The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters Read online

  During the night I had to make the decision whether at first light I should leave Barry and try and go for my friends to help, or stay. It was obvious Barry was very badly injured; the point was, I couldn’t bear for him to regain consciousness and me not to be there. It was a most terrible decision to have to make, and I spent the whole night trying to make it, but even at first light I hadn’t made that decision. Because I wouldn’t admit that he wasn’t going to pull through and, though he’d been unconscious, he had moved once or twice, but he hadn’t really woken. At first light I tried . . . tried to really make this decision and he appeared to stir a little, moved an arm and he seemed to regain consciousness a bit, so I went back again up the slope and got a stove, thinking that I’d make a drink or some soup or something if he could take it. I started to make this and he seemed to come to a bit. He opened his eyes and seemed to know where he was and who I was and said, “I’m sorry, Brian,” and he died.

  Everything went dark; it really was the end of – everything. First reaction was to go for the summit at any cost, because that’s what we’d come to do; I couldn’t bear the thought of going down. But time passed, I rationalised and came to the proper decision. So I secured him once more with ice pitons and cut the rope above him and took the rope, meaning to try for the descent. I went up again to the belay but came down once more to Barry and just stayed there for a little while. I couldn’t bear to take any of the pieces of equipment that were so vital to me now. I couldn’t bear to take the crash helmet or the ice screws and pitons. So I left everything just where it was . . .

  I knew this was the last time I was leaving him and I started to go back up the slope; the stones had kept up all night, but they seemed to increase now. The whole field was raked from every quarter again. Suddenly, I felt this was bigger than usual; I started moving a bit faster and I was about twenty feet away from the rock when tons of rubble and ice came down; I was directly in the path of the rock avalanche. I raced for the rock and just got there, but turned round to see that this avalanche whisked Barry’s body away and took it over the edge of the ice into the blackness. This was the cruellest thing that could have happened.

  Chris Bonington and Don Whillans were not aware that Barry and Brian were ahead of them, having set out twenty-four hours previously. When Chris and Don reached the foot of the Second Icefield, they realised that the weather was worsening and decided to retreat. They were just about to descend when two figures appeared from below. They were Swiss guides and they told them about the accident above and asked for their help. Chris and Don volunteered this without a moment’s hesitation and set off across the vast expanse of the Second Icefield. They were continually subjected to stone fall and after a particularly bad one they looked across towards the Flatiron which was the direction it had come from and to their horror saw the tiny figure of a man being swept off into space. This was Barry Brewster. The guides promptly returned to the gallery window while Chris and Don pressed on towards Brian Nally who was visible as a mere speck of red at the top of the icefield.

  Despite a storm, they got Brian down safely, a remarkable feat considering that Chris had lost his ice axe on the way up. The guides recovered Brewster’s body from the bottom of the face. Later Brian Nally was presented with a bill of several hundred pounds for the rescue operation which he couldn’t pay. This included a special train and the services of fourteen guides, which seems a bit ironical. It is also a sad reflection on journalism that for some unknown reason the train which was to take the soaked and exhausted climbers back to Kleine Scheidegg remained for almost an hour in the tunnel whilst reporters prised the whole story from Brian, who was still severely shocked.

  Chris was to return to the Eiger later in that same year, 1962, and this time he was successful. Ian Clough was his companion, but even then death was at their heels, for behind them Tom Carruthers and an Austrian, Egon Moderegger, whom they had passed, had fallen to their deaths from the Second Icefield.

  Now with helicopters capable of winching people off the most inaccessible parts of the face, the Eiger has lost much of its sting, but its place has been taken by other great walls in the Himalayas or the Karakoram; there will always be an Eiger.

  Two on the Dru

  Hamish MacInnes

  Because it is so overcrowded and offers so many testing climbs, the Mont Blanc massif is one of the world’s blackest spots as far as mountain accidents are concerned. In both winter and summer climbers flock to the Chamonix area. It is a testing ground for higher regions, such as the Andes and Himalayas, as well as a mountain playground in its own right.

  There are many dramatic and horrific tales to tell from this wonderful region, but let me start with two which both took place on the Petit Dru, a slender mountain of great beauty and one of which I have vivid personal memories, as my first narrative will explain.

  My own tangle with the Petit Dru was in 1958. My climbing companion was Chris Bonington. We had first met up in 1953 in Scotland where we had launched assaults on hitherto unclimbed gullies and faces and later in 1957 had made a shortlived attempt on the Eiger North Face, a route then unclimbed by a British party.

  Our quixotic sortie on the flanks of the Eiger had only served to whet my appetite for Alpine firsts, but had had the opposite effect on Chris. He wanted to get an established route or two under his belt, not waste his time chasing dazzling possibilities and great last problems. So when we took up residence in a tumbledown goat herder’s hut at Montenvers the following season there was a constant running argument between us, me holding out objectives like the Shroud on the Grandes Jorasses, Chris muttering about suicide routes and Highland idiots. As the weather was desperate, with heavy early-season snow, much of the great debate was academic anyway. So we sat there reasonably amicably tucking into army compo rations left over from Chris’s last tour of duty with his tank crew in Germany. My contribution to the catering was for some reason twenty-five pounds of figs and a gallon of molasses, an unfortunate choice for the general atmosphere of the hut and one necessitating frequent nocturnal dashes to the shrubbery.

  We eventually settled on a compromise. When the weather lifted I agreed to go on a training climb before we ventured on more serious objectives. We made the ascent profitable by de-pegging the route, that is to say, extracting all but the essential pitons, thereby making it a more enjoyable ascent for those who were to follow and bringing our ironmongery reserves up to scratch. Such is the logic of the impecunious.

  Now, with a known climb under our waist loops, it was my turn, and I suggested a new line to Chris on the Pointe de Lépiney.

  “Just the thing for you, Chris, bugger-all snow and lovely warm smooth granite.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.

  Our stepping stone for this enterprise was the Aiguilles de l’Envers hut, perched crazily on the south side of the Charmoz like a fairy castle, though perhaps squarer in profile. It still boasted a beautiful princess in the form of the custodian’s daughter, the only person in residence. No doubt dutifully remembering the “Auld Alliance” of France and Scotland she took me under her wing, much to Chris’s chagrin.

  Our new route lived up to Chris’s worst fears. Our attempt turned out to be a fiasco. We soon discovered that the reason it hadn’t been climbed was because it bristled with overhangs. On one of these, after we had a frigid bivouac, Chris fell. He didn’t injure himself, and consequently went back at it again with the determination of a Jack Russell terrier. He got up, only to find other overhangs sprouting above, even more menacing than the one just vanquished. After a meeting of the partnership we decided to retreat with what dignity we could muster, and I had the bright idea of descending a couloir which seemed to be the shortest distance between two points – our present position and the glacier a thousand feet below.

  In an hour we were in the innards of a horrendous chimney with water beating on our heads. I had gone down first and was hanging from a peg which I had inserted with diff
iculty. When Chris joined me to share the only mini-foothold, we found that the abseil rope had jammed. Showing great fortitude Chris went up the rope using the painstaking technique of prusiking, a special sliding knot which locks when weight is put on it.

  The final sting in the tail of this Aiguille route was a rimaye at least ten feet wide. That’s a gap between snowfield and rock face. When I abseiled down, Chris was ensconced on a mantelshelf-sized ledge above this intimidating slot like an eaglet contemplating its first flight. As the rope was long enough, I continued past him, kicking out from the last nose of rock on an overhang, and just managed to reach the snow on the far lip of the gap. It was a hairy business.

  Bedraggled, we slunk down, pride hurt and bodies aching with this abortive encounter. The two young knights who peacocked about the Aiguilles de l’Envers hut on the way up now stole furtively past the door in case the shapely gardienne should spot us. Finally, to make bad worse we lost our way among the crevasses of the Mer de Glace in the dark, and what normally takes half an hour took us three.

  We had now been joined in our hut by two young Austrians, after whom our abode would eventually be known as the Chalet Austria. Walter Philip was twenty-one, tall and dark with panther-like movements; Richard Blach, three years younger, was quiet and slightly built. Despite their youth they had done some impressive climbs in the Eastern Alps. Chris and I immediately struck up a friendship with them and we pooled our gastronomic resources. The diet of the two Austrians was almost as monotonous as ours. They had arrived with rucksacks bristling with salami and very little else. As they feared for the lifespan of their protein cylinders, I suggested they use the Mer de Glace as a refrigerator. With due solemnity they lowered the salami into the depths of a crevasse, not before I had made an exchange for some figs and molasses, and the nocturnal atmosphere deteriorated accordingly.

  At last the sun struggled out and Chris and I reached an honourable solution as to our major objective. I proposed what was still regarded as probably the most serious rock climb in the Alps at the time, the Bonatti Pillar of the Petit Dru. First climbed by Walter Bonatti, who had done it in a breathtaking solo lasting five days in 1953, the South-West Pillar had been climbed four times since, but none of the parties had been British. I knew it would tempt Chris.

  “The Pillar’s right up your alley,” I encouraged. “Rock most of the way and good rock at that.”

  It was agreed and Walter and Richard would make it a foursome. The previous year Walter had made a fast ascent of the West Face of the Petit Dru, a 3,000-foot sweep of smooth featureless granite which borders on the Pillar, and so he knew the way down, always a reassuring factor should the weather take a turn for the worse.

  We were, however, at a loss where to obtain a description of the Bonatti Pillar and descended to Chamonix to recruit Donald Snell, a local sport-shop owner, to obtain this for us. We succeeded. After steak and chips at the Bar Nationale we hiked back up the cog railway to Montenvers and our shack.

  This (1958) was before the days of routine helicopter monitoring, where parties are often checked each evening from the air to see if they are all right. An accident on such a climb as the Bonatti Pillar was too awful for us to contemplate, but we made a simple arrangement with the stationmaster at Montenvers next day as we left with laden sacks. We would give him a torch signal to record our progress on the climb. “Every night at nine o’clock, André.”

  There was a great feeling of relief in leaving the penned-in area of Montenvers where hundreds of multi-coloured tourists gaze at the mountains and cluster round the large pay-and-look telescopes.

  We crossed the dirty slug of the Mer de Glace and climbed the steep moraine on the far bank – a hazardous business as it was then a cliff of scree. The normal bivouac for the start of both the West Face and the Bonatti route is the Rognon du Dru, a pleasantly located rock “dwelling” comprising an overhang which, if the wind is from the right quarter, and it doesn’t rain or snow, offers one-star comfort for uncomplaining alpinists.

  Just before dusk we saw two figures approaching with large rucksacks. As they came closer we could see that one was almost as broad as he was tall. Like me he wore a flat cap. We immediately recognised him as Don Whillans, one of the foremost climbers of his generation and probably the greatest British alpinist ever. It was Don who had made the first British ascent of the West Face with Joe Brown. His companion now was Paul Ross, one of the English Lake District’s star climbers. They had long French loaves fingering from their packs.

  “How do,” Don spoke. It was a gruff but neutral-sounding greeting, neither friendly nor aggressive. He gave his home-rolled fag a drag and studied us with his small beady eyes, obviously weighing us up.

  “Hello, Don,” Chris responded. “Heading for the Bonatti?”

  “That’s right, Chris.” Don looked steadily at me. “I hear that you have a description of the Bonatti, Hamish.” It sounded as if I had just filched some classified documents. “I was in at Snell’s,” he added, explaining how he had gleaned this intelligence.

  “Not much of a description, Don,” I returned. “You know Bonatti is as tight with his route descriptions as a Yorkshireman with brass!”

  “Aye. Well, we’ll be seeing you.” Don gave another draw on his cigarette. “It looks as if this doss is fully booked so we’ll mosey up higher to see if we can find somewhere to bivvy.”

  We set the alarm for 2.00 am and settled down for what sleep we could get. But that early reveille, shared by bakers and alpinists, proved to be cloudy, so we turned over and Chris soon announced with snores that he was at peace with the world.

  By 5.30 am the weather looked better and I gave him a shake.

  “Wake up, fella, time to move.” The Austrians were already up and Walter was champing at the bit.

  “Could be a good day, Walter,” I greeted, “even though we’ll be keeping office hours.”

  “Ja, Hammish, we will have much fun.”

  I was later to reflect on this observation.

  As we entered the jaws of the couloir we could see two small figures above. Don and Paul were already roped up, but when we reached the rimaye between the lower snowfield and the rocky start to the couloir, Walter suggested that we should climb unroped to save time. We agreed, which proved to be a somewhat foolhardy decision. For, preparing to make the long stride from the snow to gain the rock, Walter fell when the lip of unstable snow which he was standing on collapsed. He instinctively threw himself backwards thereby avoiding a rapid and chilly descent into the hole. Undeterred, he jumped across and raced up the rock on the other side as if he was in four-wheel drive. There was a lot of grit and stones on the smooth granite which made it very treacherous.

  In a short time we had caught up with Don and Paul and it was the classic hare and tortoise fable. Don was leading and Walter clambered past him as if he was in the fast lane, with a brief “Good Morning”.

  When Walter was just above the stoic Mancunian, he slipped and fell on top of Don, who only with considerable effort arrested Walter’s fall. It was a close thing and I thought Don was most restrained. The MacInnes, Bonington, Philip, Blach combine belatedly decided to rope up!

  So we emerged at the wall of the Flammes de Pierre which effectively blocks off the top of the couloir. I had been pushed into the lead for the previous few hours on the false assumption that I could cut endless steps in the hard ice. The top of the couloir was steep snow and ice and as there was only one pair of crampons in our party, steps were essential.

  From the cold dark depths of the couloir, we could see the Pillar above wrapped in a golden brown with sunshine. We were elated, just as druids must have felt when addressing the dawn.

  In a slot in the rock at the very base of the Pillar, we found a walking stick, as if it had been placed in a hallstand. We never did find out who left it there. Here was the sun, its warm rays probing our bodies and rejuvenating us. But there was work to do, 2,000 feet of it, some of the most intimidating rock climb
ing in the Alps. Don now came into his own and for me it was the start of a long association from which my respect for him as a master alpinist grew.

  “Aye, well,” he drawled, “I think you, Walter, and your mate Richard should go in front and Paul and I can follow behind and give you a spell if you get tired.”

  “Zat is all right by us,” Walter responded eagerly.

  “Fine. Paul and I can do the sack-hauling up the pitches and Hamish and you, Chris, can take up the rear de-pegging.”

  “Suits me, Don, I’ve got the ‘Message’.” I brandished my large piton hammer made in a Clydeside shipyard.

  In minutes the Austrians had vanished like inspired chamois. The climbing was a kaleidoscope of overhangs, cracks, dièdres, slabs and walls, all at crazy angles. None was easy and we realised that this was climbing of a high order. It had taken us five hours to get up the couloir, which was normal, but now on warm rock we were keen to make fast time. We soon concertinaed, however. It was becoming harder and Walter had trouble getting over a large overhang. He did this using an étrier, a short rope ladder, which he clipped into the pegs and wedges in a crack. Don, who was watching this exhibition of gravity defiance, told Paul that he’d start sack-hauling here and he tackled the pitch with deliberation. He climbed it by holding on to the pegs but instead of continuing up the line which the Austrians had taken, which is the normal route, he climbed directly up a groove, a new variation which was desperately hard. When he was above, Don hauled up all our rucksacks and Paul joined him at his stance. When it was Chris’s turn to lead this pitch, he had a struggle, but he didn’t ask for a top rope, which he could easily have had from Paul. Chris admitted to me later that it was one of the hardest pitches he had ever led. I agreed that it was desperate and I had the security of a top rope when it was my turn, thankful as I thrutched upwards that I hadn’t had to lead it.