# My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (1908)/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
AIGUILLE DU PLAN.
MY first acquaintance with the Aiguille du Plan was made in company with Messrs. Cecil Slingsby and Ellis Carr, during two memorable days in 1892. On that occasion an evil fate drove us back beaten, battered, and hungry; and as we slunk wearily homewards, the huge séracs, poised above the first wall of cliff, seemed in the uncertain light of dusk to be grinning and pointing the finger of scorn at our tattered and woebegone appearance. None the less, baffled and bruised as we were, Slingsby was strongly of the opinion that "we'n powler't up an' down a bit an' had a rattlin' day," or rather two days, and averred with enthusiasm that it was the finest ice climb he had ever had the luck to be on.
I can still shut my eyes and see Carr toiling like a giant at the endless slopes of ice, and can still feel the blank chill that shivered through us when night chased the last lingering streaks of daylight from the slopes. The songs still ring in my ears with which he sought to keep us merry and awake ​through the icy hours, as we sat huddled on a tiny ledge. And when, despite all efforts, sleep stealthily approached, Slingsby's strong arm wrapping round me and holding me on to my narrow perch—there was naught between my back and Chamonix, eight thousand feet below—still seems a sure defence from peril. It was not, doubtless, unalloyed pleasure, yet in after years the memory of trusty comrades who, when in evil plight,
"... ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads . . ."
is an enduring gain which enters into one's life, and which may, perchance, even dull the edge of sorrow in those long nights when the platitudes of the lowlands seem but dust and ashes.
Amid the flicker of the winter fire I can still see the swing of Slingsby's axe, as, through the day that followed, he hewed our way ever downwards towards the sun-lit pastures where cow-bells tinkle and where merry brooklets ripple amongst the stones, towards friends for whose glad welcome our very souls were pining. I can still hear him saying, as we scrambled over the "bad bit" at the head of the ​long couloir—a more than perpendicular wall of ice, as ugly a place as aught ere chronicled in Alpine history—"It certainly is a glorious climb." And I can still listen to the joyful jodels and shouts, the popping of champagne corks and the riot of tumultuous pleasure with which our friends received us at the Montenvers Hotel. But these are memories amongst which I must not dally. A more skilful pen has recorded the various details, and as a wholly undue meed of praise has been allotted to me, it would be the rankest folly on my part to dispel the pleasing myths that Carr has woven round my deeds. I therefore pass over twelve months, more or less, of inglorious ease to a day when Slingsby, Hastings, Collie, and myself were once more making ready for the assault.
On the morning of the 6th of August, 1893, we sent two porters up to our Grépon gîte, charged with the labour of bringing down the tent, sleeping bags, and other belongings, left there after an ascent of that peak. We bid them, on their descent, go to the extreme left moraine of the Blaitière glacier—as the glacier that descends almost exclusively from the Plan is most confusingly called—and wait for our arrival. Meanwhile, in company with a large party of friends, we strolled to the woods beyond Blaitière dessus, and had a festive lunch in ​the shadow of some great pines. We had an exciting time trying to boil soup in a flat dish, and at the critical moment the united skill of Hastings and myself sufficed to empty the precious fluid into the fire. Hastings, however, accomplished a veritable triumph in bacon frying, and Collie provided us with most excellent tea. Under its soothing influence I slowly recovered that equanimity of mind which the disastrous loss of the soup had temporarily upset.
Having said good-bye to our friends, we made our way towards La Tapiaz, collecting on the way great bundles of sticks and branches for our camp fire. Slingsby and Collie then led us to a delightful little grassy hollow, evidently the bed of some ancient tarn, where, sheltered from all the winds that blow, we could pitch our tent and make ourselves thoroughly comfortable. We soon spied the porters high above us on the moraine, and in response to our shouts and signals they began to descend towards us. The younger members of the party being left to get the camp ready, Slingsby and I started off to inspect the peak. We met and passed the porters, but were soon disturbed by the horrid fear that they might miss our tiny hollow, so Slingsby, as usual, sacrificed himself and went back to see that our luggage did not stray. The way to the Glacier des Pélerins was very much longer than I had anticipated, and even when I got there the ​face of the Plan was veiled in cloud. There seemed, however, a chance of rifts and rents in the barrier, so, making my way to a great boulder close under the lower slopes of the Midi, I laid down at my ease and watched the eddies and gusts of wind ever wreathing and swaying the clinging folds of vapour. My patience was rewarded; from time to time sections of the cliffs were disclosed, and it became evident that a way to the summit could certainly be found by keeping well to the right of the peak, and striking the ridge that falls away from it towards the col. This was not, however, the route we wished to attempt. Our first "objectif" was to be the snow col on the left of the peak, and perhaps a thousand feet below it. This col is shut in on the Chamonix side by the precipitous Aiguille in which the great northern buttress of the Plan culminates. It is an obtrusively visible notch, and may be seen from the stone man on the Little Charmoz ridge just above the Montenvers, or even from the Chapeau, though of course when seen from these points of view it is on the right of the summit. Once arrived on this col we should reach the precipitous little Glacier du Plan, on which during the preceding year we had exerted much fruitless labour. At the point, however, at which we were now aiming, we should be above the great ice walls and threatening séracs, and fairly certain of being able to force our way to the summit. The way to this col lay up a long gully, ​which formed a sort of line of demarcation between the great northern buttress and the main mass of the mountain. Unluckily the mists obstinately clung to this gully, and after waiting two hours the lengthening shadows suggested the propriety of an immediate retreat. I got back to camp just as the twilight was deepening into the gloom of night, and found a blazing fire and hot soup, and a scene more strange and picturesque than ever delights the eye of the modern hut dweller.
Hastings and Collie had unearthed a ruined châlet, and out of its débris had built a drainlike construction, which, skilfully roofed with the ground sheet of the tent, they averred, would make splendid sleeping quarters. Slingsby and I, with our usual magnanimity, expressed our willingness to put up with the inferior accommodation of the tent. From various remarks at breakfast the next morning—or ought I to say the same night?—I inferred that our generosity had not been without its reward.
We started at 1.45 a.m. The sky was cloudless, and the stars shone with that steady light which is the surest sign of perfect weather. We picked our way along the slopes, skilfully led by Collie and Slingsby, till we reached an old moraine. Following this to its extreme head, at 3 a.m. we traversed on to the glacier just above the point where it makes a more or less unsuccessful attempt at an ice fall. In order ​to inspect our intended line of ascent, we bore to the right on to the open glacier, and then sat down to wait for sufficient light to see whether the unknown couloir was likely to give us passage. The great circle of cliffs rising for nearly four thousand feet above the glacier looked in the dim light of dawn extremely forbidding. Indeed there are few glaciers in the Alps walled in by so mighty and precipitous a rampart. After sitting in a filled-up crevasse for ten minutes, we found the breeze so excessively cold that without more ado we picked up our sacks and moved on towards the base of the couloir. The glacier soon steepened, but the thin layer of snow still lying on the ice sufficed to give us footing, and was so well frozen that the thinnest and most absurdly fragile bridges could be utilised for our progress. Higher up, however, this thin coating of snow ceased. Slingsby, with the cunning of an old climber, kept away to the left, where, under the shelter of the great buttress, streaks of snow were still intact. The rest of the party boldly marched up the glacier and were soon reduced to using the axe. Patience and hard work at length brought us to some rocks on the right of the entrance to the couloir, where Slingsby was waiting for us. Working to the right over glacier-polished and ice-glazed slabs, we reached an awkward, outward-shelving, ice-encumbered ledge, over which a tiny stream from the cliffs above was trickling.
​Having with some difficulty packed ourselves away in secure nooks we proceeded to eat, drink, and be merry. After a halt of twenty minutes we started (5.25 a.m.) once more, keeping almost horizontally across the cliffs to our right, a broad and easy ledge affording an obvious and most tempting pathway. Traversing a short distance, we came to a fault in the cliffs leading almost straight up. The ascent of this was easy and rapid, and it was followed by other ledges and gullies that rejoiced the hearts of men, who, on the other side of this great wall, had been compelled to earn each foot of progress by hewing steps in hardest ice. Gradually, however, the ledges and gullies so dwindled in size that we were glad to take refuge in the couloir and advance, relying on the axe. The snow had been melted and refrozen so often, that it required almost as much effort to cut steps as in ice itself, and we began to look about for some means of escaping this labour. On the other side of the couloir the rocks were obviously practicable, and we made a determined effort to reach them. Down the centre of the snow, however, falling stones, ice, and water had cut a deep groove, the trough of which was ice, and the sides deeply undercut. After many efforts, I managed to get into it and cut steps across to the further side, but there the snow wall proved too much for me. It was as hard and intractable as ice on the surface, yet no sooner was the surface cut away than soft ​snow was reached, affording no reliable hold for the fingers. As moreover the groove was obviously and obtrusively the channel down which the mountain shot all its rubbish, it did not appear desirable that two of us should be in it at the same time, a circumstance which precluded the help of a shoulder and a good shove. We decided at length that the rocks opposite were not worth the effort, and I scrambled back on to the open surface of the couloir.
Our next hope of escape from interminable step-cutting lay in a gully that opened into the couloir about 250 feet above. On reaching its base, however, we found that it was ice glazed, precipitous, and led to huge unbroken slabs. Some distance further ahead we descried more broken rocks, and, even before reaching them, were rejoiced by finding hold for our right hands on the rock-wall, and an occasional step between it and the slope (where the heat of the rocks had melted the snow in contact with it) that could be relied on to anchor the party. Reaching the more broken rocks, we struck on to them, but were soon pulled up by a bare slab some twelve feet high. The only possibility of ascent was afforded by a small and inferior knob of rock that could be just reached by the fingers of the left hand, but which was so nearly out of reach that it was well nigh impossible to test its security. Twice I essayed to go up, and on each occasion my courage failed me; but an endeavour to find an alternative ​line proving fruitless, a last and more determined effort bridged the difficulty and landed us on easy rocks.
In order to avoid getting stranded on the huge slabs of which the face of the mountain here consists, we kept to the left on a sort of shelf of the couloir; further to our left was a still lower groove filled with ice and evidently the main channel for falling stones. Happily the slabs forming our shelf were separated from the great wall of rock closing in the couloir on our right by a narrow and almost continuous crack, just wide enough to admit the fingers. Aided by this crack we progressed steadily, though an occasional "bad pitch" proved impracticable till the Hercules of the party had lifted the first man over the obstruction. The angle of the shelf increased steadily, and the frequency and length of the bad pitches increased in like ratio till it became an almost perpendicular wall. As this coincided with such a reduction in the width of the friendly crack that fingers could no longer be inserted into it, we were brought to a stand.
It was now evident that we must get into the lowest compartment of the couloir and cut our way up the ice, but the traverse of the shelf towards this compartment was a problem of grave difficulty. Once away from the friendly crack, there was no hold of any reliable sort. Hastings, with much wisdom, suggested driving a piton into the crack as high above ​us as possible, so that, by passing the rope through it, the leading man might be secured from danger and enabled to take liberties that otherwise could not be thought of. Hastings, despite his extremely poor footing, with great skill and strength hoisted me on to his shoulders, and, from this aerial point of vantage, I whacked the piton into the crack with an ice-axe. Before the rope could be slipped through the ring it was, of course, necessary to untie, a process always of much difficulty, and especially so when only one hand can be spared for the work. These various operations must have lasted well nigh five minutes, and it was with a sigh of relief that Hastings lifted me gingerly down to the rock and tenderly rubbed those portions of his body that had been abraded by my boot nails.
We then found that the rope would not run in the piton, so, once more, the living pyramid had to be constructed and a noose of rope tied through the piton ring, in which our rope could run freely. After these arduous labours the traverse of the slab was effected with unexpected ease; though, possibly, in the absence of the protection afforded by the rope above, the hold attainable would have seemed perilously small. Reaching the edge of the gully, it was happily possible to just touch the opposite wall with an ice-axe, and this support enabled me to kick an inferior step in some hard-frozen snow still lying against the rock. From this ​footing I managed to cut a step in the ice itself, and the traverse into the couloir was accomplished.
The ascent of the ice gully was not wholly enjoyable; there was no possibility of escape should stones or other missiles see fit to fall, and the angle of the ice rapidly steepened till it verged on the perpendicular. This excessively steep part of the gully did not exceed ten or twelve feet in height, and, once above it, a slope of fifty degrees led upwards towards practicable rocks. Before, however, sufficient rope could be paid out to enable me to reach them, it was necessary that the rest of the party should advance. Unluckily, though good footing on firm rock, well sheltered from falling stones, was easily accessible on the right, it was impossible to reach it without cutting away the fringes and sheets of ice masking certain intervening slabs. To do this would have involved the rest of the party, who were immediately underneath and sixty or seventy feet below, in serious danger. For ice of this sort is extremely apt to flake away in large plate-like masses, and the cliff below being practically perpendicular, these masses would have alit with resistless force on Slingsby and Collie, who were exactly in the line of fire. Indeed, the tiny fragments of ice hewn out of the solid slope above the traverse called forth many remarks of a deprecatory character. From subsequent discussion it appears that whilst to those below these ​fragments appeared, each and all, larger than an average sérac falling with a velocity considerably greater than that which astronomers ascribe to light; to those above they seemed comparable to finest grains of sand drifting on the wings of softest breezes.
So soon as Hastings had come up, and was settled squarely in the big step, I began cutting once more, but was soon brought to a halt by volleys of abuse; amongst which I seemed to detect a term used in the tennis court to define the score of forty all. The rest of the party having reached the upper slope, a way was soon cut to the rocks. Above, the cliff rose in a steep and threatening precipice, but it was seamed with a series of deep cracks, and we decided that one or other of these would be almost certain to afford a practicable route.
We selected for our first effort the deepest and blackest of the group. At the outset this gully proved more formidable than we had expected. The walls were rather too wide for the wedging method of ascent, and the scarcity of hold made it extremely difficult to effect any advance. By the aid of Hastings's head and ice-axe, it was possible to reach a considerable height in the innermost recesses of the gully, but further direct progress was barred by overhanging rock, and it was essential to traverse outwards on the left wall of the cliff to a broad step which seemed a suitable basis for ​further operations. The traverse was undoubtedly practicable if this step afforded any crack or grip sufficient to enable a man, not merely to haul himself up to it, but to scramble on to it; a performance by no means always easy when the shelf is merely a narrow ledge with smooth precipitous cliff above it. After much examination, however, the attempt was made, and an excellent crack of most convenient and soul-satisfjang dimensions was discovered exactly in the right place. To the left, easy rocks led upwards for a short distance, when we were forced into a gully and were soon pulled up by a number of great plate-like stones that were jammed side by side, forming a sort of protecting roof. Outwards, and up, and over this roof it was necessary to climb, and, to gain the requisite energy, we halted and were regaled by Hastings with ginger, biscuits, chocolate, and the other luxuries with which his pockets are invariably filled.
This difficulty appeared worse in prospect than in actual fact it proved to be, and beyond the mental discomfort induced by hanging on to doubtfully secure stones, and climbing outwards over a very high cliff in a semi-horizontal position—much indeed as a fly walks along the ceiling—the obstruction was passed without difficulty. Above them, the way to the col was obvious. Merely a short slope of ice intervened between us and that ​wished-for haven. On the other side the view was most dramatic. The cliff immediately below actually overhangs. The huge pinnacle to which reference has frequently been made, as shutting in this col on its northern side, towers upwards in smooth precipitous slabs that recall the relentless cruelty of the great precipice on the Little Dru; and on the other side great ice cliffs dominate as wild and vast a wall of rock as the climber often sees. A wall which, sweeping round through well nigh 180 degrees, forms one of the sternest cirques the Alps can boast, and which, with its overhanging séracs, vast cornices, and black, ice-filled couloirs, recalls some of the more savage recesses of the Caucasus
We stormed the short wall still intervening, broke through a thin crest of snow, and shouted our welcome to the Blaitière, the Charmoz, and the Grépon. We had reached the upper slopes of the little glacier on which Carr, Slingsby, and myself had spent such weary hours the preceding year. Now, however, we were above the series of ice walls, and could delight our eyes by studying the graceful curves with which the snows swept over towards the cliff. Immediately opposite were the gaunt crags we had tried to scale, and we recognised, with a feeling akin to pain, that from our farthest point the ridge could have been reached, in two or three hours at most, and the summit won. Our present position was, however, far more favourable. The ​little glacier—cut off from the rocks opposite by an appalling couloir of bare ice, in which no living being could cut or hew a pathway—led upwards in wind-moulded bends and sweeps, and though steep enough to require the use of the axe, afforded no serious obstacle to our progress.
At 12.5 p.m., after a short halt, we started once more and found that ten hours of hard work had begun to make itself felt, and our pace was reduced to most sober and decorous limits. Half way up, a great Schrund barred our advance. Its overhanging lip, twenty feet above our heads, looked as if it would force us to descend a long distance, even if it did not stop us altogether. The idea of descending is always extremely distasteful to weary men, so we turned to our left to see whether anything could be done at the point where the little glacier curls over towards the huge ice couloir. Happily, a few feet before reaching the ice cliff, the upper lip drooped till it was not more than twelve feet above the lower. Collie was packed away into the inner recesses of the Schrund, where he anchored himself in soft snow and made ready for all emergencies. Hastings and Slingsby then considerately made themselves into the base of a pyramid, and I was skilfully hoisted on to their shoulders. From this point of vantage it was possible to cut inferior nicks in the overhanging ice below the lip, and, after many efforts, a good ​reliable step on the ice slope above it. Climbing from Hastings's shoulder to this step was by no means easy, and Collie was warned to look out for squalls. The lips so overhung that a man falling would have missed the Schrund altogether, and, if unchecked by the rope, would have started on a wild career down the steep slopes curving ever towards the huge ice couloir.
Just above the lip the ice was very steep, and it was not till seventy feet of rope had been paid out that such reliable footing could be cut, as would suffice to secure the next man's safety. Hastings was then hoisted up by the united efforts of Slingsby and Collie, and on his arrival at the big step I went on a short distance further, to a snow-filled crevasse in which was an admirable and pleasing seat. As, however, it was beyond the reach of our rope, a second lighter one had to be got out and to be tied to it. Slingsby came up next, and then the serious problem of Collie's ascent had to be tackled. So long as a man remained below to give a shoulder, the lip of the Schrund could be reached and the ascent effected in a reasonable manner, but the last man had, obviously, to be hauled up by main force. Unfortunately we were so far up the slope, and the projecting lip so deflected and cut off all sound, that we could not hear what Collie said. All we could do was to haul with one accord, but we soon found that our efforts ceased to have any effect. ​It appears that the rope unluckily failed to bring him to the steps, and jammed him under the lip a short distance to their right. Collie, however, proved equal to the emergency; finding that his head and shoulders refused to go over the lip, he stuck his feet against the ice and, forcing himself outwards against the rope, walked up the over-hanging ice in a more or less horizontal position. This manœuvre brought him, feet uppermost, on to the slope, and it is needless to say caused both astonishment and mirth to the spectators. However, he soon resumed a more normal attitude and tracked up the slope to the little crevasse. As time began to press, and we were unroped, I started at once and began cutting the requisite steps to the ridge. A few hundred feet further, the slope eased slightly, and this laborious process was no longer necessary.
A huge cornice surmounted the ridge, overhanging the tremendous cliffs above the little Glacier d'Envers Blaitière. Well to its right I pursued my solitary way to the foot of the final tower. This is almost completely detached from the main ridge, being, in fact, the highest point of the secondary ridge lying at right angles to it. The south-eastern end of this secondary ridge culminates in the Dent du Requin. In consequence, the route we were following from the north-east brought us to the same, or almost the same, point as that which ​Mr. Eccles reached when making the first ascent by the south-western ridge. In either case one turns sharply to the south-east, and a few rock gullies and steep crags lead to the topmost pinnacle (2 p.m.).
We basked long on the warm rocks, and it was not till 3.30 p.m. that we turned to the descent. The steep slopes leading towards the Glacier du Requin required care, as the snow was in that soft and watery condition which suggests avalanches. Hastings led us across the Bergschrund, and just as we were discussing the best line to take through the séracs, a chamois appeared. It dashed down the slopes in a wild and reckless fashion, keeping to the left towards the cliffs of the Dent du Requin. We were, as usual, the victims of old tradition, and thought we could not do better than follow its tracks. We soon had to take to the rocks, and scramble up and down slopes of screes, broken by short patches of steep rock. Ultimately we forced our way back on to the glacier by crossing a long and remarkably rotten sérac. It was a mere knife-edge, some eighty feet in length, exhibiting such a state of elderly decrepitude that we expected every moment the whole structure would collapse. However, it served our purpose, and a short glissade put us on to the track we had followed on our way to the Requin, a fortnight before. Though it was past 5 p.m., thanks to the endurance that two weeks' ​Alpine work stores in the muscles, we still hoped to reach the Montenvers. Returning from the Requin, we had consumed ten hours in gaining that home of the faithful, of which not more than one hour had been expended in voluntary halts. On this occasion, rather less than four hours sufficed to bring us to that welcome bower, and at 8.50 p.m. four hungry travellers were urging Monsieur Simond to provide a speedy and substantial dinner. Our entreaties, it is needless to say, received most cordial attention and numerous friends joined our party. In the early hours of morning, a warrior, contemplating doughty deeds, broke in on our revels. He had expected to find the dim light of a single dip candle and the dread solitude of a deserted room, but, to his astonishment, he beheld a numerous company, the illumination of many lamps, and the flitting to and fro of ministering angels—I mean waiters. For the moment he was utterly bewildered, and thought he had slept on throughout a whole day and just got up in time for the next table d'hôte. Finally we explained matters by inaccurately pointing out that we were dining in yesterday while he was just going to breakfast in to-morrow.