropped Anthea and me at the hospital so that Anthea could have a dressing put on her hand.
Ernest then suggested that they should take him back to pick up his car while they were waiting. Anthea and I were disgusted that they went past the hospital without picking us up; we started to walk along the road, rang up from a call box to find the position of the police station and were fetched nearly immediately afterwards.
We made short statements. People came and went. They'd still occasionally ask some little point. Arthur and Pete were nearly dropping off to sleep, so I suggested that Ernest took them back to camp while I stayed in case they needed any information.
In any other circumstances I'd have considered it an amusing evening. The sergeant knew nothing at all about the Ben and certainly nothing about mountaineering, so we had got out the guidebook and showed him photos of the position and later on I had demonstrated the technicalities of belaying, and then, when other people arrived he had been able to show off his newly acquired knowledge. Various people from the police station disappeared, and finally even the sergeant went, and they all came back in what they considered suitable clothes for the Ben.
Fortunately they were able to find a few pairs of nailed boots in the police station, for one of them had come in Wellington boots. The man in the kilt who arrived later was obviously in charge, and he eventually rang up London and gave the police a message that there had been a serious accident on Ben Nevis; it was thought that a Mrs. Emery was involved and that further information would be sent as it was received. At last an amateur climber arrived. He was very good tempered considering that he had been out until late, had been skiing in Glencoe until 9 o'clock. It was pleasant to talk to someone who spoke the same language, and he said that he'd never heard of a more difficult rescue. Later I asked him out of interest how many men he'd consider necessary to do the hauling and he said four, and said that they'd attach other ropes to the one. I felt a little better after this.
At about 3 o'clock or so, Arthur called for me. Ernest had said he'd come back. I was most relieved that he didn't for he looked all in, and I left just as the party from the police station were setting out for the Ben, to be there for daylight. In the camp there was tea for me by the camp fire. Alf was just setting out, and I heard that other cars were going round about 7 o'clock, so, at about 4 o'clock I crawled into my bag for a couple of hours.
I set out in the first car, with Derek and Bob; we went round to the distillery and I told the others to go on and I'd go at my own pace, and later Bob Pettigrew, Arthur and co. overtook me.
At the hut I found that they were waiting for a Very light. One colour would mean that they were lowering her to the foot of Glovers Chimney, and the other that they were taking her to the summit, and everyone was needed there. We waited an hour or so. There was no signal, but at last someone came down from the summit to say that everyone was needed there, so we went out and up our various ways. John Cotterill and I brought up the rear, up Corrie Leis. We met one man on his way down who told us it was useless going up and then we met "George Richie's shadow" as he called himself; he seemed annoyed that there had been no-one left at the summit, he didn't seem to know much about the campers up there, but he'd had a grim time, an evening trip up, a night out, and then, when he had thought he could relax back at the hut, he found there had been another hold up and had to go up again. He was able to tell me the thing I really wanted to know, that Betty had broken her neck in the fall. He begged me not to go on up, but I did so, and found that Jo Brown and co. had left Betty on the summit of the Tower and that there had only been about four of the mountain rescue at all competent, and they and Arthur and George weren't enough to get her across the Gap. There was a crowd at the top watching; I saw no point in joining them, and I didn't particularly want to go down the ridge, so I decided to go down to the lochan, to see if I could find the Chunky crowd who were lost on the way up – actually the only people I saw were Alf and co. on their way up. Chunky and the Oreads were waiting at the foot of Glovers Chimney, thinking she'd be sent down that way. I wanted to call on the Rock and Ice, who I expected to be sleeping after their exertions, but when I got down there I found that they had packed up and gone home, and I continued my weary way down the Glen.
At Lochy Bridge I enquired the time of the next bus, intending to have tea while waiting, but they said that the bus would be along any moment, so I went without my tea and then had to wait half an hour. At Fort William I went in the police station to find if they had found Mr. Emery (I had told them 8A instead of 7A) and then I had tea at the breakfast place, caught a bus to the Bridge of Nevis and started walking up the glen, praying that I'd be in time for a car. I seemed to get back to the hostel just as the last car was driving away and was starting to walk on, but one of the Oread stopped me and said that he was expecting other transport. The rescue party had just come down (I hadn't expected them so soon). Norman Cochran stopped for a word or so, and the R.A.F. gave me the remains of Ernest's rope.
Back at camp I found that Dianne had had a hectic day, in charge of catering. She had collected food from the various tents and tried to judge the time people would be back, so that she could have a meal ready for them. "They also serve…"
The Oread came for a meal, and then paid another quick visit to say that they had had a Daily Express reporter up, but he didn't realise it was the wrong camp; they had managed to talk him away. Trust Chunky "Now why don't you publish accounts of a few successful climbs. Let me tell you my ascent of the North Face of Piz Palü .." etc.
Alan and Michael had come down from the glen and had joined the camp; I was so sorry to think that, because of my suggestion of a high camp, we hadn't had them with us before. I found Michael so amusing. Michael didn't say much about the previous night, only about what an experience it had been to spend the night on a ledge with Nat Allen, who had been swearing softly to himself the whole of the night.
Alf was up at the crack of dawn, and his party were up and off at about 7.30 which woke Ernest up and he started breakfast. I started the same time which gave me hours to pack! I had so much spare time that, to fill it in I actually washed, and, as I had brought some clean clothes, I thought I might as well put them on, for which I was grateful later. Next I ran to and fro with messages between Arthur and John Cotteril. Finally we were ready to load the car, my rucksack, boots and tent fitted into the back, but I kept out my sleeping bag, thinking that, if I didn't want it in the back, other people would. There was no changing this time in the order, which Ernest, myself and Pete, and in the back André and John.
We went to the police station; I was afraid they'd want a serious statement from me, but apparently they were satisfied with Anthea's, all they wanted from me were a few details, such as the name and address of the Polaris secretary. I gave John a wire to send to work. I didn't like the wording, but I couldn't think of anything else so short, and said "Back on Wednesday" – I always was superstitious about counting my chickens, and am not less so now!
Most of our time was taken by Ernest writing a letter to Mr. Emery who was arriving the next day. As usual Ernest was slow, but I considered the letter quite a masterpiece. It was 1 o'clock before we got away and I was sorry to think that the others hadn't got a meal (they didn't know we'd be so long) and we started driving straight away. This time we crossed the ferry – this wasn't as hair-raising as I'd feared, and then through Glencoe, and across the Moor, with many memories of our carefree drive up that way. Ernest decided to vary things and avoid the traffic Loch Lomond way, but going to Lochearnhead and Callander, but they weren't fast roads. He cut out Glasgow by going via Airdrie (Boots) and Lanark and so joined the main Glasgow road eventually and he said we'd stop for a meal on the moor above Beattock. Now he was on a good road he was terribly loath to stop. He passed place after place where we could have pulled in, but eventually did so, and John got out his primus, while André and I got some water, the first pan of water had a fish in it, and André didn't think that suitable for tea. John had bread and butter, a tin of meat and a tin of pears. We all fed well – it was after 6 o'clock by this time – and then back to the grind again to get as far as possible before dark.
I lost count of the places we had been through. Apparently we had just passed through Lockerbie when the car, according to the description Ernest gave later, began to behave like a mad thing in his hands. I realised that we were skidding to the left, and there was a considerable drop on that side, so I was relieved when we turned away from that side, but only for a moment did I feel that relief for the next moment we were skidding for the other side, and making for the bank. I'm a bit vague about the whole thing but my impression was a steep 6 ft grass bank, with the grass neatly cut and such a tidy little hedge at the bottom.
I suppose it was about half an hour later that I began to take an interest in things – I was in a field, my head and shoulders were being propped up by a strange man, and I think I was on a sleeping bag, my knees were bent and I was looking through a rent in my trouser leg at a gaping wound in my knee, but it wasn't bleeding and it didn't hurt. I didn't realise at the time that I had lost considerable skin on my forehead. What I found inconvenient was a pain in my back and the fact that it hurt if I breathed deeply. It was funny later on. In hospital a nurse suddenly came up to me and told me not to worry, or let it excite me, but there was a policeman wanted to ask me about the accident. When I saw the familiar black and white cap, I felt as though I was meeting an old friend, after all the hours I'd spent in Fort William police station and he was able to tell me that we'd rolled over twice, and later John elaborated: we'd stopped after rolling 1½ times and we were all trapped in until the men, in a car behind, had pushed us over and got us out.
My first impression in the field was of Ernest doing a lot of talking and then he said "It was over-confidence caused this, the same as it killed Betty Emery". My mind fixed on those last three words – "who killed Betty Emery, but how have you found out before me, but I'm going to the Alps with her this summer". Eventually it all came back. Eventually a doctor arrived, and when Ernest reminded me, I remember he injected my arm, but I don't know with what; he injected Ernest which apparently took away his pain eventually.
It was a lovely sunny evening; the car looked all right and simply parked in the field and the primus was on and the tea made. They gave me a sip; I found with disgust that there was sugar in it, but I didn't say anything. Next, the ambulance came and I was put on a stretcher. It was my back which made me content to be so helpless, but the sag in the stretcher hurt it, if they had but known. Next, Ernest turned round to have a last look at the field and remarked "I had got really fond of that car" and then we were in the car and, with many instructions from Ernest to the driver to be cautious going over the bridge, we were off. I had only a few tree tops and blue sky to see on the way, and then we stopped. I was lifted out, with that awful sag hurting my shoulder again, and put on a trolley, looked at by Dr. Rennie and taken up to Ward 2 and put in the end bed, with the screens round it.
The nurses bathed my forehead, which I began to realise must have been bleeding, and then tried to put a nightdress on me; I made such a fuss that they were eventually content to put a pyjama jacket back to front on me and leave me like that. The next day they actually brought a pair of trousers and about the day after I had on a nightdress. Next a man came along to find if I could see double, but I was never worried about my head. I kept complaining about my chest and he'd poke but did nothing. I began to think that if they didn't soon do something about knee it would be too late, for don't stitches need to be put in within 24 hours. Eventually the nurse came all prepared for this, but I asked if it would hurt, for I had found that if anything made me gasp, the sudden breathing in would hurt my chest so much that I would gasp again; it was a vicious circle and difficult to stop. I was assured that I should have a local, but I made an awful fuss about the bathing and then the pricks, and then he went on before the local had taken. I continued to jump each time I felt the needle go in, until at last he asked if I could really feel that, and I had to admit that my knee had just gone dead, but only just, but my imagination was still very much alive.
Later I realised that I had given the name and address of my next of kin and I asked that they shouldn't be informed. Mummy seemed annoyed later that she hadn't had an official notification, but she admitted afterwards that I had broken the news as gently as could be. She says I started my letter "Had a free night's board and lodging and I'm not in prison either".
John and Pete called later and then I settled down for the night. I was quite happy, although I hardly slept; the time went quite quickly with the nurses coming to take my pulse every hour.
The next morning John was in again. I think he had spent all the night working out a shopping list. He had pencil and paper, grapes, chocolate, paper and 'Punch' for me, and I said that he and Pete were going to Lockerbie to sort out the luggage.
By about 4 o'clock, they actually took us to be X-rayed. I was most envious of André who had been promoted to a propelling chair; I was taken flat again. They did André first, and then it was my turn; they just took one of my chest, but then took quite half a dozen of my head, expecting me to turn into positions which I found impossible with my shoulder and knee to consider.
Later, John and Pete called, and said they'd spent until 5 o'clock with the luggage but had sorted it eventually; Pete was going back that night and John the next morning, and he hoped that André would accompany him, and they'd try to manage my luggage.
The next morning John called again - a Grapefruit, chocolate and a book to read "Hills and Glens" by Brenda Macrow, photographs by Robert Adam.
I had been profoundly thankful for the hospital on the Tuesday night and the next morning I was a little relieved that I wasn't told to go, but after that I began to think the hospital might outstay their welcome (in reverse) for I felt with an effort I could have gone back with John, but the doctors didn't come round until it was too late to catch the morning train.
André had amused me. He hadn't tried to speak a word to me all the weekend, but in the hospital he found that he could understand me, but not the Scots, so in his boredom he'd come along to speak to me, in English.
At first, I'd ask when I could see my X-rays, but I began to realise I never should and gave up asking. One morning I told Mr. Russell I wanted to go, and he said that there was nothing to stop me if I really wanted to, but they'd strongly advice me not to. On thinking it over I decided it would be silly to travel the next, a Saturday, when the trains might be crowded and I decided to stay on until Monday. It was about this time I actually learned that I had some broken ribs; it was something to throw at me, "You have got some broken ribs|, they'd say.
I then used to complain to everyone that I wanted to go, and then the sister threw it at me, "Mr. Russell has told you what you can do". The next day I tried to have it out with Mr. Neilson, but while admitting that it was possible for a patient (what a name for me) to walk out, he didn't know that I'd be allowed to. He called in the almoner who, I thought at first was on my side, but she soon turned against me, and then Ernest was sent in; the sister was very different this time, and eventually I could stand it no longer and agreed to stay.
My visitors had been incredibly amusing. The saving grace was Mrs. Halliday, John's landlady. She looked after her invalid mother, had six to eight boarders, looked after her house and garden single handed and in addition was able to visit complete strangers in hospital. She never missed a visiting time and always brought over one or two welcome titbits, sweets, fruit etc. and also a little reading matter, both for myself and Ernest. I had no other women visitors, all the others were men, mostly be-anoraked and some with ten days' growth on their chins! and these never came at the orthodox hours. However, I was amazed at the good nature of the hospital authorities, for they always admitted them.
On about the Wednesday, I was told that two people were motoring from Beattock, where they had rung up that they were on their way to visit us. It was at about 1 o'clock at the quiet hour, and I was appalled. I thought that the campers wouldn't know of the accident, and therefore it must be some of Betty Emery's relatives; I spent a completely miserable hour wondering what on earth I could say to them, then, when they arrived they were John Cotterill and Bob Pettigrew.
Apparently when Anthea realised that I hadn't reached the Y.W. by Wednesday she went round to Arthur, who rang up Ernest's landlady. She knew of the accident near Dumfries, but no more, so he next rang up Dumfries police, who knew all our names, but knew nothing about our conditions. A third call to the hospital only brought the information that we were very comfortable. It wasn't until the next day that Anthea phoned up again and was able to speak to the sister who amazed Anthea by explaining that she had us both in the same ward!
Now Bob Pettigrew rang up Arthur, asking him to let his mother know that he was coming back a day later, and so the news got back to camp – how the grape-vine works. On Saturday night at about 8.30 there was another message that visitors were on their way from Beattock. This time there were four, so they split into twos, firstly Chunky and Phill came into me, and Chunky handed me a beautiful bunch of daffodils and narcissi, and a box of Meltis fruits. The trouble was I kept on wanting to laugh at them, and it was still terribly painful to laugh. After a while, they swapped over and George Sutton and Harry Pretty came into me. George may have been most disreputable in his old anorak, but he fished out an apple, orange and bar of chocolate from it.
On Tuesday, after the row, the sister seemed quite pleased to tell me that I was for the Grove in the afternoon. I hadn't packed, for Ernest was in, he was going home the next day and I was wild with jealousy, a box of fruit came from Betty and Frank – in lovely condition, only took a day and I found the rest of the box useful for putting odds and ends in. Long before I was ready they came for me, but a chair this time – I felt I had really been promoted, and I soon had my things together and was off, down the lift and to the ambulance. "You look a little different to when you came in" someone said. Sitting up in the ambulance this time, I could see a little more of the countryside; it seemed a long four miles, but we were going towards the hills and then we turned off and made for a fair sized red stone stately looking mansion, standing in beautiful grounds, and I was at the Grove. There was no chair to take me in, I had to walk, how wonderful, not to only walk when I thought there was no-one to see me creeping out of bed. I still hadn't the full use of my left arm, but I didn't let that stop me dressing, and that very evening I went for a stroll up the lane, with June who had also been moved that day and Mary who had been there a day or so (Granny had also been moved out, but she kept to her bed).
The day was divided up by meals and cups of tea into about half a dozen different sections of time and on the whole I'd have perhaps a very short walk, or perhaps a longer one in alternate periods, and read, usually flat on my bed for those periods between. It wasn't always like this, for I sometimes watched Television.
On Friday, Mr. Nielson came again and he didn't go back on his word that I could leave the next morning, and I was able to tell him that I'd been much happier here. I felt that we were on the fringe of really fascinating country and the home and grounds were so lovely, they fascinated me. I only wished I'd had a camera, for the perfect weather continued.
On Saturday I caught the 9 o'clock transport into Dumfries, it was the hospital bus. It felt a little conspicuous in my old brown cord trousers, white anorak (I'd washed the blood off), plimsolls on my feet and carrying my odds and ends (including numerous unanswered letters) in the big silver coloured box the fruit was in, so I made straight for the station and spent my time drinking tea and reading the paper until 11 o'clock when I looked for Frank. He had seen much more than I had, including the camera obscura housed in an old windmill tower.
Frank got me a seat in the train. They turned out to be interesting companions and included a woman and her two step-sons who had won £8,000 on the pools. I imagine her diamond rings and fur coat had made quite a hole in it. Frank told us of his adventures on the way up when at first they thought they'd have to go by bus from Carlisle, but the train eventually got through, two hours late. We crossed the border at Gretna, and then stopped and backed into Scotland again, and came on the down line as far as Carlisle, where we rejoined the up line. Soon after this, we went along to second lunch and admired the Westmoreland Pennines from the restaurant car. It was lovely country; it was a shame the weather wasn't better, especially as it was quite nice later. We changed at Trent and reached Nottingham at 5.30, but I couldn't make up my mind whether to stay a night or go on home, when I eventually decided to go on it was too late to catch the 6.20, but plenty of time for me to change, collect a few things and get a taxi to the Midland Station.
The 6.40 was slow and tedious to me, but Frank found something interesting from the windows the whole way. We reached St. Pancras just after 10 o'clock and a train got us to Victoria by 10.15 – Frank dozed on the train down, after his 29 hours travelling! At home we found everything barred and bolted, but the door knocker woke mummy, although the bell hadn't.
I caught the 7.20 to Crewe and 2.18 to Windermere, having a compartment to myself in the latter. It was a lovely morning as I started to walk along, and soon a car stopped and picked up me and two ahead and drove us to Waterhead, before stopping for us to get out and then turning and going back.
I was too early for Freda's Snack Bar to be open, but I hadn't long to wait.
Raw Head barn was open and I got my breakfast. The only face I knew was that of Paul Bleiker, but I didn't think that he was with the A.C.G. so I decided to go out for a solitary walk. I had intended to go over to Scafell, but when I saw over that way from Three Tarns, I saw the tops in mist so I changed my mind and went over Bowfell, down to Angle Tarn, along the top of Stake Pass and so on to Gimmer, hoping to see some climbing. I wasn't disappointed. Hamish Nicol was up the first pitch of Nocturne and was trying to persuade to tie onto his rope someone who I believe was the 'Fell and Rocker' who was staying in the barn. As I had left, he was painting the gate to the cottage. "What a lovely colour", I couldn't help but exclaim. "You don't think it's too bright?" he queried anxiously. "No not at all" I said, for the shade of powder blue was too delicate to be bright. Hamish was saying, "See how you get on, on the first pitch", so the little man tied on, but then there was a pause so Hamish asked what was the trouble, to be told that the little man was drying his rubbers. Eventually he was off and hardly hesitating, climbing with superb technique (he didn't look as though he had great natural advantages for climbing) and soon he even got from Hamish, "Nothing the matter with your climbing old man". Next, I could watch Hamish. He was right off form; he'd bang his vibrams in and was climbing appallingly, with the little man following just as beautifully and getting over the difficulties before Hamish could give him instructions for doing them.
On the next pitch, Hamish announced that his arms had given out and his sighs re-echoed from the crag and he avoided the next difficulty, which the little man in his turn didn't seem to notice and he took over the lead of the last pitch.
Ted and Roger were at the foot of the wall, but couldn't seem to make up their minds what to do. Dennis Davis was getting his second up the crux of the crack and I watched another party on the Mantle-shelf, when I turned down, to get to Raw Head for tea. I had a long chat with Paul who was furious with himself for coming off, but hadn't suffered much damage.
I washed and changed into my old brown cord pants, actually put on a clean blouse and was ready for the dinner. Eventually Don Cowen looked in, and we had a chat and also talked to Clive and Pat who were staying in the hut.
Don finally ran me along to the Old D.G. and I joined the Nat, Joe Brown, Don Willans crowd, and saw some of the overhangs Joe had been pegging his way under these days.
At the dinner was (as far as I can remember) Tom Bordillon, Ted, Roger, Hamish, then the Dons, Joe and Nat, Dennis Davies, the Polish boy, Dave Thomas, Tom Patey, Martin Ridges, George Ritchie, Chris Simpson and, as the only other girl, Nancy Smith. Neil Mather came along later to the meeting.
Tom was supposed to be in the chair, but actually was on the floor (so was I, obviously the place for all the best people). Tom hardly said a word, so we were all the more thankful that Ted helped the meeting along – after the election of officers, the guide books were discussed; it was hopeless. Some people thought all those with the first ones ought to be given the rest of the routes, others thought not many more were needed of the first ones. Nancy was horrified that we were selling them, through such places as Lowries, and so we went on. I don't think anything was decided; it was all left to the committee.
The little 'Fell and Rocker' drove some of us back and in the dormitory Nancy told me that she had resigned, that all they seemed interested in doing was printing and she didn't see the point of the club. I had to admit that I was disappointed in it also.
I was up and about 8 o'clock, breakfasted and then again set out for a solo walk; this time with my camera. I went past Side House and up to the Pike, being disappointed that the mist came down on the Crinkles. I wished I'd had my guide book with me to study the crags from the distance), but eventually descended and made my way over Lingmoor until I thought it time I returned, when I descended to the tarn and so down to Side House again and along to Raw Head for a meal before leaving for the bus.
More tea at Ambleside and then I decided to catch the bus all the way to Carnforth, but at Windermere at 5 o'clock Don Cowen came along on his bike and went in the station looking for me, so I got off the bus and had a magnificent run back to Sheffield. The weather improved as we left the Lakes and it was really a beautiful evening. Then Don knew the route, there was rhythm, poetry in motion, or whatever you like to call it, in the acceleration along the straight and deceleration round bends, with never a risk taken. Very soon we caught up Ted's Jaguar, with "Monte Carlo Rally 1950" proudly displayed in the rear window and Don told me that that car could leave his bike standing, but he didn't have a chance to try it; he was soon waving us on, for mobility is the great advantage of a bike.
I had an idea at the back of my mind that there was a train to Derby at 8.40; Don got me to Sheffield L.M.S. by 8.30, so imagine my disappointment to find that the last train went at 8.05 and the next one was 10.40.
More tea in the refreshment room. Then I got to Derby by 12 o'clock and was able to catch the 12.08 bus to Nottingham.
Arthur called for me about 7 o'clock and then we picked up Derek Boddy at Lenton and finally Ernest at Derby, and tied the kit on the back and really started.
We stopped at the usual pub near Wellington and then went through Shrewsbury by mistake, and at Llangollen found the Milk Bar closed, but the chippery open, and inside were Norman and Margaret, Bob and Alan, and Mike Turner with Pat and Ann, Chunky and Phil. Eventually we continued on, through Corwen, and just before Bettws, passed the dormobile spending the night in a lay-by.
After Bettws, we turned right and went through Trefriw and Dolgarrog to Tal-y-Bont, where we turned up the hillside, following John's instructions, given to the nearest tenth of a mile. All went well at first, but then the car stopped and we got out to push, the car started again, but the ungrateful things left us behind and we had to walk – I could feel the stones underfoot through my rubbers – possibly it was because the others set too fast a pace that I felt a little sorry for myself – expecting me to walk like this with my broken ribs! Eventually we found the car waiting, but not for us, no, only to cool off the engine!
Eventually the gradient eased, and we were allowed to ride again; we forked left when the more obvious road went straight on, and went round by the small reservoir, although we didn't appreciate the situation until we saw the road in daylight, when we left. The Nevis road surface had been good practice for this, and there were a few gates to open and eventually we could see the walls of the old dam of Llyn Eigiau, and the parking place and then a few hundred yards further on was the camp, with John coming to meet us. Pat had her tent up, but as she was sleeping with John's friend, she offered it to Derek and me, to save us getting ours up, and then she brewed tea, with the result that she was later to bed than any of us.
It was interesting to wake up and see our surroundings; the reservoir didn't look as picturesque as I had hoped and the weather wasn't very cheering. I had only come for the weekend because I had been bullied by Arthur, and was determined to be lazy, had brought no clothes for getting wet in, and thought I'd get up at 9 o'clock that morning. The result was that I was wide awake by 7.30 and longing to get up! The tigers were eventually up and off to the crags, and I was waiting about, waiting for a walking party, when I decided to start, and explore the old farmhouse en route. This put me behind John Goldsworthy's party and, as I was following up the track, it started to rain, so I went back to a cottage and sheltered in there, having Chunky and Dianne, late starters, for company. I eventually caught up John. We had lunch during a snow storm and then went up to the top of Craig-yr-Ysfa, where we found Barbara, cold, waiting, and saw Derek and Pat on Amphitheatre Buttress, and Phil and Mike on Amphitheatre Rib, and then we turned south and went over Pen-yr-Helgi ddu and Pen Llithrig-y-wrach, where we sat down in the rain and mist and talked. I hadn't really brought enough clothes for getting wet, so I was a little annoyed – I still felt my ribs if I exerted myself and, as Arthur had insisted that I came, I thought I could photograph those (if any) climbing on Pinnacle Wall), but the day had worked out very differently. I also wanted see Llyn Cowlyd, and revisit Crafnant and Geirionedd, from the top of the second peak. John pointed to the direction of Cowlyd, and that was all we got, and then, taking a compass bearing, we started back to camp, arriving about the same time as some of the climbers. I wasn't as wet as I had feared, and was able to sit about in my clothes until they were dry. I first patronised John's large tent, but then descended on Pat; she made pancakes for Derek and me, and then we reciprocated. Derek opened a tin of fruit salad and I opened one of cream. Then more and more people invited themselves into Pat's tent, and we had quite a session. While we were wondering about getting transport for Jean Griffiths, she arrived, having come on foot and thought nothing of it – I'm sure her rucksack weighed as much as she did!
And so back to my own tent, supper and bed.
Again the weather was showery; Derek and John Watson went off to climb Great Gully, and John G. for a walk, but I sat about camp, even so I made no impression on the literature I had brought with me. Between showers the sun came out occasionally, and my tent was practically dry when I packed it. About 5 o'clock we left, were most amused to see the way we had come in the dark, found that the lower, smaller reservoir was quite popular with anglers, and so down the steep part to Tal-y-Bont, and a puncture at Gwydyr Castle. The wheel was changed, and we had a pot of tea in Bettws while the puncture was being mended, and then Arthur tried to make up for lost time on the ride back. The clouds were down over the hills, when we left; there was no stopping at Shrewsbury, and we reached Nottingham about 11.30.
I couldn't make up my mind whether to catch the 7.10 via Crewe, or the 11.37 via Carlisle; in the end Joy called, so I decided against the 7.10. When Iris, at 10 o'clock, realised that I was catching the later train, she decided to come with me, instead of travelling by day. The 11.37 came in empty, and there were three of us in our compartment and we should have slept well as far as Carlisle. The trouble was that we didn't know our time of arrival at Carlisle, and secondly the beautiful morning. It became light as we were going through the most beautiful part of the Pennines. I had had a nice sleep by this time and was wide awake, although I pretended to sleep on. It was a superb morning, with early haze on the wild country. After Appleby it was flatter and at about 5 o'clock we reached Carlisle, and drank tea until the 6 something connection for Penrith arrived. At Penrith we had more tea and contacted Eddie who had come on a London train, and got in the Cockermouth connection. A half hour wait at Keswick and at 8.45 reached Cockermouth.
I had told Arthur that we'd leave a message with the ticket collector where we were breakfasting, so I asked him where we were likely to get it, and told him to direct any enquiries there. At the shop to which we'd been directed, we found no café and they said they couldn't do breakfast, so we asked them to direct us elsewhere, and pass on to Arthur our whereabouts (I thought Arthur would have been following the trail!). We finally went to the 'Globe' – a Trust House and with a plaque up saying that R.L. Stevenson and 'atomic theory' Dalton had stayed there. We started with fruit juice or porridge and then the main course was two poached eggs on toast (we'd have done better in camp, we thought). Ed's eggs got cold for he had seen Arthur drive through and hurried up to the station to find him, as he started to pick up the trail. Arthur had been delayed, and he and his passengers (Arthur, Evelyn and Vera) came in for a pot of tea. Vera had some shopping to do, so I talked myself into a place in the first lift to camp, where we arrived about 11 o'clock.
We started to drive through the fields, but the farmer stopped us and said that if we were in the party who had asked permission to camp, we'd find our friends in the far wood. Now who could deny being in that party, so we duly turned round, and went up the road, to the beginning of the track to the "Spinney" as we were to refer to the wood in Warnscale Bottom.
We found Norman Haywood and his wife, and Nell and Marjorie camping there, but they told us that, apart from Bob and Alan, and John Clay, everyone was in the field with the cars, which we had made for in the first place, so we walked down there.
I had turned down the offer of a lift with Ernest, so I hardly knew how to face him, and took no notice of his beautiful new blue car, of which he was terribly proud.
I had quite a chat with Bob and Alan, who were lounging there on their way to the crags, and found Ernest's passengers were Derek Boddy, and Chunky and Phil. I had only brought my small rucksack from the pile by the road, so went back for my larger one and left a notice for Ed (we were forced to camp with this section because Arthur couldn't camp away from his car!).
I just about had my tent up before Eddie's second load arrived, and then we thought of something to eat before setting out. We hadn't reckoned on a cooked meal at this time, so we had soup and then Iris cut sandwiches of cucumber and sandwich spread, and then buttered currant bread.
The weather had been perfect when we arrived, but it gradually clouded over and then there were a few light showers. I had had every intention of setting out after the Birkness party, but the deterioration in the weather delayed me and then I realised that the other girls were looking to me to provide a walk. Arthur and co. had decided to go up the Scarth Gap and round the horseshoe to Fleetwith Pike, so I decided we could start up the Pike; however, when I suggested going up the Northern Ridge, other people thought differently, so we went up the easy way, which cut out any hope of a horseshoe. Now I thought I was out of condition, but I really don't think that three or four halts to gain the 2,000 ft of easy height were really necessary!
There were various excuses for stopping; the first one was half way along Warnscale Bottom, when we seemed to talk jobs, and the second was half way up to Drum House where someone picked a Butterwort flower, which gave us the lead to study insectivorous plants – a sundew caught an enormous great beetle-like insect, but we couldn't get any food for a butterwort.
Again higher up we poked around the K.M.C. hut and then continued our way, the men catching us up on the summit. At last I got the view I had been waiting for, down to the Honister road, and after much chatting we started the walk (or did Evelyn say run?) back to camp (I was one of the last, so mine was a walk).
We had tea and then Anthea insisted on cooking supper for Evelyn, Iris and me, so I made a fruit salad. For main course we had a proper mixed grill – sausage, bacon etc. – and afterwards we had apple, orange, lemon juice, nuts, dried fruit and the contents of one small tin of fruit salad, and cream.
Arthur ran us into the village; we went to the Fish and at first sat in the garden, but it got a little cold so we retreated round the back to the bar, but it was a depressing sort of a place – someone recognised me and said that last time it was "The Knowe", so I complained that it was rather quieter than in the "Common House". Eventually we were back at camp, where Bob and Alan and co. materialised – they had been in the other pub, apparently, but had had no supper, and expected something to be provided. Iris had gone to bed, so we retreated to Derek's tent and got his primus going for soup and tea etc. and much gossip. Eventually Arthur came over and asked us very nicely if we'd mind being a little quieter for he'd had no sleep the previous night, and would like to get some this night (I was glad to hear the next day that Iris had slept through it). We continued our conversation with lowered voices and then I returned to bed, and Bob and co. started their walk to the Spinney.
All sorts of people had arrived during Saturday, so many that one hardly had time to pass the time of day with them. Margaret and Norman, Pat and Anne, John Cotteril, Alan Davies, Rowland and Sandy on motorbikes, two new recruits, then Chunky and Phil were the cause of Mary and Charlie and two other Oreads joining us.
We got up at about 8 o'clock and started breakfast, grapefruit, and bacon and egg, and then I got ready for the day, leaving Iris to join some of the others (she didn't seem eager to come to Pillar). At about 9.30 Anthea and Evelyn were ready, as we set out, saying that the others would soon catch us up. Fleetwith Pike had been poor training. We walted on the top of Scarth Gap and then twice more on the way up to Pillar. We cut down through the plantation, and then up the other hillside towards the rock. Chunky ("trouble" as Evelyn called him) and Phil catching us up, and then leaving us to make towards the North Climb.
We crossed the stream and made up towards the West Face. While I was still a long way down, "Hallo Eileen" was shouted from "Northwest" climb and I think I recognised the voice as Ken Clark's. Approaching New West, I found a lot of people waiting, but most of them made off for Old West. Stan Moore and Doreen were starting up it and then Trevor Jones and Stan Blunn followed. Trevor seemed a little surprised to see me. Hadn't I some cracked ribs?
We sat down and ate, and then I got out my beautiful new full weight nylon and we roped up with Evelyn in the middle and I climbed up the first 20 ft or so, and belayed. There had just been a shower of rain, and the rocks were wet, and, as I watched Evelyn, I realised that they were greasy. I hope Evelyn didn't think that one slip and she wasn't given another chance. I looked at it that, if she had had no experience in placing her vibrams, possibly a climb as exposed as New West wasn't the place to learn – although I'm sure that Evelyn would have made herself do it, had we continued. I sounded Anthea, and she thought an easier one might be a good idea, so I retreated, much to the amazement of the rest of the Buttermere crowd, who had just arrived.
I asked Derek what he had in mind and when he said West Jordan Gully, I quoted Len's words to him, that he said Bernard had said that if he ever had a young 'tiger' getting a little above himself, to get him to lead that climb, for there was nothing like it for taking him down a peg or two. Derek obviously is not getting above himself, for he was not impressed, although some of the others were apparently!
We went up looking for Slab and Notch, and then I realised that we had Jordan Gap to cross, so I insisted on descending it, although I believe we could have gone round much more easily. I took longer than the others to descend. I knew there must be a lower handhold, and eventually I found it, right in front of my nose, and then it was plain sailing. Anthea led us up Slab and Notch. After the slab we had to wait while all the Old West people descended it.
With Anthea leading, and Evelyn on her first real climb, I quite enjoyed it, and also perhaps I had a little bit of a halo, thinking I was being sensible and not too proud to turn back.
At the top who should we meet but "Trouble" and Phil, and we had a little to eat and then started down, Anthea leading the way. I had called down to two boys on New West for news of Pat and Anne and heard that they were following close behind, so knew they were alright (I didn't want them to have difficulty getting off).
At the bottom we traversed round above the gullies to the cairn and then down to the High Level Route, which we followed along. We had quite a long halt by Robinson's cairn, and watched people rappelling into Jordan Gap, and assumed that Pat and Anne were among them. Eventually we continued on our way, but I felt that the path didn't mean as much to the others as it did to me, nor did the glimpse down to Wasdale, which we had at the end of it. We continued on nearly to Black Sail Pass and then I cut down. This was a very bad mistake, for one thing Evelyn was having trouble with her vibrams on it (she had learned a lot on 'Slab and Notch'). I'd have taken her up New West after that, had there been time, and also I was quite pleased to hear Anthea say that now she knew that she could take a beginner up an easy climb – or had I put the first nail in her coffin?
At the bottom we found a way through the plantation at first, but then we had to fight our way through trees to get into a ride, and the other end we had more of this, before we came out just by the hostel. Despite the showers during the day, we hadn't got wet, until now, and I was soaked through pushing my way between the wet trees. I didn't realise at first how many dead needles I had on me. I didn't lose them all until I had a bath, several days later!
John Clay with a couple of the Northumberland mountaineers passed us on this part. We crossed the gap and started up – a young man passed us on his way up, and then again on his way down, a little later. "I know where he's been, he went up to shut the gate on top" said Evelyn who was rather intrigued by a gate with no connecting fence, high up.
Half way down, we came upon a solitary man who offered us a cup of tea; we gladly accepted, actually it was half a cup from the bottom of his thermos between the three of us. We started talking to him, but soon most of the rest of our camp overtook us and stopped for a chat, and the little man was rather left out of things! Back in camp we found that Iris had been on the lookout for us, and had the supper ready – tea, then Anthea cooked some soup before we had the main dish which Iris had prepared, steak in mock turtle soup, with peas. Finally we had a steamed pudding which Evelyn provided.
Finally we were ready for the 'Fish' – I think seven of us travelled in Ernest's car! but the evening still wasn't up to the standard of the one at, say, the Robin Hood. I remember the talk was mostly about the walk over the 3000 footers in Wales.
Back in camp we had a good excuse for not going to bed at once. Charley Callum and two friends of his hadn't returned from Pillar and it was decided that some people would set out at 1 o'clock to get there by daylight. Mary promised to wake the camp, so she came into my tent to keep awake, Bob and Alan and about half a dozen more were also in the tent, but about half an hour before 'H hour' a shout was heard up the hillside and Mary was gone to put on the primus.
It was a slightly better morning, we put out our stuff to dry, as much as possible but I decided to catch the 11 a.m. bus, saying that there wouldn't be time to do much during the day, even if we did go back later and make an all night journey of it. I think Anthea was very disappointed that we didn't do anything.
Eventually we were ready and went across to the farm for this bus, but it didn't come at 11.05 as expected; we saw Eddie drive off to Cockermouth, and then at 11.15 the Cockermouth bus arrived, and we had to catch that, for the 11.05 starts from the 'Fish'!
We had real fun in Cockermouth for there was a fair in the main streets and the bus had to go a most incredible way round. We just managed to catch the Keswick bus and went round the far side of Lake Bassenthwaite to the bus station at Keswick where we enquired about express buses. The next fast one was about 3.30, so we decided to catch the normal one at 1.30 and spent half an hour drinking tea. It was a pleasant ride by Thirlmere, but I have known brighter days and Grasmere was crowded. It was strange to be going through Ambleside instead of joining the bus there, and Anthea was just able to wake herself at Windermere and get out and we caught the 3.25 train to Manchester, changing at Preston, where who should we meet but Eddie who had come all the way from Cockermouth by train!
At Manchester we bussed to the Lower Mosely Street bus station for the Nottingham bus. This was really a great mistake for I don't suppose there was much difference in the fares, and it would have been much pleasanter by train.
Since about 12 o'clock, there had been some quite heavy showers, which took away some of our envy of the people with an extra day.
Alan called for me just before 7 o'clock. He already had Bob as a passenger, and he picked up Derek at Lenton. His next call was at Ernest's. Ernest had no passengers so Alan had agreed to give up one of his, and Bob had volunteered.
It was pleasant to do the familiar run in daylight, and it was still quite light when we reached the 'Mermaid' where we found Alf still drinking, together with Norman and Pete, his two passengers. Ernest and Bob eventually arrived and, as we were leaving, Arthur came, full of tales of many punctures.
We were eating round the Shrewsbury bypass, so I didn't notice that Alan had missed the A5 and had taken the Welshpool road. We had a delightful ride through those intriguing hills, the road had high banks rather like Devonshire lanes, but the surface was quite good. I shall never forget the descent the other side, the last of the daylight was going and there was a vast blue plane before us towards the north.
We followed our lane until it brought us to the 'dotted' road running west, and we followed that until we reached the main road running north through Oswestry to the A5. At Llangollen all was in darkness, but a little further on we met Arthur changing a wheel!
We soon continued and reached camp about 1 o'clock. Alan sensibly left his car by the farm, Ernest was still manoeuvring his in the fields. We found that Alf and co. were camping near some caravans. They didn't know the usual field. Bob soon got his tent up, which Alan and I shared and Derek went in with Ernest.
I've known better campsites. There was an upper berth, and a lower one, pretty level, but I was between the two and on a steep bank.
Since about 6.30, we hadn't had much peace of mind, for Alan remembered the promise he'd made to Alf, to run his party to Aber early in the morning and Alan was in fear that Alf would call and expect Alan to fulfil his promise; actually Alf was as bad as Arthur for he decided that the weather wasn't good enough for the 3000 footers and got up at a normal time. I didn't do a stroke of work in our tent, and it was thanks to Bob that we got breakfast. The showers seemed lessening, so, at 10 or 11 o'clock, the four of us set out in the Sunbeam Talbot for the Llanberis Pass, where Bob tried to find Pete and Ken at the campsite, and then at Helig. Eventually, we made our way up to Carreg Wasted to warm up on Crackstone Rib. Derek led Alan and Bob led me. "I can easily follow up in nails", I thought; little did I know my form! Did I really think it over-rated at 'vd', when I led it – had I really led that desperate route? I think boots made a lot of difference for whereas in rubbers the vertical handholds had been sufficient, in nails I was thinking, "If that nail slips my handhold won't keep me on" – or if I hadn't been so out of training, perhaps I wouldn't have thought of the nail slipping. Eventually, using a knee or so, I reached the foot of the top pitch which Bob, in rubbers, had led straight up. I knew I couldn't do it that way, and I knew that last time I had taken the long stride, so I made myself do it again, by telling myself that I had made it once and hadn't shrunk in the meantime – the others were as astonished as I was that I stretched as far!
Once down how soon were my vows to give up rock-climbing forgotten. Derek was wanting a harder climb, and I thought why shouldn't I do a harder climb in rubbers, it was only my nails which spoiled the last one! I suggested Sabre Cut, but Derek fancied Trilon and I remembered Don Chapman saying that it was just my type of climb, that I'd have loved it, so I found myself tying onto Derek's rope. Derek found an XS way up the first pitch, so I didn't follow him. I then tied onto the tree and, with Bob and Alan who had arrived about the same time, stood back to watch the fun. Derek had the guide book and had to look at it in an awkward place. Then he descended, put on a runner and then went up to the peg. How little did he know the tricks of the trade; he didn't even put a crab in the peg. I didn't realise where it was in time to tell him, for at least it would have given him a better handhold, besides giving him a second runner. I have never seen Derek appear to have so much difficulty, so I wasn't very reassured for myself, and then the next move or so up he hesitated, but eventually was up, having run out about 60 ft of rope, instead of the expected 110 ft. I went up and then down O.K., but then I was confronted with the "very difficult pull up". I felt the hold and the peg, and realised that they were good, but I felt quite incapable of pulling! There's more ways of killing a cat ….. I quickly had a sling in the peg, but it was too high, so I borrowed a second one from Bob and made a reasonable foothold and stepped up in it – I couldn't help but laugh at myself even at the time, for I had given Derek and Alan a good lecture in the car on Friday night, saying that I took a dim view of the fact that where a climb had been pioneered without artificial aids, the modern generation seemed incapable of getting up without these aids – and Derek had led it without even a crab in the peg! … It was easy to step up in the sling, but not so easy to get onto the ledge above, for the rock was so steep it pushed one off. The only thing I could find for a left handhold was a crack for the tip of a finger behind a loose block and, thinking that with a rope above me, I could take risks, I pulled on it and eventually stood up. Next I examined that essential finger-hold and lifted it out, leaving quite a respectable handhold! I later learned that there used to be a second (loose) piton there. I felt I had put the climb down a grade! Once I had stood up, I was anything but happy, I couldn't stand there without holding on, and the only real handhold was high up for the left hand. To complicate matters I seemed to have put my left rubber on some soil and couldn't seem to get it clean.
I stood there quite a while, explaining to everyone that I was resting my hands, but in reality I think I was tiring them. I worked out the next move; I put my left foot, with its slimy rubber on the hold, and had my left hand on the handhold, but it seemed rather a strenuous move to make with my fingers in their weakened state. I called up to Derek to take my rope really seriously (apparently I didn't hide my feelings from him in the least, and those below could hear my mutterings!). Eventually I realised that I couldn't stay there for ever and made the move up. At one stage, as I stepped up, I felt that Derek had taken a little of my weight on the rope (Derek's version of this was that he had the rope across his back and was straightening his back with all his strength!). A couple of moves and the difficulty was over and I could enjoy the situation, and I seemed to show my relief by doing rather a lot of walking. Once safely in the tree, which formed the stance, I insisted on untying and sending the rope down to Bob, who hardly tied on at all.
The next pitch Derek climbed on the left hand wall. I was too good an all round mountaineer (I like to think) not to find the easy way, and went up the groove of Shadow Wall. The last move of all of the climb was a mantelshelf; it reminded me a little of the move on Tower Ridge, except that there was no incut hold on it.
Down at the bottom, we met Eve, a friend of Bob, and Alan and I stayed talking to her while Derek hoisted Bob off to Dinas Cromlech to climb Sabre Cut. Alan and I collected the boots and rucksacks and sauntered down to the car and then up to the farm, where we asked for tea. At first, the shepherd said that his wife was away at Bettws, but then he said that he could make us a pot of tea and finally he asked whether we'd like a boiled egg.
While the kettle was boiling we talked climbing for, apparently, the lads sometimes take him up a climb. We'd had fun all day watching his sheep being rounded up and dipped, as someone said, looking down on them going through a narrow place it was just like water running.
When we asked to pay he wouldn't take any money, but said that he'd be grateful for a lift to the Royal. Alan got his car out with great difficulty and then drove to the foot of Dinas Cromlech to await the others – they had just got to the top of their climb and were soon down.
Back at the camp, Bob insisted that we had a picnic. Groundsheets were spread, and the food nicely set out, and soon the soup was ready from the primus in the shelter of a tent. There was ham and salad and bread and butter, and then the fruit salad contained pineapple, apple, orange, dried fruit and nuts and cream.
Next, we visited the Royal; it would have been well worth the extra few miles to the Pen-y-Gwryd – I met Dave Williams and heard a brief résumé of his year's stay in Oslo. He's saving his holiday this year to ski in Norway next spring!
Again, the night was showery, and the showers continued into the morning. We were ready to go by about 10 o'clock and I suggested that we had elevenses and it was 12 before we got away.
We (Alan, Bob and I) started to walk along the road, but then Alf stopped and gave us a lift to Glan Dena, from where we started up Tryfan, roping up at the foot of Grooved Arête. I kept quoting the time I had romped up it in triple hobs, what a difference, every moved seemed desperate this time in tricounis. I was on the end of the rope and waited until Bob took it in each time, before I dared stir. Alan led in nails; Bob was in vibrams and was swearing that he'd never again wear them in England. I was wishing I had them in place of nails. The groove was desperate, and there was one place I waited five minutes before stepping over. Then came the Little Wall and the more serious part, and the rain had started before it was my turn to ascend this. I was quite a while before I made the step across. I went a few feet up the groove before going to the left, and then found that all the handholds sloped the wrong way.
Once up and Alan and Bob launched on the Knight's Move, I sat down to watch a party behind. The leader reached the Haven, but couldn't persuade his second to come up. After Bob was up I think I waited an hour before it was my turn, so I was glad of a little amusement in the Haven. I remembered when I had done this with Frank, I had found it straightforward once I had thought to go straight up the groove. This time I didn't find the ascent of the groove so easy and once up that I had to rest in the middle of the slab. The rain was increasing, reminding me very much of the conditions Frank and I had found. At the top of the cube I took off the runner and Bob went up higher to belay me as I descended (and had I really not noticed this pitch the first time I did the climb?).
Next, Alan insisted on leading the outside route, on the right. I got up eventually with the aid of a knee. I think I'll stick to the chimney another time! We finally unroped, at 5.20. I was just about soaked, but I could have sung with joy – was it because the climb was over? – Am I really like the madman hitting his head because it is so nice when he leaves off? There was no time for the summit, we went down straight away, making for the Farm Uchaf, and then I walked along the old road, the other two preferred the new.
Back at the camp at 6.15 we found Ernest and Derek waiting (we'd said we'd be away at 5 o'clock). Ernest said that he'd need a push to get out of the field, so I said that I'd start to pack, while waiting for the others to come. I put the things in the rucksacks and covered them with groundsheets and then took down the tent. I don't know what the others thought of this. We started back to the farm, but found Ernest stuck again. We pushed and then Bob and I rode as far as the gravel track, to weight the rear. As we skidded on the wet grass, Ernest moaned "What about my tyres". I thought what about the farmer's field.
Eventually we reached the Sunbeam Talbot and then changed in the barn, before putting our wet things in the boot and really starting off. On the main road we again found Ernest waiting; he was worrying about John's car, but we assured him that John had plenty of hefty pushers, and Alan led the way to Shrewsbury. I wasn't surprised that Ernest didn't overtake us for I've never had a more hair-raising ride. At the bends into Capel, the rain was sheeting down, and visibility was bad. Besides the roads being so wet, people on the left were running for a bus, and there were cars coming on the right, and Alan was going at about 60 m.p.h. – it wasn't as though he were concentrating on the driving. I think all his attention was on a tomato which he was eating!
After Bettws we got out of the rain and fortunately were behind a slow stream for the first bends. At the Maerdy bends, Bob's backseat driving made Alan worse and he refused to go below 35.
As we finished our egg and chips in Shrewsbury, Ernest arrived and we chatted with them until they had finished. They and Norman Kershaw had done Soap Gut, and hadn't found it difficult, and then Derek had run up to the top of Tryfan (he had never been there before).
After dark, Alan's driving sobered up and we reached Nottingham about 12.30, having waited at Derby and taken Derek from Ernest.
Alan was able to borrow the Sunbeam Talbot and gave Bob, John and me lifts to Langdale. We took about 50 minutes to Doncaster and then went on to Gargrave where we stopped for refreshments. In the chip shop I immediately thought of mint sauce – apparently the frying is done in mutton fat. We washed our fish and chips down in the 'Grouse' opposite and then Bob had another lot of fish and chips.
We reached Raw Head at about midnight. Fortunately another party had arrived, and the place was unlocked. The lighting had given out, but Bob soon had the cylinder replaced and we were drinking tea before turning in.
Oh those hearty school-boys in the R.L.H.! They were up at 7 o'clock and shouting around the bathing pool – and at 7.30 Michael Daley called on us and the others got up, but I waited until my tea was brought up!
At about 9.30 we set out for White Ghyll, having several halts on the way. "There's still twelve more hours of daylight" was Bob's cry several times, and that became one of the sayings of the weekend, together with "Overhanging Black Ice". We stopped at the foot of "Why Not", and Bob volunteered to lead Alan and me up it, for John had a bad hand and said he'd prefer not to climb. There were three people with guidebooks, all giving instructions to Bob, and they were all in accord, but Bob had his own ideas and would go left when we told him to go right; he spent an age up there, and then started traversing further left, telling us that it was desperately loose rock, but after several hours, he reached the Holly Tree on "Hollin's Groove" and belayed (that was one landmark on the cliff which even Bob couldn't mistake). I was sorry not to be working up on the 'vd' before going on to the severe, but I tied on and tried the first pitch. I know that it ought to go, but I couldn't force myself to struggle, so I changed places with Alan who was soon up the first 30 ft and couldn't resist using the magnificent belay at the top of the first pitch, which put him in a good position for bringing me up. Once I forced myself to start it, I didn't find the "overhanging black ice" so bad. I jammed my right hand in the crack instead of trying Alan's semi lay-back method, and, after a rest half way, I was up, and watching Alan make the step left at the beginning of the next pitch. I found this more distinctly awkward; I told myself that a left handhold was essential, it must be provided, and sure enough it was! (My hands and feet still don't automatically find holds as they should do if I were on form.) There was a nice move below the holly tree – a move up a groove and then a magnificent incut hold for a move up the steep wall. The next pitch also kept its interest; firstly up the right angled groove, then, as it steepened, a move onto the left-hand wall, and then (for me) a step back into the groove, before traversing to the left and so easily to the Great Shelf.
The final rib had its interest. I cheated twice, once right at the bottom, and then again after the stance where there was a hand traverse – Alan was out of sight and I knew that if I tried the traverse I couldn't retreat, so discretion and all that won.
I led the way down, going down to the foot of the crags; if I had left it to Alan he'd have brought us down 'Easy Rake' – he had to ascend this to recover his guide book which had been left on Great Shelf.
Alan and I had one strange experience, we heard Bob shout "O.K.", but the echo seemed to say "Yes"; we later found the echo to be John who had gone up to the Great Shelf.
I had almost enjoyed the climb and it made me think of my old ambition, the chimney, but, despite all Bob's talk of Gimmer Crack, he had no inclination to try that, so I agree to the slabs, knowing that I'd enjoy these, as I had last done Route II. I tied on with Alan for Route I. It was certainly easier than the last time I had done it in nails. I enjoyed it! There was a little hold up at first, because Bob and John were on our belay, but after that we had a clear run, and I found the 55 ft pitch almost thin. The wind was quite strong, increasing the difficulties and making me think I'd better move up soon to better holds, when a stone came down onto my left hand and took all the power away from it for a moment, and I really wondered whether the wind would blow me off, but nothing so dreadful happened, and I reached the top quite thrilled with the climb.
We went down to our boots and Bob's "12 more hours of daylight" had changed to the suggestion that we'd better hurry if we were to be down for tea. The others went up and down Mill Ghyll, but I went down White Ghyll as I'd lost my compass between our first halt and the foot of the slabs, but I didn't find it. After tea and scones in the new D.G. we returned to Raw Head for an elaborate meal.
Egg scramble soup, followed by stew, steak and onions and new potatoes, and then my contribution, the sweet, milk jelly, then banana, apple and orange, and fresh strawberries. I must have beaten the cream for about an hour, but it wasn't whipped.
Bob drove us to the old D.G. When we returned to Raw Head, we found quite a crowd, Alf Gregory, Nannette and daughter were staying there, and the some from the Yorkshire Ramblers hut called in and Neil Mather came over for a chat. He was hoping to go to the Dauphiné, and he told me about the article in the Manchester evening paper about Joe Brown and co. going to the Alps to do climbs English parties hadn't done before.
It had obviously been raining in the night and was very overcast, so there seemed no incentive to get up early, nor was there the noise from the Repton boys! About 8 o'clock, people started to stir, so I got up and even helped (or hindered) with the breakfast. We all seemed agreed on a walk, and Alan wanted to try the Seathwaite Fells. He drove us to Little Langdale and left the car where the Blea Tarn road joined the Wrynose Pass and we proceeded to walk up the pass. This had been my idea, to save time by walking up the road, but I rather regretted it before it was time to turn off and make our way up Wet Side Edge, to the top of the ridge. We stopped and noticed the skyline, round to Wetherlam and then continued on. The others waited for me on Little Carrs. I think I disgusted them by walking past without a word, but I knew they'd soon catch me up. On Great Carrs we consulted the map and I suggested we were on Little Carrs – fortunately the mist cleared and we were able to see the ridge to Grey Friar, and Alan and I set off leaving the other two to hunt in the wreck of a plane.
It was a lovely day for walking. I think the mist cleared on every summit and we got all the views, but the weather was doubtful enough to make us grateful for every view.
The halt on Grey Friar seemed going on indefinitely, as we ate our lunch there before turning once more towards Swirl Howe, but contouring round the summit and making straight for Brim Fell. This was a new name I learned this weekend; Alan mentioned is so often that we almost began to think of our walk as a trip to Brim Fell. We didn't stop by the cairn in the mist, but continued on to Coniston Old Man for another sit, more to eat, and to watch the mist clear and give us the view to the south, over Coniston Water to the sea, and taking in Tarn Howe and Windermere.
Once more we retraced our steps and this time we were accompanied by hail, as we passed Brim Fell, and this time reached the summit of Swirl How – fortunately John had overshot it, which gave me a chance to catch up, before getting left behind again on the ridge down and up to Wetherlam.
We had clearish visibility for it this time, so different from the January day when Margaret, Isobel and I had found our way in thick mist, to get above the mist on Wetherlam, finding ourselves in a completely dead world.
John was nearly asleep by the time I reached the summit, but I didn't find it warm enough to linger and we set off down. Once we left the ridge, Alan ran on down. I was with the other two when Bob decided to disrobe (that started the rain again!), so I joined Alan and we walked along a track, cut down to the farm (Vicars), joined a track which crossed the river and brought us out right by the car, which Alan turned, ready for a quick get away when the others arrived. We couldn't think where they'd got to, apparently when they joined the road, they turned up it!
We went down Little Langdale, followed the signpost to Elterwater and soon found ourselves on a rough track, but it led us down to the village, where Alan was able to get petrol and so back to Raw Head, where Bob set about a stew, while I changed into dry clothes before sweeping my dormitory. Was the stew worth waiting for! – but it should have been good. it had three tins of meat in it, besides onions, potatoes and soup, and afterwards John provided a tin of fruit salad and cream and, of course, there was tea and biscuits.
We got away about 6.20. I began to realise that a good day out in the hills isn't the best preparation to get a driver in the right frame of mind for the serious business of driving home! John was no help either – "Can't you pass this car, it's getting on my nerves, this pace". I was glad when we were away from the twisty Langdale road; we stopped once more at Gargrave and ate the rest of our pork pie in the "Grouse" and then continued our mad run. Usually we overtook any motorbikes, but if one happened to overtake us, nothing would suit John but that we should overtake it again, so that he could have another look at it, and possibly settle an argument with Bob. After dark, when this palled, John, who was now in the front, started fiddling with the wireless and, at times, all Alan's attention seemed on that instead of on the driving. John eventually admitted that he'd never had a more enjoyable car trip (previously he'd been saying how boring he found car riding, that he'd sooner be on a bike any day). I was most amused at times in the back to notice that Bob's and my hands would both go forward to clutch the seat in front in moments of crisis, and then go back when we could relax again.
We arrived back at about 11.20, so the 5 hours weren't bad for nearly 180 miles.
Bob took me on his bike to the café near Yorkshire Bridge; we met Alan Davis and Brad on the way and all went in for a cup of tea. The other two then went on to meet the main party, while Bob and I wandered up onto Bamford Edge and tried out our nails on the rocks. I decided I was in a rock-climbing mood – and so back to the café for cups of tea, while awaiting John and Alan. At 6 o'clock we had our proper tea – a pot of tea, ham sandwiches and cakes, and at 6.45 we actually set out. At 7 o'clock we left the road and began the long grind up onto the Derwent Edges. I had a start, but the others soon overtook me. I didn't notice the Hurling Stones, but the Wheel Stones, and Salt Cellar were quite obvious. Bob and John had gone on, but Alan was keeping with me; at Back Tor, to our surprise, the others were still studying the map and expected us to wait and be directed down. I'm afraid I just barged on, for I said it gave you an idea that you were better than you were with map and compass, for we had proved after the evening at Strines that you cannot miss the cabins – for none of our parties missed them on that dark drizzling night.
Alan and I arrived at about 8.45 and found there were 11 in the main party. Nesta, Dianne and Betty Bird included. They had finished supper, so we went in the lower cabin and had supper, tea – yes again, then luncheon meat and pork pie, followed by fruit salad. John's tin of tangerine quarters, apple, banana, cherries, and a little soaked sun-dried raisins and apricots, to be finished with more tea.
The main party were sleeping a little higher up – what individuals they all were, all the bags separate, and all pointing in different directions. We slept outside the cabins – at least we spent the night there, I ought not to say slept.
As Alan said, if only he'd had a pile of stones handy, to throw at the sheep – they seemed to spend the whole night treading in the pans which people had left outside the cabin, occasionally they were really funny. They'd creep stealthily up to a sleeping body, give a loud Baa and then skip merrily away, just as a young child might say 'boo'. I could only think that they had it in for us. They had just been shorn, so I visualised them nattering to themselves "They stole our clothes, why should they sleep snug in their bags while we have to shiver and roam the moors all night, the dirty little socialists!
It wasn't only the sheep which disturbed us, there were also the midges; we had intended to get up at a different time from the main party, but by 5 o'clock we could stand it no longer in our bags and made our way to the cabin and breakfast. To our surprise we found that we were ahead of the main party so, while Bob was breaking the news that we weren't going with them, I crossed Abbey brook and started up towards Featherbed Moss, being soon overtaken by the other three. The previous evening the weather had been doubtful, but it had cleared in the night and was a really beautiful morning, everything was so green, with the new bracken, and it was so lovely looking back to the cabins.
I was soon on my own, and then was surprised to see four other figures coming up on my right; they were going so strongly I felt really weak – they had such power in their stride. I soon caught them up. They were resting. It was Pete, Arthur, Alan and Brad. I was too proud to ask them where my three had gone, so I continued on my sheep track until I could see the others down towards Cranberry Clough and I ran after them. We continued up the Derwent, but had a five minute halt below the Ballstones and ate apples, and then went on to the Clough above Lower Small Clough, where we were to leave the easy little track, but we had quite a long rest first. It was an idyllic place, the sunshine, stream, bright green of the bracken and the occasional tree, so, as Alan decided to remove his contact lenses, I gave myself a rest until he had succeeded. Poor Alan, he'd only had 4 days experience of this difficult operation. I sat very happily for half an hour or more, until Alan said that he'd never yet removed them in public and I took the hint and started up towards Round Hill, the others soon overtaking me, Alan having, in desperation pulled the thing straight out, nearly taking his eye with it. I joined in the rest at Round Hill, for a couple of minutes, and then was off again, leaving the others to argue over a map about some clough. I went towards Barrow Stones until I reached the watershed and then continued straight along (it is easier going, than keeping along the edge) and eventually I reached the line of posts marking the parish boundary, where there is a line of much easier going. Alan and then the others passed me and we all met again for the halt and snack at Bleaklow Stones.
Again I set off, following the parish boundary to Bleaklow Head, where we met John Willett and some friends of his from Manchester, and so down to Higher Shelf Stones, where John and Bob found the remains of an aeroplane to examine while Alan and I went to the trig. point. I suggested that I'd go down and start a brew, while Alan remained to tell the others. I traversed to the left and, at the first tinkle of water, got out the primus, and marked the spot by displaying my bright red check food bag. The tea was ready, but there was no sign of the others, so I started up towards the plane where I saw some figures and waved, but got no answer. I went down again and put out the primus and then, my cup of tea in my hand, I went back to the trig. point and found that and the plane deserted, so I packed up the primus, drank all the tea myself and set off to reach the highest point on the Snake road. I contoured round and in the stream below me I saw the others – they had gone straight down instead of contouring, they had their own brew going – we shouted to each other, but I didn't go down, neither side was very pleased with the other! I followed a track down until I reached Doctor's Gate and went up that, then cut across to the road, past the rain gauge and across Featherbed top and so down to Ashop Clough by the shooting cabin. I had a look inside and found it very tidy, and with a bracken bed. I sat down for a few minutes then crossed the bridge, continued up the path to the highest point and then cut straight up to the top of Fairbrook Naze, at first eagerly scanning the hillside opposite for signs of the others, but then giving it up and deciding that they must be shortening their walk by going some way down the road.
What a slog it was up to the Naze, the way got steeper, and I started to zigzag until my zigs and zags were almost horizontal – how I longed for a sit down, but always the top looked so near that I wouldn't allow myself to do so – just another few feet – at last I was there and all thought of a rest had gone – it was so wonderful to have the slog over that I wanted nothing more. What an utter delight that path round Kinder is – up and down, in and out, but all top gear work, and I was making good time along it (I thought I was behind the others and ought to get back to the bikes by about 7 o'clock). After a few miles I had a sit down and a few raisins, and then on again. By this time, there was the usual Derbyshire Haze and as I looked for the Derwent Edges, to Bleaklow, and then to Wyn Hill ahead, it seemed an impossibly long circuit. On and on – I saw three people making their way up from the Snake road, two could have been Bob and John, but the third had on a shirt, no, they must be ahead – then I glanced back and saw Alan's red shirt only a few yards behind. They'd been following me all the way, would occasionally see my footprints and then me. We were so pleased to see each other, we forgot all recriminations over the lunch mix up – John was so hungry, he said he was keeping going on will power alone. How pleased I was to get rid of the pork pie (extra weight) I was carrying (I was too hot to eat myself). Then on again, a slight diversion to examine Crookstone Barn (well locked) and a drink of water from the trough and then the others pulled ahead as the way turned slightly uphill towards Win Hill. I felt myself going more and more slowly, what a long and weary two miles that was, and by the time I reached the summit I was having to use hands to balance on the summit rocks! I couldn't hurry down, my feet ached so! – eventually I reached the road, and Bob met me half way up the pull up to the main road. The garage was open alright, but the café was closed, so we went on to the Sir William Café in Grindleford. How glad I was that I was on Bob's bike and not John's as the latter tore past us taking bends at 45º to the vertical! "remember your seconds have no belays" I had told them before we had started. The others were able to eat in the café; I could only drink tea. And so home by by-lanes – we only once overtook a bus by a "Slow, major road ahead" notice and once the chain came off, but we were back by about 10 o'clock.
Bob was ready after he had collected his travellers cheques etc. He had brought his crash helmet for me to wear (he never wears it himself, so I didn't feel guilty about accepting it) and we set off to see England through Ashby de la Zouch and Tamworth, onto the A5. There were several stops, the engine started cutting out as soon as it got wet (it was a showery morning) and then we had to stop to have the mudguard welded which involved taking off the front wheel.
A stop for tea in the café of Llangollen, and then more engine trouble near Corwen, a stop to buy food in Bettws-y-Coed, and so to Glan Dena about 6 o'clock on a pouring wet night – we didn't bother to go out again that evening. There were two other people staying there and then Bob did some business for the M.A.M. – he sold a place in the garage to a hosteller with a motorbike and sidecar, and then at 10 or 11 o'clock two youths knocked at the door asking for shelter which Bob gave them; they had intended to camp by Llyn Bochlwyd, but the weather had put them off. They proved in the morning to be quite interesting, one of them had been to the Outward Bound school at Eskdale.
It had been a wild night and was still raining in the morning, so we didn't get up particularly early, and then Bob had his money to collect for the M.A.M.! At about 9.30 we set off, on foot along the road, and up by Llyn Idwal and the ordinary track up by the Devil's Kitchen onto the Glyders and then along them in the mist. I had originally suggested Y Garn, but Bob seemed to prefer to follow a path – we turned towards Glyder Fawr, but missed the summit and went on to Glyder Fach and down Bristly Ridge – how different from the snow conditions on the Pinnacle Meet! Then up the South Ridge of Tryfan, past a gang of R.A.F. types coming down; they all looked so serious that I was surprised to learn from some others on the summit that they were doing it for pleasure!
Down the North Ridge and back to Glan Dena for a meal, and, I thought an early start home, but Bob had different ideas. He'd found a journal with a French account of the South Ridge of Salbytchin, and he wanted it translated!
Eventually, at about 5 o'clock we set out, along the familiar road to Llangollen, but then we crossed the river and went through Ruabon, Whitchurch, Audlem, and Uttoxeter, getting to Derby about 9.30. No, I wasn't to be home in such good time, there were calls to be made! Fortunately the Handleys and the Kershaws were out, but Mr. and Mrs. Naylor were in, and, not only did we get a cup of tea, but Bob was able to get his 150 ft of ¾ weight Nylon.
I caught the 12.08 from Preston Park and, at the Continental section at Victoria, I looked in all the refreshment rooms, could see no signs of the others, so I found my reserved seat, left my luggage and looked for Bob and John. I found that they were on a later train, so we spoke to an official who showed us three unreserved seats in my train, and we were all able to travel together to Dover, where we board the "Prinz Phillip", the Belgian vessel.
We made our way to the refreshment room and, despite the fact that other people at our table were getting something cooked, we could only have an afternoon tea. Later on, dinner was being served – roast beef – and, by the time we had decided to have it, the third class restaurant was full, so we made our way to the first class, where it was 'à la carte'. We had chicken – half a chicken each! – this was fine for Bob and me, but, after half of his, John didn't feel so good; however, the exceedingly kind waiter made the rest into sandwiches for him.
At Ostend we were soon through the customs, and finding our places in the Chur coach of the Basle train, and having left our luggage we took a stroll through the town, the fishing boats fascinated Bob most and next came the prawns for sale in the town – we bought some, and also some fruit and wine for the journey.
We had practically a side to ourselves in the train, so it was a good journey as far as crowds went, but what a journey for speed! We began to wake up, thinking that we'd soon be at Basle, and then found that we were only at Strasbourg and it was about 10 o'clock before we reached Basle, no restaurant car on the train and no time for breakfast at the station. What a journey, only the odd cup of coffee sold from a trolley.
On through Zurich and so eventually to Chur at about 4 o'clock, where the next train was waiting. It was rather crowded, but we boarded the Pontresina carriage. I took my sacs inside, as also did Bob with his large one, but his small one and John's only one were put with some others on the platform at the end of the carriage.
I'm afraid that, after all the travelling, I didn't really appreciate the magnificent journey. I was too eager to arrive! There was quite a long halt at Samaden, while the carriages were organised into different trains and then at 6.30 we were at Pontresina, the promised land. Soon the feeling of contentment was lost. Where were the two sacs put on the end platform? The train was searched from end to end, but there was no sign of them, so we began to consult railway officials in an appalling mixture of pigeon French and German. They found our carriage again, but of course they weren't in it; then they rang up Samaden and Chur, and then all the other intermediate stations and finally St. Moritz (where another part of the train had gone. Finally, they said they'd ring Schultz, when the train arrived there. Meanwhile we had a meal in the nearest restaurant to the station, soup, then sausage and rice, and finally, fruit. Halfway through I called back at the station, but there was no joy from Schultz, so, hearing that there was no cheap accommodation at Pontresina, we started, at about 9 o'clock to walk to Morteratoch, where we spent a night in the Lager.
The trains were at 7 o'clock or 9.22; we chose the second and passed the time outside the hotel in the brilliant sunshine, enjoying our café complete – I think this was the meal I enjoyed most of all of the whole holiday. We bought day return tickets to Pontresina and singles to Bernina, for we were determined to carry through our climbing plans, sacs or no sacs. At Pontresina station thee was no news, so we went into town to shop. The situation was complicated by the fact that it was Sunday and the shops didn't seem to open until 11 o'clock and then they shut before we had finished. We bought our provisions and then a long time was spent in a sports shop; they hadn't light weight crampons to fit Bob and John, so they hired ordinary ones, Bob bought an anorak – black, but with a double zip at the neck – one zip up on Derek! Bob spent a long time wondering about buying a new sac, but eventually decided against it.
Another call we made was to the police station, but it wasn't very easy to find; actually the first instructions we received were quite accurate – down the street to a large building like a hotel, standing back from the street, but we hadn't the courage to follow it through and started enquiring and wandering around back streets – eventually we went back to this large building, near the hotel Rosey, asked again and were taken in the lift up to the 4th floor and introduced to the policeman's wife. She was most helpful, took down the particulars of the two sacs and promised to phone us at the Diavolazzo or Boval hut if there was any news.
We went back to the station and 'sorted our gear'. This will be one of my chief memories of the holiday, the hours we spent with our gear spread for yards around, while we decided what to take and what to leave behind; we also had a brew of tea, and something to eat, wrapped our spare gear in capes and put it in the station. John had my large sac, Bob his large one and I had my smaller one. We were taking food for one night for, although I couldn't persuade Bob that Palü wasn't a suitable first day, I had persuaded him that we couldn't do it with full packs over to the Maro and Rosa hut, as he wanted.
We caught the 3 something train to Bernina – what a thrilling run, with the views of Palü, Bernina etc. On the pass we started up the well marked path, while I tried to visualise the route under snow. I soon left the others behind; Bob wanted to photograph some forget-me-nots and had to wait for the sun. We were a contented party for, as we left Pontresina station our little 'red-cap' had seen us and shouted "Die sacen, sie kommen" and a great weight had been taken off our minds. Further up I wanted to photograph some flowers, but Bob had my meter and supplementary lens, and by the time he had arrived, the sun had gone in.
At the green pool we took the summer route, which led us to the left, onto rocks, and then even across a patch of nevé (I was surprised to see it so low).
At the hut we got out our primus outside and started to cook – tea, soup and then spaghetti and tomatoes – the spaghetti was nearly ready when Bob decided to add a little water to it, unfortunately he poured in paraffin from the spare bottle! We had to start all over again! When it was finally ready, Bob had his in a clean pan, while John and I ate from improperly cleaned ones!
We had more luck in our efforts to learn the routes on the mountains; there was such a pleasant Swiss who spoke good English, told us the way to start to Palü, let us study his guide book, and persuaded Bob that the Biancograt must be done from the Tscharva and not the Boval hut. Apparently this ridge had only just been done. One tale was that it took 17 hours, and another was of a party being rescued by guides after a night out.
We were called at 3 a.m. and, even after brewing tea on the primus outside, were ready to start before 4 o'clock. We hadn't looked out the way, were relying on following tracks and we weren't disappointed. It was a strange route, first over the snow of our approach to the hut, and then contouring round over loose moraine (we were to be used to this before leaving the district). We soon passed our friendly Swiss, who had a girl and two young lads in his party, and continued on, and then down a very shattered part to the glacier, where, as it steepened, we stopped to rope up. John was in the front and I was in the rear. This position suited me – I'd start carrying coils, and then, go at my own slow pace, gradually paying them out until I'd have none left and would have to ask the others to stop. I was most relieved to find that John didn't set off at his Bleaklow pace.
A guide and client passed us, but then stopped for photography; meanwhile we overtook a large party who had stopped for second breakfast. It was after this that I found the way a slog, eventually we reached the col and sat down for two minutes, food was handed round, but I doubt if much would be eaten, the lemon juice would be more popular! Then on again – I had always considered Piz Palü summit to be made of broad snowfields. I had a pleasant surprise, for this part was really steep – the snow was in excellent condition, and the cold wind was keeping it so.
Eventually, even the steep slope came to an end, and we were at the top of the eastern peak, but we didn't stop, went on to the central peak, which we reached at 8 o'clock and so on naturally to the third peak, and then down to some rocks where the party ahead had stopped, and made room for us, and handed us the "gipfel-buch". It had been a delightful ridge, not at all hair-raising, but reasonably interesting. We sat and talked and ate and handed on the book to later arrivers, but then thought we had better continue on our way. The first sight of the next part of the ridge reminded me of photos of the final ridge onto Everest! – the rocks and little snow cornices – we had by far the best of it, we hadn't bothered to put on crampons, while the Swiss hadn't bothered to take theirs off, so we soon overtook the three pleasant Swiss, leaving only the photographer and his guide ahead.
We left the others, to descend the Fortezza Ridge and quite pleasant we found it, with the alternate snow and rock. By this time Bob and I were on the two ends of the rope and, on the rocks, as the one in front would stop above a sheer drop, so the one behind would find the way round the side of the rocks. Out of the breeze on top the snow was softening rapidly and was much more tiring. On the rock and snow ridge down to the col, I as last man, prided myself that I was managing the rope perfectly, but on this soft snow the rope was trailing terribly. I simply couldn't be bothered with it. We continued down to a little col and stopped for a rest, to eat if possible and for John to wring out his socks. Next we descended a little gully by the side of the rocks and, with the greatest care, crossed the glacier.
From the summit I had noted that, by keeping well round to the right one avoided all crevasse trouble; unfortunately one did not avoid soft snow! At one point I tried to cross some slush to get onto a line of easier going, but I was soon up to my knees – it was the Argentière Glacier all over again. Eventually we reached the moraine which I ascended and walked down, before joining the track up to the Diavolazzo hut.
The primus was soon going, for tea and soup; the weather seemed closing in. There were a few spots of rain, but we eventually decided to descend to Monteratsch.
Fortunately we didn't listen to Bob who said that there ought to be a track down the right-hand side of the glacier. We crossed to Isla Pass – Oh what memories of February 1950 – and then wasted much time waiting for the sun to assist our flower photography (the clouds were breaking again).
It seemed a long way down the Morteratsch Glacier, passing below the Boval hut and so down past the little green lake, finally to the moraine, and then, before we expected, we were crossing the railway to the hotel. The Lagers were very full, but Herr Arquint was able to find room for us. We were taken under a railway bridge, while blankets were fetched. For the moment we wondered whether that was to be the roof over our heads, but we were shown on to an outbuilding with straw beds.
We had a meal at the hotel. We were disappointed to see that the set meal was Bifstek à la Anglais! but we needn't have bothered, it was cooked the Swiss way – much to John's disgust who likes his steak overdone.
Despite expectations we hadn't slept particularly well, we got up and sat in the sunshine and lit the primus (I was longing for another café complete but thought the others would think that they'd been extravagant enough. We caught the 9.22 to Surovos, made a quick tour of the town buying provisions and then calling in the sports shop for the new crampons – they hadn't come, but might arrive with that morning's post.
Back at Pontresina station the sacs were claimed – and about 10/- for their transport from Chur. We were told that we had left them behind at Chur!
Then we had another of those incredible sort-outs under the tree. We also took it in turns to go for a wash. Tea was brewed, and we ate our lunch, for it was beginning to be obvious that we shouldn't have time for the picnic we had planned in the Roseg Valley.
John and I made a trip to town for the crampons. I turned back before the shop and, on my way down to the station, a strange woman stopped me with a peculiar lament, "Zey dina kum, zie boots, zey dina kum zie boots" – I couldn't think what she was on about, nor in what language she was speaking, eventually I tackled her, did she speak French – yes? – or English – oh yes. Why on earth didn't she speak it I thought, did I look like anyone else but an English woman? Then it dawned on me, she was speaking English and for boots I had to substitute crampons. Their crampons hadn't arrived, she had been to the post to see!
At about 2 o'clock we had everything, the spare sacs in the station and were ready to start up the track to the Roseg Restaurant. The day was hot, the way dusty, so I was a little envious of the trippers on a horse driven coach, who passed us. Next, a man in a private Landau came along – I should have thought he'd have wanted company! Next, an empty landau stopped – Wiewiel? was my first question – yes it seemed cheap at 7 francs for the three of us. How we fancied ourselves! – now how does the Queen wave to the less fortunate? We were told that the restaurant didn't supply milk, and were put off at the bridge – somehow I didn't mind when our driver asked for his "Trinkgeld" besides his seven francs.
We had been told that it was 1½ hours to the hut, so we began to waste time on photography, waiting for the sun at times. It took us nearer 2½ hours, John running excitedly down at one point, having seen a marmot. Soon I had the same experience, for that slope was alive with them. Care was taken over the photos of the terrific snow dome of the Piz Roseg, with alpine rose in the foreground, and then we took in the moraine, past the site of the old hut, and so up to the new one, opened in 1952.
The guardian showed me to our dormitory and I asked her what time people usually started for Roseg – she said they were called at 2 a.m. and started at 3 o'clock, so I asked for a 2 o'clock call. I lamented the fact that we had no guidebook – she thought I was referring to a human guide, and didn't offer me a book, but once more we found a kind Swiss speaking excellent English who gave us information and the loan of his book. There were two chief routes and when I saw that one was called the Eselgrat, I announced that that was our route. The wife of the Swiss found the man who had done the Eselgrat that day and he gave us much helpful information and insisted that we looked out the first part of the route the night before.
After supper, Bob and John went off to find the route, while I cleared up and talked to an Englishman, there with a guide. He was for the Roseg, but not by our route.
It was about 9 o'clock before the others came back, rather hot and thirsty and we'd cut the time a little finer than I should have liked.
We were first called at 1 o'clock; the guardian told us that a guided party was starting at 2 o'clock and we had better get up then, if we would like to follow them. I asked which way they were going, so she turned to the Englishman who said that he didn't know which route he was doing, but he was sure that it wasn't our route. With that we settled down to another hour in bed, although not to sleep.
After a little trouble with the primus in the wind outside, the tea was made, breakfast eaten, and we were ready to start at about 2.45. It was some time before we got the lights sorted out, eventually it was John who had the torch and found the way. He was splendid at this – and I eventually got back my candle lantern from Bob. It was no good his carrying it; he'd swing it madly in front of himself, showing no light for me.
As the man had described the night before, it was a difficult route, an occasional cairn, a couple of places where we had to descend, and then a place where we went obliquely upwards. John found as good a way as there could be to the glacier, but I was sure that he had reached the glacier too soon – hadn't our informer told us to go for an hour? I remembered that they had said that they hadn't quite seen the steps on the glacier – I thought that they had found no tracks on this glacier! Then up the next moraine, and across the few patches of snow, and so onto a real path! – and it was light enough to do without the lantern, although we could still see the lights of the Biancograt party, which had left at 2 o'clock and were still traversing our first moraine.
We roped up on the glacier and made our way, following the tracks, towards the rocks. I had a bad time here. I considered, whether I used the same steps as the others, or different ones. I seemed to break through about three times as often and several times all my coils would have paid out and they had to wait for me. At the foot of the couloir up to the rocks, Bob declared a halt (I has already had several rests for I had decided that each time we stopped I'd sit down). We saw another party ahead of us – we didn't know that it was the Englishman and his guide on the Eselgrat after all, nor did we realise the interest they were taking in our progress. What a pity they didn't follow us, for they'll never find their way across the first moraine, had been the guide's first cry, but we did find our way, and it was straightforward to the rocks. "They'll never find the way through the rocks", was the guide's next lament, so he was utterly astonished when, as he said, we, a party of three, gained a quarter of an hour on them on the rocks. We hadn't hurried particularly, in fact we'd had another sit, as we'd put our axes away. We traversed first right up an east rake, and then back left over moderate rocks, before going right again, finishing up a 'vd' chimney which I found distinctly strenuous, with a pack, at this stage of the holiday.
It was fun once we were on the ridge, for the rocks continued for a little way, all too soon to give way to the plod, plod, plod up the snow. It wasn't too bad at first, and then before it steepened, I left my nearly empty pack.
The way up the schneeköpf seemed to go on for ever; how many times did I run out of coils, and then I started zigzagging where the others had taken it direct. Then the angle eased, and then there was a ridge and then, horror of horrors, there was the true summit! It was the sight of the rapidly softening snow on the final ridge which put me off. I thought what fools we were to start an hour later than the guide – obviously he had his reasons for the early start. He wanted to be off the snow before it melted – yet I looked at my watch – 8.30 – surely the snow can't be out of condition by this time? – we continued down, round a crest of snow and then started up the final ridge, one or two snow steps giving way beneath us. So, when we met the guided party coming down, I frantically asked whether we had time to reach the summit.
The guide just laughed at me. Of course we had, it was only about 10 minutes away and, at about 9.15 we reached the promised land, and had time for a photo or so before starting down. We learned afterwards that the Englishman was most envious when he saw us belaying! We took it cautiously, I was first down and so first up the snow dome. I'm afraid I breathed in and out for each foot I put forward. At the top we stopped again for photography, before cramponning easily down the steep, but still frozen slope to my sac. Another halt and then we left our upward tracks and started down the ordinary way – what a terrible slog this must be on the way up – the snow was getting very soft, and I was quite unhappy, until I had traversed beyond some rocks, then, with a clear run out below me, I didn't care. Actually, had we de-cramponned, the snow would have been in lovely glissading condition, but we were in no position to re-organise, also I found that John was even more cautious that I am, on the treacherous white stuff.
At the bottom, we sat on some rocks and ate, and tried to trace our route – how different it seemed from the guidebook, where such an obvious snow terrace led round the mountain. We soon left the rocks and followed some very old tracks across a couloir – actually they can only have been an hour or so old, but that hour made a lot of difference at that time of day.
I had to kick the steps and, at the end, I was in the possible line of fire of stone falls – I kicked as quickly as I could! Next, we followed a faintly marked and cairned way up, and then a rake took us up to the col, visible from the hut. I'm afraid there had been several halts for water, or to fill the bottle, on this traverse, and there were several more down the glacier. Then, on the dry glacier, Bob and John practiced cutting up walls, and finally we went to the right to get onto the moraine at a better place than just below the hut. Even so, the ascent of this "overhanging loose moraine" was the most hazardous part of the day.
By the time I reached the hut, the Englishman and guide were ready to go; they said that they'd been down three hours before us!
There was much discussion of policy – Bob was for the Bernina the next day, but John and I put our feet down; I offered to fetch more food while they did the Morteratsch, but it was finally agreed that Bob and I should fetch food, while John looked out the way.
We set out about 9 o'clock, with empty sacs, apart from our cameras. Bob said that we must be strong-minded over the transport, but we reached the bridge just as three landaus were returning empty, the middle one stopped and I started my "Wieviel?" "Zehn" tried the man, and at my horrified look, he immediately said "Sechs", at which we agreed. We bought provisions, Bob got his boots repaired, and I made several trips to the dairy, for half litres of milk, which we drank between us, and finally, by ransacking the post-office, the sports shop were able to produce the crampons and Bob gave back the hired ones. At the station I recovered my C.A.F. card and another colour film from my luggage, and we set off up the Roseg Valley. We didn't want a lift this time, for we wanted to picnic on the way. Part of the time we walked along the other side of the river, we went on and on hoping to come to a side-stream, but eventually gave up hope, crossed a bridge and Bob made a fire by the main stream. The snag was that we had no fat with us, so we cut off fat pieces of bacon and put them in the pan, before cooking the onions, and finally the steak. We didn't bother about a brew. We drank the milk which we had been carrying in a carton. Bob also had his "green vegetable" – a paprika, which he found most disappointing.
And so we continued along the track. An empty landau passed without stopping. It was a pity, because soon afterwards there was quite a heavy shower of rain. We slowly continued up, sometimes sheltering and sometimes continuing and eventually reached the hut, far drier than I'd dared hope.
We found that John had had a pleasant day, and had successfully reconnoitred the route.
We were called at 1 o'clock, forced a little bread and butter and jam down our throats, drank our tea, packed everything and were ready to traverse the Bernina! What a wretched way it was across the moraine at first, but later on there was the trace of a path, all too soon to peter out into "overhanging loose moraine" – a snow gully to cross, then more desperate moraine, and then in excellent time, onto the snow. The trouble was that we were only just below the level of the mist. We couldn't see up, the rain had washed the tracks from the snow, and we didn't know which was the couloir we had to follow up!
We consulted the map, but it wasn't a great deal of help, another party had stopped below us on the glacier, so Bob started traversing up to the right, and we were soon in the mist. Poor John, his heart wasn't in it, he'd keep making excuses, but none held water. I was rather thrilled, kept quoting my Weisshorn day in 1947 and said that we must go on so that, if we found when the mist cleared that we were right, we'd get in our peak – if we found that we were wrong, we could still retreat. I was sure it would clear, and occasionally we could almost see blue sky above us. Then the moment for which I had been waiting came, and we looked down on a sea of clouds with the islands of peaks showing through. What a serene world, but at that moment I lost all interest in the scenery, for I realised that my colour film had come out of the cassette!
We also had a chance to see the way ahead and realised that we were traversing below Biancograt. I was waiting for someone to suggest that we could get onto it up some desperate nevé. Fortunately I was in a party with more sense. We turned back.
After the inevitable tea and second breakfast we went to bed, and in fact most of the day was wasted – it had soon clouded over which gave me an excuse not to go out to photograph marmots as I had intended.
We were most disappointed not to be called until 2 o'clock, instead of 1 o'clock, as we had asked (we ought to have had more faith in the guardian, all her actions worked out for the best). John decided not to come, but Bob and I got up and looked at the weather. It was very cloudy and doubtful; I remember saying at one stage that we might as well go back to bed, but other people were about, so once more we decided to go on until we were turned back. Without John's help we didn't find such a good way across the moraine. There were two people in front, and then at one point about a dozen people nearly caught us up, but we were just able to keep ahead of them, and, after cramponning and roping up, we were well ahead. I considered the way up the couloir desperate. There were no real axe belays, and there was new snow on the outward sloping steps, and the whole thing seemed at the maximum angle of steepness. I was very amused. I was setting the pace up this part, and yet even I couldn't set a pace slow enough. I had to halt at intervals to get my breath back! One has to go at a minimum pace to retain any rhythm, I suppose.
The weather seemed to be improving. A short halt on the col to remove crampons and for lemonade, and then off we went again, tackling the iced rocks, up which we moved mostly one at a time. At one point, Bob disappeared round to the right and continued on very, very slowly. I thought it must be desperate and then Bob's face appeared over the top – those rocks had turned his hair snow-white – or should I say frosted-white! We soon caught up the party ahead, the leader of which we now recognised as the Italian guide who had been at the hut the last two days. Obviously he wasn't displeased to see us, for he was soon asking us which hut we were descending to, and, on hearing that we were for Morteratsch, he was suggesting that we should all descend the labyrinth together, for they were bound for the Boval hut.
I was rather envious of the large party behind. They seemed to have so much in hand! They had been catching us up, in the couloir, and then, instead of following us across to the cold rocks, they made their way to the rocks the other side, and had their second breakfast in the sun.
In the aid of photography, we let the Italian party start up the snow ridge, while we were still on the rock. Unfortunately the mist came down when they were in the last position, and we had to wait until they were higher, before we could photograph them. The mist was really rather wonderful. The summit would keep coming out of the mist, and then we found there was another one even higher; the ridge seemed to go on for ever (I also had that impression when I was on it).
I considered the conditions reasonably interesting, the ridge was icy beneath in parts, and there was up to 6 inches of new snow on it. Occasionally the way was quite steep, and there were places where we moved one at a time. We caught up the other party on a flat place where they were having second breakfast and we also had a rest, but were ready to go on first, and Bob pioneered the way to the top of Bianco - a perfect snow cone. What a shock I found the view over to Bernina. The nearest comparison I could think of was the Meije and I meant the Meije in its 1953 iced condition – there were gendarmes, I'm sure the original overhanging black ice, and little untracked snow cols. No wonder the Italian guide let us get ahead.
We started along the ridge in our crampons, and then the way down steepened, and I remembered that the book had mentioned a rappel, so I fixed the rope – I was rather slow at this for I remained tied to one end, for we hadn't a spare rope and there was no lifeline. Half way down, I found a knot in the rope, and had to hang on while I untied it. I was a little annoyed with the Italian, I asked him if he had a spare rope, and he said yes, in his sac, but made no effort to produce it, which would have saved time for us all. Apparently before Bob came down, the St. Moritz guide, the leader of the large party, had come over, promised to release our rope and had fixed his own spare rope, which the Italian had used. Eventually we were tied on again and proceeding still in our crampons. I kept offering the lead to other people, but none would accept. I offered it to the Italian because I thought he didn't want it, and to the Swiss guide because I thought it must be tedious for him to follow us, but they all seemed quite content for Bob to pioneer the way! Actually, I think the Swiss guide thought he could be more use further back in the caravan, certainly he'd pay out Bob's rope and take in mine at strategic points and generally be helpful without being officious. Bob was a long time descending a slab and advised me to take off my crampons before trying it. I remember the Italian tied them onto my sac and, as I was moving off, forgetting my axe, one of the Swiss handed it to me. He had counted up that there were 127 people on the Biancograt and the funny thing is that I didn't wish any of them elsewhere. The Swiss were such good types and the Italian had his amusement value.
We were approaching the overhanging ice – I suppose I oughtn't to exaggerate, it was only vertical, but it was hollow behind, which put it up a class, I felt. Bob belayed at the foot of it and brought me up, but, while we were looking at it, the Swiss guide was up to us and traversing to the right. In no time he was looking over the top and telling us not to use his route because it was iced, and was sending down ropes for the vertical part. I don't know what he must have thought of me, I came over the top on a knee and that knee was placed on the rope he was giving down to the Italian guide!
We continued down to the rocks below the final slope and then the Swiss guide took over and made the tracks up the final slope. Fortunately, there were rocks coming through, with an occasional belay, for it was impossible to get the axe into the ice. After several rope lengths and at about 11.45, we were at the top, and sitting down to chat in simple German with the two had been on the Swiss guide's rope.
He had unroped at the top and gone down solo to assist those behind. All the way up the rocks had remained sticky to the touch, it was so cold, but we could thank this coldness for the fact that the snow was in such good condition. The summit was mostly in mist, but I've known few pleasanter ones; we learned that the large party was the Glarus section of the S.A.C. and eventually one of the members produced their flag which had to be fastened to an ice-axe. I found that 'Tensing' is an international word! – the flag was red with a picture of a man – a little like some of the party!
The Swiss seemed in no hurry to go down, they had said that we could tie onto them for the descent, but we said that we had already promised the Italian. They said that one did not descend the Labyrinth, but went to the right. All too soon I said that we must go. The real truth of the matter was that I didn't want them to see how badly I descended steep snow.
It was quite a short and easy descent. The snow was beginning to soften, but not too badly, for we were still in the mist – a patch of rock and then there was only a steep glissading slope. Soon there was a call from above, the Italian was afraid we were leaving them behind – we waited and then all roped together. "This is very dangerous", said the guide, pointing to the nearby level snow field in front of us. Soon we joined the tracks from the Marco and Rosa hut – may I never ascend this way to the hut! At first Bob was allowed to go ahead, but, as the danger increased, the order was reversed and the guide and client were in front followed by me and Bob.
Bob was terrified of this joining up, for fear that I should disgrace myself and cross a crevasse on my knees or something like that; there was only one place where I hesitated – it was an extra big jump and I fairly soon got myself to fall across, more like a sack of potatoes than an expert mountaineer, I am afraid.
It was a glorious afternoon – I remember how brilliant and near Piz Langerand appeared, and the top of Bernina was out of the mist. Sooner than I'd expected we were allowed to unrope from the others, who went on ahead down the last part of the glacier, while we used our cameras. We ascended onto the moraine and kept below the Boval hut. How much brighter I felt than the last time we had come this way, after our first climb, this despite the fact that for 9 solid hours that morning I had been panting through the mouth, giving myself a smoker's cough by the time I had reached the summit.
At a stream lower down we stopped for a brew up – we'd been promising ourselves our afternoon tea for some time and so down to Morteratsch, where we arrived about 7 o'clock and were met by John, who had fixed us with bunks in the Lager.
We celebrated by buying a meal and had red wine to drink with it. Was it the wine or the 2 a.m. rising which made me put my head on the table?
I had hoped for another café complet, but Bob insisted that we must catch the 7 o'clock train to Pontresina. Not only that, but they were awake and up in plenty of time for it! We ate bread and butter and jam, but there was no time for a brew. At Pontresina we claimed our sacs from the station, carried them to the post office and were introduced to the Swiss custom of registering our luggage for the post buses. We enjoyed our run through St. Moritz, where we had to change into a bus with a trailer, on to Maloya, our destination. The mist was down, it was almost spitting, but the others were less pessimistic and we took our gear into the woods and then set about sorting our things and also cooking tea, breakfast and coffee. I washed my socks in the cold water of a trough, it was so cold to my hands that, after breakfast, I suggested hot water for washing, and the primus continued to produced this for several hours – we washed not only ourselves, but our clothes, things were looking up, the rain didn't come. Instead the sun began to show through.
There were several trips to the shop for last minute purchases, and then, long after the second Pontresina bus had come and gone, we were packed and only had to wait for the arrival of another bus, for the post office to open, so that we could deposit our spare sacs, and then for the Forno hut. I'm afraid I was very out of temper for this most delightful walk. Firstly, we were so late. There was always so much to do, when we arrived at a hut; the cooking of the food (when the guardian does it so much more efficiently) and then, without a guidebook we had to describe which mountains we had to climb, besides finding out about the routes. Added to all this, I seemed to have a very heavy sac. I'll always force myself on despite my load if I think the carrying will result in more mountaineering, but this time all we were carrying was water in one form or another, pears, plums, bananas, tomatoes, lettuce, onions (and it was a long time before Bob forgave me for not allowing him to buy more than one pound). There was practically no bread. It had all been eaten in the woods. It wasn't as though our jaded appetite needed tempting the second week.
In addition, of course, was the thought that Betty and I had planned to start our holiday at this hut, and an ideal place it seemed for the start of a holiday.
What a delightful lake it was at Cavloccio. I thought how non-climbers would appreciate photos of it. Then along the moraine to the foot of the glacier, up the snout, John miles in front and Bob keeping to my terribly slow pace – finally up to the hut, to be greeted in delightful English by the guardian.
We borrowed a guidebook. We wanted to do the Punta Rosica, and we also wanted to keep to this year's custom of traversing our peak, and the book indicated no way down from the col to the west of the peak. Was there some insuperable difficulty? No-one seemed to know, so we approached the guardian. She was a little shocked at the suggestion. That traverse was one of the hardest things around and it couldn't be done the other way for there were a couple of rappels. It hadn't been done this season. She thought we ought to consult her husband before trying it, and he was asleep after a fortnight away, climbing, so we had better try something easier first, and she suggested the East Ridge of Casnile.
This didn't look at all interesting to me, but it was nearly 9 o'clock and it was the simplest route to approach, so we decided on that and promised ourselves the Punta Rosica the next day.
We weren't called until 5 o'clock – what luxury in the second week. It was a beautiful morning. We took our time over breakfast and started out soon after 6 o'clock – down the track we had trudged up the night before, across the glacier, and up a pathless way to the opposite mountain. We followed the way marked in the guidebook, although, apparently, it is usually done by a shorter route further south. We tacked to and fro, descended once to join a rake where there were the traces of a path, and went up until we reached some snow, and soon we were having second breakfast in the brêche before the next ridge proper.
We soon put on the rope, for the climbing was getting interesting – a hold-less slab, with a peg as belay half way up. There were no positive holds on it; it wasn't my type of pitch, but fortunately it was at a fairly easy angle. Once John had launched himself on it he had it without any trouble. I think the rock-climber in John would have liked to have kept to the crest, but the mountaineer in me kept suggesting the easier ground to the right, and so we got to the summit in about 3½ hours, up a route which, apart from the first slab, was distinctly lacking in character. Third breakfast on top, more photos of the view, which, to the west, contained the Badile, with its North Ridge in profile, but the most beautiful mountain of all, was the snow and rock Disgrazia. The Biancograt looked a very gentle promenade.
Soon we were descending the easy South Ridge, going one at a time, when the way became too loose. After a flower photograph or so, we were down to the snow. I was glad to find it easy, for it had been my idea to leave all axes behind.
And so down snow and scree until we reached the flower zone, where there were gentians to photograph – is it possible that any colour film could recapture that sea green toile to that incredible deep blue? And so back to the hut at about 12 o'clock for tea and soup, a lounge, a talk to the guardian. Her husband approached us and said he had heard that we had wanted information about the traverse. He told us that it was all very easy, that one kept to the crest of the ridge, occasionally traversing on the south side, and there were two rappels, but that no slings were left to mark the places. While we were talking, we asked him about the Badile, and he said that there was no difficulty on the North Ridge either, if one found the right route – we asked about pegs and he said that none were needed, on the right route.
Later Bob wanted to try some photography and asked me for my meter – it was missing; fortunately I remembered the exact position of the patch of Gentians, the last thing I photographed, and in the cool of the evening, Bob, noble soul, accompanied me when I went up to recover it. We were surprised to find that the gentians had already shut up for the night. When we arrived back at the hut we found John had supper well on the way. This night the salad was followed by a very nice fruit salad.
It was more like old times, being awakened at 3 o'clock and setting off by candle lantern at 4 o'clock. I hadn't realised quite how far the level, dry glacier extended; eventually, after about a couple of hours, we began to make a little height, but I was afraid that the recommended 3 hours to the col was a little optimistic.
It is the strangest glacier I have ever known – instead of proper crevasses, it had depressions – no other word describes them. The dreaded moment came "We leave our axes here", said Bob. "I'll take mine" I immediately volunteered, thinking that then I'd be in a better position on the descent – what a hope!
If we'd have been a quarter of an hour later, we could have left our crampons and taken an extra axe.
All too soon we left the snow and took to the "overhanging loose scree" onto the col, which we reached at about 7 o'clock.
I was very surprised when Bob suggested that he would take my pack and I could lead – the snow going up to the first rocks was in the shade, and still frozen and required a step or two, and then I was a little slow making up my mind, which way to go on the rocks, and I promised to give up the lead if I didn't buck up, but after that the route was perfectly delightful. We could move together practically the whole way, putting the rope round projections to safeguard the party. At first there were ledges for the feet on the Forno side, with an occasional excursion to the south. The nearest I have known to it was the Nonne, where there are a few hundred feet, but here it went on for 5 hours!
There was one little chimney where we handed up sacs – just my type of pitch – and I knocked my head on the clear ice at the back, so it must have been overhanging! And so on to the central summit at about 10 o'clock. We found rappel slings here, but decided that it was time for second breakfast, before fixing the spare rope.
I went down first, and finally found a belay and stayed there, but got the others to stop a little further up. There seemed no obvious way along on this southern side, so I went up, and then hand traversed into a diedre, before rejoining the crest. The others traversed at a slightly lower level. And so back to our old traverse, until stopped by a more obvious place for a rappel (we had thought that it would have been possible to have climbed down where we found the first sling, and we late realised that it wasn't one of the two places we had been warned about. One more rappel and we were confronted by the crux (I should hate to try to reclimb either of those rappels!). A smooth slab with one peg as the only hold on it! – to the left of the slab was a crack with pegs, but that looked even more intimidating. I told Bob that I should prefer to carry a sac up to leading such a pitch. I suppose I was lacking in courage, but I always feel in the alps that it is not up to one person to waste the time of the party for the sake of saying that they had led the whole thing. Bob soon got up. As I followed, I removed the rope ahead from the mousqueton and put John's rope through; unfortunately it was caught in the catch and I had a dreadful shock as it pulled me up, just as I was on the most delicate part.
The slab was at an easy angle and in one of those places where, as soon as you are over it you say, "How easy", but personally I shall always prefer incut finger-holds.
The slab was covered with a lichen which would have made it impossible to fall off. Bob continued in the lead. I thought we had been told to go round the south side of the final block, so I wasn't pleased to see him scaling completely vertical rocks on the other side, but when it was my turn to follow, I found that the most incredible flakes we had had all along the ridge continued, although it seemed doubtful that anything as thin as these flakes could be firm.
Eventually we were round to the problem, so familiar from numerous photographs, the final tower. We sat down for a rest, but John couldn't stand it for long. He'd meant what he'd said a few days previously that he was ready for 'vs' rock, and was soon tackling the pitch. I stood back, cameras poised, and John duly tried to lay-back up the side facing me. I got one in black and white of this noble effort, but before I could get one in colour, he had retreated. He sensibly decided that he would be liable to swing off, if he continued. He was soon round the corner and up the back – and getting a runner on before finishing the pitch, which was quite long. Then it was my turn; I had always thought that this must be a trick pitch, that it couldn't be as hard as it looked. In actual fact it was a jolly sight harder! I couldn't get off the ground – couldn't reach the handhold was my excuse, but before I gave up, Bob suggested that a runner on the peg would give me a first foothold, and with that I was up with difficulty and looking at the edge. I had never considered the lay-back method. I stepped round the back to try John's solution. I moved my right foot onto the hold 18 inches up the edge and my left hand had a hold on the edge, then I moved my right foot as far out as it would go, onto a mediocre hold (the rough lichen was missing from these rocks) - it was the typical polished Chamonix granite – and then I looked for a hold for my right hand – there was nothing – the trouble was I could see a hold 6 inches out of reach. It wasn't fair that I should be expected to do this climb when I couldn't reach that hold! I retreated to the platform to think it over and then decided to have another try – the same thing happened. John was giving me a beautifully slack rope, he obviously didn't expect me to come off and therefore I couldn't disillusion him by doing so (I felt I was in danger of this if I tried the move) and therefore retreated all the way, finding it a little desperate to get down the lower part (although it would have been easy enough to have jumped into the snow, in an emergency). Then it was Bob's turn and I don't think that he found it as easy as he'd expected. I was terribly envious of them on top, but I was convinced that it was a difficult pitch, after watching two Swiss who had followed us along the traverse. One of them had done it some years previously, but he couldn't even get as high as I had done; he retreated (with the utmost difficulty) and his companion led it reasonably well. When the second had to follow he finally did it a cheval, finding it terribly strenuous. By that time I was wanting another try, but it wasn't offered me, and I waited until the others had rappelled down.
I was in the middle for the descent of the rock, more of the delightful edge, then an easy chimney and finally down to the snow where we regretted the absence of the axes. I had been keen to take mine so that I should have it for the descent, but when the moment came I realised that Bob, as last man, must have it. Another time I will get someone else to take one, and then I'll take mine as an extra. Our crampons of course were quite useless in the soft snow. John wasn't keen to go first, so I changed places with him and kicked the steps, facing inwards, and shoving my hands right in, in place of an axe. There were some old tracks, which indicated the way, but were no good as steps. John didn't seem to have much confidence in my steps, for he mostly kicked his own. There were several tracks leading over the first bergschrund. I took the left hand one, but I soon realised that I was standing on nothing, had no take off for a jump, and, on a tight rope went down until I could step across. I was able to direct John to a better place and he jumped, being pulled up by Bob as he shot off down the slope. Bob landed neatly on the lower lip, when his turn came. The way was still steep, and the snow got a little hard above the next bergschrund, but its crossing presented no difficulty and after that I believe even I was able to go down face outwards. By the time we rejoined the axes, and I was able to have mine, I was no longer in need of it – such is life. The glacier was in a rather different condition from the morning. It reminded me, both being so level, and in the wetness of its surface, of the Argentière glacier of an afternoon. It was about 6 o'clock, I believe, when we arrived back at the hut, too late to go down that evening, but we had sufficient food for another night. I insisted on making the spaghetti, to show Bob how it could be done; unfortunately Bob wanted his pound of onions frying with it; John insisted that we should fry the bacon, although we had a tin of corned beef, the result was that we had far more than could possibly be kept warm on one primus, and the meal was not a success.
The guardian was very interested in our climb, and said that I ought to go back the next morning with him and get up the final pitch lay-backing! His wife said she had seen us on the central summit at 10 o'clock, and had been amazed that we had made such good time. Two of the new arrivals were of the S.A.C. Glarus section, which we had last seen on Bernina. I was terribly envious when I heard of their next day – Zapo, Bella Vista and Palü.
We were down at 7.30 for a café complet, complete with extra bread for the boys (We were out of bread and we couldn't not buy a loaf at the hut, only a café complet).
We didn't hurry with our packing, but were ready at about 9 o'clock and strolled down to Maloya, stopping for the odd photo and for refreshments at Cavloccio.
At Maloya we found that the next bus to Italy left at about 1 o'clock. We recovered our sacs from the post office, bought supplies and re-organised our gear so that we had the bare minimum for two nights out – we wanted sacs which we could carry if we did any traversing, for we were entering new country. There was so much to see and so little time for seeing it. The post office was shut by the time we were ready, but of course it opened for the bus and we were able to deposit our large sacs and get our smaller ones labelled for the journey. I was appalled at the cost of our tickets, for I wanted the journey to be short – I didn't want to lose too much height, before we began the slog up to the hut! When we actually started the descent I enjoyed every minute of it, and began to wonder whether we didn't miss a lot, staying up at the huts and climbing our mountains. It seemed quite a new road, and I shall always remember the patterns traced out by the cobble stones on the corners.
I quite liked the driver, and I began to be able to foretell when he was going to blow his delightful post-horn.
We stopped at each village, the driver calling in at the post office. They were delightful places, flower bedecked, and comparatively unspoilt. We went on and on. After the first, we only lost height gradually, but we were losing it all the time, until, at about 2 o'clock we reached our destination, Promontogno. We hadn't had time for the meal we had promised ourselves in Maloya, so we thought we'd see what this place could do. It seemed a happy sign that the inn was called the Refugio Sciora, so we tried there. It was an Italian speaking valley, but we got on very well with the lady's German, and she promised us a meal at once, and suggested that it would be quicker if we went upstairs for it. It was a nice, clean, little dining room; the soup was a pleasant change from its namesake in packets, and the beef was served on polenta, with fried eggs on top. There was a 'torte' for sweet.
We had finished by about 3 o'clock, sooner than we'd dared hope, but by then the rot had set in. If we did the climb and got back to the hut the same day, we'd have time for it on Friday, before leaving on Saturday we argued. We asked for our bill; it was reasonable, so we asked for rooms for the night – Yes, she had two rooms, one for 2 at 9 francs and a single one at 5 francs and the single one had "fliessender wasser" – now wouldn't it be nice to have a room with 'fliessender wasser", for we could wash! – I was too amused to be annoyed and we were shown up to the rooms. No soap was provided and when I asked for some a tablet was produced about 6 x 4 x 4 inches, as though her first hint hadn't been enough!
We washed, and then looked around the village, and then went to the village of Bondo, just off the main road. This was even more delightful. None of its streets, cobbled and grass-grown, was more than 3 metres wide. We bought a few more things as provisions, tried to photograph the old mill between showers and noticed a water-wheel operating a saw mill a little lower down the stream.
Back at Promontogno we visited the patisserie shop. The cakes seemed to be made, cooked and sold all in the same room and we gathered that the elderly man who cut the little wood chips for the fire, and also sold the cakes, made them as well. We felt that he was a real craftsman and he seemed to approve of the obvious enjoyment we showed, as we sampled his wares. I felt that it was typical of him that he should show the least interesting ones in the window. There was a rather angry little notice on the door, saying that he had no bread!
Time went rather slowly, until dinner time. Bob and I celebrated with a bottle of chianti, John was far more extravagant, and had a couple of bottles of a soft drink!
And so early to bed, after making good use of the hot "fliessender wasser".
We were up at 7 o'clock, and breakfast was served at half past. John not only asked for more bread, but wanted more butter as well – and got it!
We started the long trudge up to the hut, for there were a good many thousand feet of height to be gained. At first it was a road. Then we passed the men making the road, and it was a path higher up, winding its way, very, very gently up the Val Bondosca. It was getting hot, and Bob was suggesting a brew. I protested that we hadn't the food both for elevenses and for a mid-day meal, but I gathered that it was to be a prolonged halt. We got tired of waiting for a side stream, so, as we weren't far above the main stream, Bob ran down for water, while John lit the fire – one match and no paper – I was most impressed!
After the meal John followed me down as I went to clean the pans, and he got them shining as they have never done since they were new! Bob was all for a prolonged nap, but I could sit there no longer, for I was sure there was some hard work coming. It wasn't far above us, the track took to the left hillside and wove its way to and fro, to and fro. I was in front and was soon longing to stop, but told myself I must wait until I could see over. Eventually, the obvious resting place appeared, a little chalet, and the ruins of a stone building. The on again, more zigzagging, until we were out in the open and making for the hut, visible on the grassy moraine. We collected wood at this point, for we had brought no primus. We had a little spirit stove for breakfast and intended to cook our evening meal over a wood fire.
It was a small hut, only a year or so old (its predecessor had been burnt by smugglers); we passed the door below "Refuge d'inferno" and went onto the terrace and into the hut. The first sight of the guardian and his wife was a shock. The former wasn't at all the kindly guide I had expected, and his unshaven face wasn't encouraging. He was Italian speaking, knew no English, and at first couldn't understand my efforts at French and German, so I was glad of another man who could translate into French. The guardian grudgingly said that he would have room for us, and then we asked whether we could use our wood in the stove in the "Refuge d'Inferno". My translator argued with him for ages over our fire, but no, we couldn't use the stove, for the pan didn't fit and it would have smoked the whole hut.
If we wanted a stove, we'd find one in a shelter higher up and we could sleep there too, for nothing. "We want to sleep here", we protested. While we had our interpreter, we asked for information on the North Ridge of the Badile, and were pleased to find that the guardian had an Italian guidebook with quite a good diagram – we weren't allowed to look at it for very long, but we weren't ready to concentrate on it; there was the meal to prepare first of all. As I was going to take the pans over to the fire which the boy scouts had lit in the open, the lady took them from me and gave me some hot water – I might as well have it, it is hot, she said.
The meal took some time, then we borrowed the book again and, while the others went to look out the way over the moraine, I tried to make a rough copy of the diagrams, both of the way up and down. It was a beautiful sunset; I was too busy watching it, to photograph it, and then I went to light the fire again, to prepare a hot drink before bed. It took me many matches and some paper before I could get it alight. The others arrived back by the time it was nearly cold, but we revived the fire and enjoyed our hot oven sport, before returning to the hut for another look at the book. I asked if anyone spoke English and eventually found a guide who ran over the route for us. Unfortunately we didn't make a note of the way.
We had asked to be called at 2 o'clock. It was 2.45 when I looked at my watch; we got up and I got the spirit stove going in the "refuge di'inferno" for the tea. About an hour later we set off, Bob and John finding the way as well as was possible over the trackless moraine. We reached the summit of the last but one moraine at the same time as the two Germans who had set out in front of us. This was rather a nuisance, for we had to wait until they were down the other side, and they seemed disinclined to hurry. We each chose a different line down the "overhanging loose scree" and were able to move together.
One more moraine to ascend and then we reached a grassy meadow, complete with flowers and singing birds. It was delightful, but hardly seemed the beginning of a serious day's mountaineering. We overtook the Germans on the rake onto the ridge, and then they overtook us as we had second breakfast just over the ridge. This seemed ominous, this halt before we had reached the roping up point; neither of the boys was their usual cheerful self, but there seemed no reason for not pressing on further. We caught up the Germans at the roping up point. They hadn't roped, and they went too far to the left, so Bob took the lead, found a peg and clipped on and then made a desperate looking move round, and eventually reached the ridge. I found this move quite strenuous enough with a sac, and what had the Forno guardian said? - that there were no pegs on the best route, for there was no need for any. Then it was my turn to lead, up easy slabs until I seemed off the last line, when Bob, who was at the foot of another line of weakness, took over, and led up a steeper slab. At one point, we were getting ahead of the Germans, so they shouted to us to wait, as they wanted to film us on the climb. Bob insisted that we waited. Today the party seemed enjoying their rests more than their climbing! Eventually I insisted that we couldn't wait any longer, and we started off, to the annoyance of the Germans, who caught us up, however, as the difficulties increased. Then Bob started on a smooth slab, clipping onto a couple of pegs. Then he came to another peg and had to send down a loop of rope for more mousquetons. "We were told the way wasn't pegged", I said, but I couldn't see any alternative. On my little diagram it seemed to go to the left, but that was very sheer, I couldn't see to the right, so I asked the Germans, but they wouldn't look. "The hooks wouldn't be there if it weren't the way" was all they'd say.
I went down and couldn't see far enough to the right. The Germans got out their 'Bergell' guidebook and said that that was the way. One went up to the overhangs and then avoided them on the left. Bob clipped onto two more pegs, but then decided to retreat, safeguarding himself with a piece of rope in the third peg. For some time John had been wanting to turn back, and this was the last straw. We were far too late, and must go down, but before we did so we witnessed quite a lot of comedy, as we ate our bread and butter and sardines.
The Germans then decided to force the pitch, but they had only two crabs and no 'hooks' – would we lend them some? We said yes, but how would we get them back, for we'd be gone by the time they returned to the hut. Wouldn't I be staying, they said, knowing that I had a longer holiday. I suggested that they trailed up our spare rope and returned them on the end of that, when they got to the top of the pitch.
They roped up and their leader went up to the first peg, but got no higher and was soon down again. Then they had a brilliant idea, one wasn't meant to ascend the pitch, the 'hooks' were there to safeguard the traverse to the left; their leader put the rope around in an abseiling position, but never took off, just stood there, waiting for the Austrians who had at last appeared. The night before they had told me about these super climbers, from Vienna, they were so good that they were members of the Austrian Alpine Club. I said that I also used to be a member of that club, but I think I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
The Austrians were surprised to see our rope trailing from the Germans and asked if we were all climbing as one party. I was glad that the truth of the matter was explained to them. Their leader then went up the pegged pitch, and, when Bob told him to traverse to the right, he did so, and was able to continue the traverse onto easier ground – it didn't take very long. His second had to follow, but the other party traversed slightly down, to a line of weakness leading up on the right. The Germans obviously didn't dare ask these to stop and be filmed, and they were soon left alone, both routes taken by the Austrians were too difficult for them so they very slowly descended until they could get across to the line of weakness.
The fun over, we had to start our descent; I suggested roping down the slab, but Bob wouldn't hear of it, so I went down to the left, only to find it didn't 'go' and to have to come up again. Then I insisted on a doubled rope and was soon down the slab and then nearly went to sleep while the others took about half an hour climbing down. There was no other real difficulty. We found an easy way down, just to the north of the first awkward place, with the peg, and then we could unrope and romp down the traverse to the flower meadow with the birds – a pleasant place. The others volunteered to go back to the hut so that I could go straight down. I was dubious about this way straight down, but one look at the stony way back to the hut made me decide to try it. I kept too far to the left, and my worst fears were justified. I had to fight my way through impenetrable alder scrub, and then go up and round the slabs, for they were covered with the worst type of English slime and were uncrossable in vibrams. When I eventually reached the stones, they seemed like paradise, and there were then only about half a dozen raging torrents to cross. I was only about 10 minutes before the others at the rendezvous. I expected a fire and meal, but they thought we ought to go further down. Bob wanted to sleep in a hay hut, but, unfortunately, all the likely ones were locked, so we went on down to Bondo, where we hoped to find cheap accommodation.
We asked the first man we saw; he didn't understand our German very well and started to take us back to the Youth Hostel. Fortunately we met the postman, who spoke English (had even been to Brighton). He couldn't think of anywhere we could stay in Bondo, but he confirmed that we could get a meal in the village – so we went back for that, thinking that the bed would do later. We went down to the local wine house – a room in the same building as the village shop, where we had enjoyed making a few purchases last time we were this way. The lady took the invasion very calmly, and promised us soup and spiegelei. We sat and waited and got our amusement from watching the 'local types'. They'd come in, help themselves to a bottle and sit down and drink it. I was glad to be sitting down, and soon had my boots off, but the bench was hard, and not very comfortable. I thought that it would make a better bed than seat and stretched out, much to Bob's embarrassment, for the locals were looking on, and we felt that it was the resting place of the local strange characters, despite the fact that our friend the postman was also one to help himself to a bottle and drink. He came in to say that he had found us beds, and Bob followed him to find where they were and to meet the kind lady who was having us in her flat for the night.
Eventually the soup arrived – that was worth sitting up for! - and after another interval, the 6 fried eggs appeared and Bob and I ordered vin rouge. I was more than satisfied, and sank down on my bench again, while the others ordered more fried eggs – and I quite expected John to order even more! We finished up with coffee – this caused a little trouble as we had already drunk her supply of milk, cold, on arrival. She fetched in a friend who spoke English and when we assured her that we didn't mind tinned milk, the café mit milch arrived.
Finally, I had to try to get my boots on again to walk to our digs; the two boys were in an inner room, approached through my room. I think the bed was comfortable – I was soon asleep.
We were up about 7 o'clock and soon having breakfast in the kitchen. I was afraid John was going to try his usual stunt of asking for more bread. We persuaded him that the lady wouldn't be likely to have any, as she didn't know until late the previous night that she would have visitors for breakfast. I think we cleared the butter and jam, but left a little of the cheese (simply through lack of bread); the coffee was delicious.
Our bill was very modest, 3 francs each, I think, for the night, and 1.50 francs for breakfast.
Finally, we had to set out in the rain for Promontogno and the 8 o'clock bus. It was a real, steady downpour – the first since we arrived in Switzerland a fortnight previously – we thought of the Germans who must surely be bivouacking on the ridge; how glad we were that we had turned back.
We bought tickets and boarded the bus when it arrived, and enjoyed our ride to Maloya – rather a bleak spot with the changed weather – and so down through the villages to St. Moritz about 10 o'clock. For some days my vibrams had been worn right down to the screws, and I wanted to get them repaired; I thought perhaps I'd get better service in Switzerland than in France. Also the next day was Sunday, so it seemed that my best plan might be to get them done that morning, and then travel on to France later, rather than to get to France on Saturday and have to wait until Monday for the repairs. Firstly we enquired the time of the trains from St. Moritz, and found that the others could catch the 12.30, but then he gave me a nasty shock by telling me that I should have to catch the 10.20 (I had thought I had more time than the others) or I shouldn't get beyond Andermatt that night. There was a frantic re-arranging of gear and I boarded my train and was seen away, rather envious of the people in the carriage who had food for their journey.
I hoped to have long enough at the first change to consult a shumacher about my boots (I was willing to spend the day at the place if they could be done, but I didn't want to lose the train and then find that they couldn't be done), so I was rather impatient about our slow progress, and the very long halt at Samaden.
I had to change at the stop before Chur; I expected a break there and at least time for lunch, but no, I had to gulp down my coffee before rushing onto the train to Brig.
It had soon stopped raining, but there was mist on the tops, and after the beauty of the Italian facing valleys, I could only think how bleak the country was – I don't know why, but Andermatt district has never appealed to me. It was interesting to watch the cars on the roads – they were all going faster than the train and I thought enviously of our lovely rides in the post buses. On and on, eventually arriving at Brig with an hour to spare for my next train at 7.20. I took my sacs across to my departure platform and then set out to try to find a schumacher. I soon lost interest, I was no longer in the Engadine or Bengell, I was in a much smarter part of Switzerland, no, these people would work normal hours. I came across a sports shop and enquired about the possibility of getting my boots done, but was assured that the schumacher would be shut by this time, so I went out, only to return as I remembered that another resolve had been to buy myself an anorak in Switzerland. I returned and bought the only one which fitted me (it was a little big, but wanted it like that) for about 70 fr. I also called in a grocers for about half a dozen Knorr soups, as they seemed to be cheaper than in France, and then returned to the Station Buffet for a meal. Three courses for 3.75 fr. and I had the inevitable glass of red wine with it. I hurried through it, but my train wasn't in a hurry to leave – perhaps I was in the wrong train. "Martigny?" I queried, "Yes" said the porter with a wink – I don't need to say much to give away my English origin!
For once the train seemed to be an express instead of an omnibus, and we were soon at Martigny, where I shouldered my sacs and set off to the main street. I wished later I'd taken a tram to the other village. I was a little worried at first that the first two or three hotels had a notice displayed, "Complete", so perhaps I enquired a little too soon; it turned out to be quite a large hotel, the sort that has chambermaids pacing the corridors outside the bedrooms, but I liked the atmosphere of the place, and it had bound copies of "Die Alpen" in bookcases in the entrance hall. The lady in the reception desk asked me if I was going to make excursions from Martigny and gave me leaflets, I filled in my form and was shown to my room.
I must admit that the thing I was most looking forward to was the "fliessender wasser" I hoped to find in my room; so imagine my disappointment to see the jug and bowl – no, for all the large modern buildings which were springing up all around, my 5 francs didn't bring me hot and cold water, as they did in Promontogno.
I used that cold water well, after I had washed myself, I started on my clothes and so to bed.
I was down for breakfast by about 7.30; it was very pleasant, rolls and rusks, and I should have thought the two cups of coffee ample, had I not been spoilt by the three cups we were used to. It was a slow train to Valloreine. I think the connection waited for the next train up from Martigny, and then the ride down the valley – the valley – but no view. It had been dull in Switzerland, but it was positively raining in France – why had I come? Hadn't I spent enough of my life sitting out bad weather in the Biolay?
And so to Chamonix and the Biolay – where everyone was sitting downstairs with glum faces. No sign of Alan and co. and no note pinned on the stairs as promised. A nod to Joe Brown and to Hamish, but I couldn't think of anything to say to anyone, only that same awful feeling "Why have I come?" Soon everything was different. I forget who spoke to me, but someone asked if I was looking for the Nottingham party and said they thought they were upstairs, and said that there had been a note for me on the stairs. Soon I was talking to Alan, Derek and Michael, who were very pleased with their first week, the Tour and Chardonnet, to be followed by the NNE on the 'M' and Grépon (Michael missing the latter; we had only got in one more peak in a fortnight). They said that this was the second day of rain and they were in no hurry to go up to another hut; they'd wait until I had my boots repaired.
Hamish said that he didn't think I'd have any trouble getting them done, and the man immediately said, "Midi, demain".
We bought liver and steak, and returned to the Biolay to cook the liver and onions as well as potatoes being for the mid-day meal. They were very pleased to see my primus. Apparently they had been sadly inconvenienced by the fact that Bob had borrowed Alan's leaving them only Derek's; we finished with tea, and then just afterwards I found André, the Polish boy I had last seen at the A.C.G. dinner in April. I joined him and Peter, the Irish boy, as they sat down for tea. André's china tea – they offered some to me, I didn't realise at the time that André had appropriated my mug! Upstairs André used my bunk for sorting his gear – Michael was thrilled to see it all, a great mound of pegs, crabs, etrier, etc. He and Pete packed their sacs with it all and put in their sleeping bags and some bread at any rate. I don't think they had much else in the way of food, and were ready for the last train up to Montenvers, ready for the slog over to Courmayeur the next day, impossible conditions or no. I noticed that among their ropes they had some extra weight nylon.
I had soon heard of Joe's exploits, of his four attempts on the Capucin, and his success on the West face of the Drus – about their first bivouac below the difficult part, where it snowed and of their second one near the top of the difficulties where it rained and then the next morning to face the top slabs streaming with water. "But surely the water was useful to stop your hands from sweating" I tried to joke – Joe looked a little aghast – and told me very seriously that the mere sight of those slabs was enough to make him sweat all over.
Then I heard of their nightmare descent; Don Whillans without an axe, losing his footing and penduling down to be held by Joe, and of that final infuriating bivouac a few hundred yards from the hut, but they had to wait for daylight to see their way through the crevasses.
They had made a new route on the West Face of the Blaitière and Joe found this more tiring to the arms than the Drus. For those who said that Joe is one of the many English who spend too much time sitting in the Biolay, I found the answer in that he wore his vibrams down to the screws in 5 weeks.
It was still raining, but we decided to sit out the weather in a hut, in preference to the Biolay, and Michael and Derek both wanted to climb Mont Blanc and thought this was the opportunity, while the rocks were out of condition. We found that we should have to catch the 10.20 train, so I arranged to call for my boots at 10 o'clock instead of 12, and found them ready at this hour. We just caught the train to St. Gervais and had a couple of hours to wait for the bus. We bought more bread and cheese, and I thought I was buying a couple of tins of sardines – I felt I was a little unpopular when they turned out to be salted herrings!
We sat outside the station and lunched off bread and butter and cheese, while waiting for the 3 o'clock bus to Les Contaminés, for the party insisted on starting the long traverse over the Domes de Miage.
It was quite an exciting bus ride; arriving at the village, we started to get our sacs out of the bus, until the driver heard that we were for Trelatête, when he told us to go on to the next stop.
Ages sorted themselves out very well on the walk up to the hotel, but at last even I arrived, and we tried to make ourselves understood, but I think it never once dawned on the lady that we were trying to talk French! We did quite well, nevertheless. We found a dormitory and also received permission to use our primus stoves on the landing outside the dining room, despite the frequent notices that 'rechauds' were 'interdit'. We paid the evening before, for we said we should like to set off early the next morning for the Denier refuge.
Michael was our alarm clock; fortunately it was drizzling at 3 a.m., so we had a reprieve. I was particularly glad as I was feeling quite sick and was glad of a morning in bed – only Michael had the energy to spare, and made himself an etrier with a rung he had found in the Biolay and started experimenting with it.
Unfortunately we decided to lunch just as a "course collectif" arrived – we were almost squeezed out of the dining room!
In the afternoon Derek and Alan decided for more stones (we had decided to try our traverse again the next day), while Michael and I prospected the way up the glacier. We found that the zone of crevasses didn't take very long, although it was necessary to wind our way to and fro. Even at this level, there was a sprinkling of new snow on the glacier. The next part of the way looked straightforward and, as it was starting to drizzle again, we decided to go down. I revised my opinion of the "course collectif". They were practising with crampons and they were not turned back by the rain!
Once more Michael woke us at 3 a.m. and this time both the weather and I were in agreement that we should get up. We breakfasted, packed all our belongings and set out by candlelight onto the glacier. We were soon passed by the other two English boys, but the Scottish couple with the enormous sacs hadn't got up when we left.
We continued up the glacier, Alan taking a very good line; the new snow had come further down, and soon seemed quite deep, eventually we stopped to rope up and again I was at the end of a rope of climbers who could go far faster than me.
Our way more or less followed the guidebook's instructions, but another party were getting on quite well to the left. They disappeared for a while and we rather felt that they had left the glacier. Up and up, past another zone of crevasses (yes, this party saw my way of crossing them) and then Michael was suggesting we could cut up to the left – Michael was continually reading the guidebooks, and none of the rest of us bothered. This wasn't altogether a good idea. It was Michael who could point out all the peaks to the west of us, it was 'Smythe country' to him, and the most important peak seemed to be Mont Tondu; at first it looked quite impressive with all its new snow, but it soon sank to insignificance below us, but not in Michael's eyes and I began to realise why 'Brim Fell' had made such an impression on Alan.
Alan moved over to the left, starting up a cwm until we reached the sunshine, where we stopped for second breakfast. I started on to get a start, as I was slower, but they let me continue ahead. We traversed to the right, at first, and then got to a ridge which dropped steeply down the other side to the glacier and we had an easy walk up this ridge to the main ridge of the Bionnassey. It was quite interesting scenically, our tracks wove in and out for at times it was obvious that there could be no cornice and at other times I felt I had to go further to the left in case there was a cornice – sometimes the crust would bear me and at other times not. Eventually we were up. I was afraid that the others would insist that we turned left to what looked like the highest summit, but Michael to my relief, said that we needn't bother with all the tops and the one on the right would do.
We were surprised later to find that this was the highest point. There was a short descent, and then the col before the next ascent. The snow on the col was very soft, and I was tired of sinking up to my knees with each step, and I found that if I distributed my weight better I didn't sink in and that it was easier to crawl along on my knees! I think everyone was very deeply shocked! Derek soon took the lead after this terrible exhibition. Even as third on the rope I had difficulty in keeping up, for, by keeping below the crest, the snow wasn't so deep, but the new snow wasn't firm on the icy stuff beneath and it was usually impossible to get an axe belay. Actually had we fallen, we'd have gone straight down the snow. There were no intermediate rocks on which we'd have come to grief. Had it been in any more dangerous situation I think it would have been necessary to cut steps in the underlying ice.
At the top we found a snow covered rock ridge led along to another summit and then down over similar ground to the Col de Miage, on which the hut wasn't visible.
I had been looking for some time at the morrow's route, the ridge up to the Bionassey. It was very heavily plastered. There was no easy way up it in these conditions. I could see that normally it is mostly a rock climb, and I was beginning to doubt. My final worry was the view of the way down from the hut; should we have to retreat the glacier was incredibly steep. I asked Michael where the route went and he said down the rocks to the right of the glacier. These were hardly visible under the powder snow, and I had an idea that, if we went to the hut we should have to retreat the way we had come, and, although the day had started brilliantly, there were some high level clouds about and the weather was not yet settled. We were moving along the rock ridge, which I found far more interesting than the snow slog we'd had so far, but we were a slow party. I wondered whether they were waiting for me to speak. I gather the Dalys were, for as soon as I remarked that I thought we ought to discuss whether or not to go on I found that they were both eager to turn back; it was only Derek who was bitterly disappointed. We were soon on the summit again and then making our way cautiously down the snow, which was rapidly becoming unstable. On the glacier we could relax, and Alan kindly led the way and found the hidden crevasses the annoying way. Half way down the glacier we stopped – to put on more cream I think, for it was about 12 o'clock and very hot by this time. We sat on and I was playing with the snow to cool my hands, and then without thinking I threw a little snowball at Alan, who was sitting in front. Poor Michael, how shocked he was. He had read practically all there was to read in the way of Alpine literature, but there had never been any mention of such a deed, no, snow definitely did not grow on glaciers for that purpose! – and now, in his first season, he had seen it done, and not by a new novice, unused to Alpine conditions, but by the older member of the party who claimed to have had innumerable Alpine seasons behind her. There was a short battle, but that was nothing to the stir my first snowball caused in Michael's mind.
On the descent, we followed the tracks of another party who had retreated half way up their peak – they obviously knew the 'other way' up the glacier, and we followed down out of interest – we traversed right off the glacier onto the snow, scree or slabs to the right – there was a little hut which would have made a good sleeping place for a party equipped with sleeping bags, and then we went down the easy ground, regaining the glacier just above the lowest area of crevasses, and so back to the hut to unpack our primus stoves and make tea and soup before retreating to the dormitory. The party seemed in favour of another night here, a retreat to Chamonix in the morning and then the ascent to the Couvercle.
I had suggested the night before that we should get up at 6.30 – I woke up, my watch said 6.45, but I knew it was fast, so I told Alan that it was 6.30. That woke Michael, who not only got up, but insisted that we got up as well.
We took our time over breakfast, packed and, at about 9 o'clock, left for the valley, Alan remembering to go back and pay before he had gone too far. At Les Contaminés, I asked the time of the bus, was told 10.45, and thought we had only 45 minutes to wait, when I realised that my watch was an hour fast, and we had got up an hour too soon and we had nearly 2 hours to wait.
We thought this called for coffee in the café by the bus stop and, as I had one more exposure left in my colour camera, I thought this is a good opportunity to use it up. I got my little bag out of my sac, put it on the wall, took out my retina and meter and took the photo – slipped the camera over my head, drank my coffee and forgot about the bag on the wall with my selfix and spare film.
In due course the bus arrived, we eventually got through St. Gervais, despite a funeral in which I think all the village must have participated, and at Le Fayet we just caught a train to Chamonix.
Sorting gear at the Biolay I thought I had better put the new film in my camera, and found I hadn't got it, and remembered the wall at Les Contaminés. I knew I hadn't a hope of finding the camera, but I felt I must know I had done all I could – and then I thought I'd go home. I was rather keen to leave a day or so early and I think I thought we'd be on a wild goose chase going to the Couvercle. It was bound to snow in the morning.
Michael suggested that I could at least contact the police and try ringing Les Contaminés before making the journey there, so I made my way to the information bureau at Chamonix and explained the situation and drew a little plan to show the position of the wall. The man tried ringing the information bureau at Les Contaminés (it was quite near the wall, but it was shut until 2 o'clock. Five minutes later (at 2) he tried again, only to find out that it wouldn't be open until 3 or 4 o'clock, so he asked me if there was a café near, and I could only remember the Hotel des Dômes, opposite the wall, certainly, but set back from the road. This seemed quite useless, for I thought that there was the very vaguest chance that it had been taken into the bureau, but there was nothing an hotel could do. I heard one side of the conversation; my man explained who he was, what he wanted and asked the other one to look on the walll; there was a pause and then I heard my man remark that he had found it – and Frenchman and I looked at each other, a look of utter incredulity on both faces! It was arranged that it should be put on the next bus and my man looked up train times and said it wouldn't arrive until the morning. It seemed much too casual to me, but I hadn't a chance to offer to go and fetch it – no, there was no getting out of going to the Couvercle for me! It was some time before the party back at the Biolay was organised. I asked which train we were catching and Alan said it didn't matter, they ran every 20 minutes. I knew he was wrong, but didn't contradict him. Eventually we made our way to the station, and queued for about an hour I should say. Then we got in and waited for the train to come down, but there was only one – odd I thought. I could see it was a new one, but it wasn't until I got inside that the penny really dropped – the line has been electrified, the trains run frequently, and they only take about 30 minutes to Montenvers. Those who detract from the French pointed out that the notices were in three languages and therefore anything so beautiful must have been made in Switzerland.
At the station I had noticed two groups of climbers, one of about a dozen, who I didn't see again, and another, a boy and a girl with quite a serious look on their faces. I next saw them on the track from Montenvers, their effortless speed which enabled them to get past everyone caught my eye, and we were to follow them up to the hut.
The others were relying on me to find the way. I like to keep to this side of the glacier, and then cross over below the Moulin, not going up the medial moraine. Derek was fascinated by the Moulin – as usual I kept well back from it. On the other side was a guide leading a large party – we were going faster than they were. It was necessary to overtake them, but would I find the way? Fortunately the French girl was just ahead and I followed her into the moraine, and we started following up a smooth stretch of glacier. We both tried to turn off too soon, but we just kept ahead of the large party. From then on, the way was cairned and the going very easy, for the stones were flat and firm. At the Egralet we got in front of the French girl's companion. She was still ahead and going effortlessly, but I had an idea he wasn't so keen to overtake us. Derek was amazed at the sight of the ladders, "Just like work" was his comment. I had emphasised the long grind above the artificial pitches and, because we were all dreading it, we were up at the hut before we knew we'd started the grind. I was last as usual, but it only took me 2½ hours. Normally, I carry about 3 days food up to the hut, and this time I was very lightly laden. Perhaps that made a difference. Alan and Michael were outside admiring the alpine glow on the Grand Jorasses, Derek was inside, quietly reading, waiting to make his porridge. What a wonderful asset he is to a party. He'll eat anything, and when he's hungry, he'll quietly go off and make himself some porridge. It doesn't matter if he has no milk and sugar to go with it. This is a great help to the bread supply, we never run out as we did in Switzerland.
Soon people came in to speak to the notorious character, first the guardian, and then all his family and retainers. They remembered me so well from 1952 when Margaret and I had stayed here and climbed with André. They enquired about Margaret, and told me that André was in Italy.
Time was getting on, tea was followed by soup, then came the spaghetti, eaten with our tin of tongue. After this we were still hungry, so I suggested another soup (pea) thickened with oatmeal – this satisfied us and it was only Derek who didn't enjoy it; I think he thought it a crime to try to alter the taste of his favourite meal – porridge! While we were eating, we heard that Gwen Moffat and party had come down the Southwest Ridge of the Moine that day; they warned us that the grade IV was more like a V.
The water wasn't quite boiling for tea, when the guardian came in to say that it was 9 o'clock and we ought to be in bed. I admired him for it, I'd wished they'd been stricter in the Swiss huts. The girl who spoke fair English gave us blankets and showed us to our dormitory, but it was well after 12 o'clock before I fell asleep; it wasn't like the first week, when I was quite happy to lie on the mattress and pretend I was asleep, this time I was restless. It was partly because it was a full moon and a cloudless night – I could see through the window – but also because I was so glad to be at the good old Couvercle. It made me realise just how shabby the Trelatête hotel was – it was such a contrast to the valley where I hadn't wanted to come. It's bound to snow and I'll have to do that wretched Nonne again I'd thought. How willingly I'd have done it now.
We were called at 4 o'clock and got up, apart from Derek – but Michael soon dealt with him. We were ready by 5 o'clock and set out in daylight, like civilised beings. I started in front, but took too low a line. We were soon up the moraine and onto the glacier, which steepened until I thought it rather steep to ascend without crampons or steps. We caught up a French party by the time we reached the bergschrund, and I encouraged Derek to take a short cut over the rocks and overtake them. Derek then continued up the gully, which I knew to be quite wrong (I remember Don spending 8 hours in it in 1950). The trouble was I hadn't looked at the guidebook, and I thought we started up the ordinary route which I could see to the right, while Michael said we should have turned left at the bergschrund.
Eventually we got Derek to stop and came down until we got to the level where four of the French were traversing left (the others were for the ordinary). We were annoyed at the time they were taking, but when it was our turn we found that it had its interest – apparently Derek made a spectacular sideways leap. We had to rope up before this pitch. I felt they were waiting for me to organise the ropes, so I asked Alan whether he wanted to climb with Michael or not – he preferred not.
The French girl who we had followed up overtook us when the ropes ahead took a turning to the right – she continued the traverse to the left and, as she seemed so competent, we followed her and Derek and Michael came down and followed us until near the ridge, where they got ahead. Higher up we moved one at a time. I was really glad of it because Alan was going too fast for me and I was glad of the rests, but I didn't feel it too 'British' to belay on the moderate ground because there were some nasty patches of verglas. I was very pleased when we reached the ridge, I felt that the climb was actually starting. Most of the way was very easy, but there was an occasional pitch of interest.
I remember the first one – it didn't look too bad to me, so I said to Alan, "I've seen harder pitches". Just after that, Alan was doing a delicate foot change and replied, "but I don't know where" – then it was my turn. I had worked out the moves to avoid the foot change. I started up and my natural inclination was to reach up at once for the higher handhold, but that wasn't how I had worked it out – so I didn't reach up, but moved my right foot further out. Then I felt I was stuck. To reach up at this stage would be an absolute grab – would I make it or not? My trouble was that I thought Alan didn't understand the situation; he said afterwards that he was giving me an indirect belay, which was why the rope was so slack. I knew when I made the grab I might come off, and I didn't want to do so without warning my leader, but he couldn't seem to hear. He told me afterwards that I was the one who hadn't heard his replies – he also told me that I had used that dreadful word "tirez". Personally I was pleased that, even talking to myself I hadn't used the word "pull" – but I had to admit that the "tirez" was my innermost thought coming out (I always remember using it on the Mer de Glace face and telling myself that Don didn't understand French so wouldn't know).
Eventually I made the grab, and decided that there was nothing to the pitch after all. It was straightforward until we got to the foot of a little chimney – we could hand up the sac for this, it was so short, but I was rather horrified to see the French girl having such trouble with the pitch above. Eventually she had a hand up. I think she couldn't reach the handhold.
I hesitated quite a while before launching myself, but my lovely new vibrams gripped superbly. A little scrambling, a walk along a 'Rue des bicyclettes' on the shady side and we were below the grade IV, which we had been warned was quite a grade V – actually it seemed no harder than the usual Chamonix IV. I was too late to see the French girl. Her second was having great trouble on it until he thought to turn round and face us and semi-chimney up it – it went quite well like this. Derek was up like a shot, and then it was Michael's turn. He had great difficulty making the traverse, then started up the crack only to come off, swing on the rope and then make frantic efforts to get up again. We persuaded him to come back and Alan tied on and was soon up to the top of the pitch (Derek had continued on to the top of the grade III above) and gave Michael another rope down. Michael made it this time and then it was my turn. After watching the Frenchman's struggles, to be followed by Michael's, I wanted nothing more than to go straight home. I had been standing too long on the shady side, and was cold. Also the brilliant early morning was deteriorating. Here were a few flakes of snow – I thought of the difficulty of finding the way down with nil-visibility. Yes, my morale has never been lower and I determined to have two ropes for the pitch. Then Alan shouted down and offered to hand up the sac. I willingly agreed to do it with one rope, without the sac. Actually this was purely psychological, for there was nothing in the sac. I had no cameras with me – it was a great relief not to have to worry about them, but what a view I missed – that sunset over the Jorasses.
Having seen the technique of the pitch worked out, I didn't find it desperate in the least, although I quite expected to come off because I had seen someone else do so. The grade III above was nothing. The weather did not deteriorate further. There was another little corner which Michael found interesting, but the rest of us hardly noticed, and I thought it all over, and then we came to the "impossible pitch". I was told even Derek had found it hard. Michael was offering to give the rest of us a shoulder and then be pulled up himself with a rope through a mousqueton. Alan hardly used the shoulder, but I used nothing else! – first a sitting one and then a standing one (Michael said he had vibrams marks on his shoulder for days afterwards) and then the handhold I reckoned on using was the wrong way, so, seeing a rope attached to Derek on the left, I pulled on that, and arrived ignominiously. Michael's crevasse rescue technique was very neat in comparison.
At the top, at 10 o'clock, we sat down and ate the little we had carried up. I think the others were most impressed that my store of penguins I had brought from England lasted for this last peak. Soon we were hurrying down; I had taken my axe up, in case we needed it on the ascent, and I gave it to Derek, our last man, but the snow was easy, and the axe was only a nuisance on the descent. It was easy to follow the way down, with snow on all the ledges (but not as much snow as in 1948, I think the others were tired of hearing). Soon we caught up a guided party, with four novices. The guide was the one we had overtaken on the way up to the hut. He earned his fee for the peak, but was wonderfully good natured – not in the least in a hurry, and he didn't mind how many times one of the party fell on the rope.
It was a nuisance that we caught them up just above the chimneys, for it wasn't the best place for overtaking; soon I asked if we could go ahead and the guide said yes, on the easy terraces below. It was rather a strange descent. Alan and I ahead would keep as far ahead as the rope allowed, and the rather worried Michael who was next, and who didn't like to see the rope in front of him always stretched out. Derek in the rear didn't say a word.
At about 1 o'clock we were back at the hut and making the inevitable tea, coffee, soup etc. and then we had packed, paid, and were off. We left Michael behind, but I didn't stop. I thought he was bound to catch me up on the way to Montenvers. At the station I was sorry to see such crowds and find no suggestion of a train to Chamonix. Derek and I started to walk down, while Alan waited for Michael. I was surprised to find Derek going down at a sober pace – but he didn't stop – we went by the half way house and then Alan caught us up and soon those two were racing each other down, and, left to myself, I began to feel sorry for myself, my feet ached, it was getting hotter, and the altitude was too low – why hadn't I stopped for refreshment? I even sat down for a rest. I'd never walk down again. Those nice quick electric trains would have got me down in 20 minutes. All things come to an end – even that walk to Chamonix, and I was back at the Biolay to be handed a drink of milk, and then tea, by Alan. We recovered our luggage. I was happier to take off my boots and put on sandals, and then I unpacked my change of clothes and sponge bag and set off with my bundle in the direction of the information bureau. I called in and my camera was handed to me – a label tied around the bag. I was anxious to see it again and had my purse out. "What do I owe?" I said. "Nothing" was the reply. "But I must give something to the person who found it". "You can't do that, it was the proprietor of the Hotel des Domes" I was told, but it was suggested that a little note of thanks might be acceptable. I next went further up the road to the Hotel de Chamonix and asked if I could have a bath. This was a matter which required consultation, but the answer was yes, in 20 minutes or so, and I sat down to wait. I was in the restaurant and, at the back, was a plate of hors d'oeuvres. I began to feel hungry, so ordered myself a dish. "Before your bath?" queried the astonished waitress. "Yes, while I'm waiting" I replied and enjoyed it, together with the glass of red wine.
I had brought my packet of 'fab' and washed my hair most efficiently, and, feeling beautifully clean, I got out of the bath, changed into a beautifully cool dress, and so back to the Biolay where I was hardly recognised.
I finished my packing, filled my water bottle with milk for the journey (the new grocery and milk stall near the Biolay is a great comfort) and then we went into the town to the nearest restaurant to the station for beefsteak, washed down with the inevitable vin rouge and, as there was still time, to be followed by patisserie. We found that we had company for the journey; Joe Brown was on the same train, but not in the same carriage.
I was glad when we got to St. Gervais, the Paris train was waiting and we could settle down for the night, although the first part of the journey had gone quickly looking at local papers – all about igloos and corpses on top of the Chardonnet. Penicillin being parachuted to the Gouter refuge for frost-bitten Spaniards, and about the soldiers, trapped five days on the east face of the Grépon.
The three of us had had a carriage to ourselves and the time had gone very quickly until about 6.30, when I decided it was time to wake up. I had never before caught the 9 o'clock from Chamonix, and I was worried in case we didn't get our connection in Paris. It was an infuriating train, linger and die – and this is the famous Paris-Dijon line I am always praising! Eventually at 8.50 we arrived – it was pouring with rain. We went outside the station, found the inter-station bus, which was scheduled to leave at 9 o'clock and boarded it.
Most people were for St. Lazare and, to the intense annoyance of the Gare de Nord passengers, the first stop was St. Lazare, with half an hour to spare for the connection.
This was none too long, for reservations were required and, by the time we had found the right window, they had run out, but we were given a card to get us on the platform, and we found room in a carriage where people hadn't claimed their seats. Further along, with an H.F. party was Maurice Farmer of Nottingham who made himself known to me. We fought our way along to the refreshment car, hoping for coffee, but they were only serving lunches (at 10 o'clock!) or cold drinks. We ate the ham sandwiches and chocolate which Michael had brought.
At Dieppe, in the rain, we boarded the Aramanche, joined the queue for the refreshment room and just got in for first dinner. Alan and I had the last two portions of chicken, Michael had to be content with beef – and then had our last vin rouge.
I missed Alan in the customs, but caught the 4.57 home, even having time for an English cup of tea first.