50 Shades of Green – An Alpine awakening (Pain and pleasure in Chamonix)
My hope is that this account will differ from the plethora
of other Chamonix trips in that I am going to be painfully explicit with the
stupid mistakes and details included. This isn’t an informative account you might
find in a destination guide, more an attempt to show that although dangerous
and demanding, alpinism and climbing in general shouldn’t be taken too
seriously.
George gasped as the boiling liquid hit his thighs, the violently overflowing jetboil still grasped tightly in his hands, a tirade of expletives pouring forth. We’ve all been there, long overnight drives to make the most of short trips, jetboil precariously perched on laps, danger Nalgene pees while driving. Like many alpine endeavours, coffee in the front seat of a moving van is risky but often pays off big.
This was to be the first of many risky and pain filled
attempts we made this summer.
Our post lockdown escape plan had worked so far. Getting the
ferry directly from Rosslare to Cherbourg was a slower option but allowed us to
avoid any admin problems going through England into France.
A 16 hour ferry crossing and 12 hour drive later, we arrive at 4am. As is standard for these trips we tried to grab some sleep before heading straight out into the sun to get after our big objectives! As any climber will tell you the psych of the start of a trip often outweighs your organisational skills. Two days later we finally managed to leave the valley for our first punishing visits to the mountains.
To set the scene, I had very minimal alpine experience prior
to the summer 2020. One winter season doing lots of drinking and a little
climbing did not prepare me to return to the high mountains in summer. All I
know about the Alps at this point was:
- Fast and light
- Hydrate or die
- Get committed
We tried to live by the idea that as long as we follow at
least 1 of the rules then success has been achieved. Inevitably we always
landed on getting committed.
I’ve come to think of Alpine climbing as a Sadomasochistic relationship. There is a lot of pain but often accompanied by heightened pleasure and you will always go back for more. The more intense the pain the more fully you can appreciate the pleasure of post and the more you want to push for more each.
What follows where routes climbed between July 7th and August 7th 2020:
The American Direct (Les Drus)
 |
| Petit Dru |
I collapsed onto the path above the ladders in a state of
exhaustion, I knew we’d gone too far. Neither of us wanted to be the one to say
it but we should have stopped long ago. We’d pushed ourselves to the point of
ataxia; Simon and Garfunkel’s soothing tones could carry us no further.
A bit like erotic-asphyxiation, you should have stopped when you first felt the darkness coming but like a pushing it in the mountains, you don’t know you’ve gone too far until someone is unconscious.
Having climbed for roughly 16 hours and battled past an 11 strong Spanish junk show, we arrived at the bottom of the South face of the Dru. The walk back to Chamonix was totally achievable, it’s only 8.30pm we’ll be back by midnight! At roughly 2am George suggested we stop for a minute at the top of the ladders to the Mer de Glace, I was asleep within seconds.
 |
| Bivi above the clouds |
We had made some errors in navigation leading us to the precipice above the glacier with no way down and had to re-ascend 800m back to find the path towards the Charpoua hut that eventually leads back to the Mer de Glace ladders. Thankfully the pain in my legs come the morning was nothing compared to the fear I had about descending the steep ladders burdened with a big bag the night before while suffering severe dehydration and exhaustion and loss of coordination.
The satisfaction of sitting on the Montenvers (having
explained to the staff that I did indeed own a season pass, I just couldn’t
locate it in the depths of my bag) was surreal as the intoxicating mix of sleep
deprivation and elation coursed through me. We had done it!
Our first great North face of the Alps much like misguided first forays into BDSM had been exhausting, awkward and bizarre. Involving scary flexy aid bolts, violent uncontrolled excretion (poor woman on the ledge beside me, needed a priest and a bath) and several wild speed abseils while trying to pass competitive crampon clad young climbers in a gully with an abundance of flying debris. As we came to know; this is all par for the course in alpinism.
Learning points:
-Be bothered to melt more snow, cramps in your forearms mean you are really dehydrated and leads to bad decisions !
-Don't keep walking into the night if you're already exhausted and don't have a clear idea of where you're going
Central Pillar of Freney
Five relatively uneventful hours later we arrived at the Eccles
hut to find several climbers lounging outside smiling smugly at the idea that
we had been optimistic enough to hope for a space in the hut at 10am. Shortly
after arriving we decided that we would happily move away from the smugness and abundance of
faecal matter that surrounds the huts.
As we death roped through slushy ice and snow across the Glacier
du Freney tensing every time the enormous blocks sheared off below us at the
ice-fall, I had to consider our predicament fairly daft albeit self-inflicted.
We were both incredibly pleased to reach the base of the route
soaked to the skin but without being impaled by falling rock or following a
serac off the end of the glacier.
four hours of relatively straightforward climbing later we reached the bottom of
the Chandelle tower around dusk, passing a “possible bivi” to seek out a more
enticing ledge to sit and shiver on for the night.
 |
| Stuffing in calories on our ledge |
The Walker Spur
Licking water off lichen covered rocks was something I assumed was reserved for hardcore adventurers lost in the wilderness. Turns out all it takes for
this to be necessary is a bit of confusion regarding who packed a stove.
Aside from the water debacle, the Walker Spur was relatively
uneventful in terms of grand courses. A bit of rockfall and some scary melty
chossyness on the red chimneys was to be expected! I was later informed that George
had nearly died abseiling off the end of the ropes however, this relatively
pain free experience was to be the calm before the bloody storm.
 |
| George crossing wet slabs |
Grand Capucin – Voyage Du Gulliver
I don’t climb 7b in the mountains, George does. His steady head inspires my confidence, if I can’t get up it George definitely can. Half way up the Capucin, the climbing had gone surprisingly well until now, George leading the hard pitches and I struggled up the rest. However, I realised I had gone the wrong way; above me I could see tat which would be ideal to lower off and go again. 3 in-situ pieces with some sun-bleached tat connecting them in the usual baffling series of knots and twists.
Not thinking
twice, I clipped the maillon, threaded my rope and started to lower off, BANG
suddenly I was hurtling downwards. Several painful bounces later I came to rest
on the rope. A quick survey told me nothing was broken but there was blood
leaking through my trouser leg around my knee and down my arms. Secondary survey
ensured they were just bad grazes and shredded fingers, the rope had wrapped itself around my middle and ring finger as I fell. With the surge of adrenaline accompanying
any of these incidents I told George I would just downclimb the rest and take
out my gear as I went.
Back at the belay we had the usual chat, Matt: “Let’s keep
going” George: “no you’re in bad shape, that would be daft” Matt: “ yeah right
enough, I’m starting to get sore”. As we stood at the belay however I felt a disconcerting warmth spreading down the back of my legs, ignoring it we abseiled off and walked
back to pack up the bivi gear in hope of making it back to the last lift by
6pm.
Running back to the Midi we arrived at 6:30pm. Meeting one of
the staff at the entrance he took no time informing us that we couldn’t sleep
inside or in the entrance which would be the usual thing to do in winter.
Instead we should walk back down the arete to the glacier and stay there. Even
in a fully functioning state this would have been an unappealing proposal. We
decided to ignore him and got our bivi kit out where we
were. By this point I decided I could no longer ignore the pressing issue, I
needed the toilet desperately and there was an uncomfortable warm damp feeling
that wasn’t normal.
I limped to edge of the platform where guides prepare their clients to go down the midi arete (exposed but not difficult) and started the
process. My go to in the mountains is to use snow instead of toilet paper, its
cleansing and doesn’t require leaving something that wasn’t already there. In
this case I was mid wipe as the door opened again. Fearing I would ruin our
chances of getting into the warmth by taking a shit on their doorstep, I
hurriedly lobbed the snow over the railing, not before glancing down to see the
snow thoroughly stained dark red. “Fuck, there’s blood, shit, shit … and blood
!” Rapidly kicking bits off the edge and
pulling my trousers up in time paid off as we were allowed graciously to sleep
inside on the benches. As it turns out there was a female member of staff who took pity
on us and convinced her counterpart that there was no benefit of us sleeping 3
feet from the warmth.
The overwhelming ache from all my limbs come the morning was nothing compared to the concern I had about the blood coming from somewhere near my asshole. As soon as they unlocked the toilets, I raced in to confirm my suspicions, after George had point blank refused to take a look for me the night before. Seeing the same deep red appearing on toilet paper, made me feel physically sick. Blood was not supposed to come from there, ever !
Back in Cham I had no other choice but to try to ignore this
issue for the coming days and hope it healed on its own accord. I imagined trying to explain to a French doctor
how I had torn this very most intimate area and assure them in my non-existent French
that it was not sex related.
Thankfully, feigning ignorance actually worked eventually, after 2 weeks the bleeding stopped and another week later I had no more pain ! Now as embarrassingly horrible as this is, it didn’t stop George introducing me for the next few weeks, as the guy who ripped his asshole. On this occasion, the pleasure was not worth the pain!
Learning points:
- Don’t blindly trust sun bleached tat
-There are some things even a good climbing partner won’t help you with.
There were other less notable missions and experiences but hopefully this is might help get you psyched for a Corona-less summer, your next climbing mission or Sexcapade !
Finally, I have skated over many of the details about the climbing in each of these routes. If you want any more information about them or just to tell me how shit my writing is comment or email me at matthew@onthisrock.co.uk
Comments
Post a Comment