south-facing Pombie Wall, and by the time we’d pitched the tent shadows were marching across the face. At the same time the valley below was filling with cloud, and its tide was creeping up the hillside too, engulfing all in its path. Yet there were still climbers at work up there; about halfway to the top by the sound of it. We could hear their voices, the clatter of hardware, the ring of a peg being hammered into a crack. No doubt they would be facing a bivvy tonight.
Too late in the day to attempt anything ourselves, and before even making a brew, we were drawn towards the mountain while we could still see it, and we’d just reached the screes when the sound all climbers dread came to us.
Stonefall. A lot of it.
We looked up to see a stream of dust and a fusillade of rocks bouncing down the face. Large rocks, small rocks and a shower of stones began high up, then gathered momentum as they spun into open space. We automatically flinched and stopped in our tracks to see where they’d land, and it didn’t take much imagination to know that if any climbers were near that lot, they’d be dry-mouthed with fear.
In moments the face was swallowed by cloud, and as individual features disappeared the frantic crash of rock against rock gradually lessened and finally ended, followed by an eerie silence. Then the silence was broken by a concerned voice calling: ‘Henri.’
Silence.
Again, but more urgently this time: ‘Henri!’
Then louder still: ‘HENRI!’
There was desperation in that cry, but it was nothing compared with the sound that followed. A sound that broke your heart. From that sound a single word tore free from a mangled expression of grief. A single word one did not need to be a linguist to understand.
‘Mort!’
Mike and I faced one another, eyes wide with horror.
The clouds that enveloped Pic du Midi brought early nightfall, and the rescue team arrived as the last vestige of light was disappearing. The helicopter could first be heard in the distance, then it was overhead, where it hovered only about a hundred metres above us, searching the gloom for what seemed an eternity before it began to descend. In poor visibility there was no room for error, but the pilot knew what he was doing and set the chopper down close to the Pombie refuge, whose guardian had alerted the gendarmerie when I’d run in with the news, leaving Mike to try to make contact with the survivor. The chopper blades slowed, then ceased moving. My ears stopped ringing, and the guardian’s voice dropped to a normal volume.
An air of calm emanated from the team; they were professional, unflustered, deliberate in their movements. Each one knew his role, so three helmeted climbers roped up, switched on headtorches, and with a final word of instruction from their leader, set off in the now damp, cloud-wrapped darkness towards the unseen mountain – the mountain affectionately known to local climbers as Jean-Pierre. A walkie-talkie crackled. Someone lit a cigarette; its glow penetrated the gloom.
As the minutes ticked by disembodied voices could be heard – one at the foot of the mountain; the other high, distant and trembling. There would be long periods when only one voice could be heard; the higher of the two. But when the other answered it always came from a different position, marked sometimes by a brief flash of light when the mist allowed. Seemingly undeterred by either darkness or fog, the rescue team was making steady progress up the Pombie Wall. Mike and I were mere spectators while a drama played out above us. Chastened, we returned to our tent.
Later that night the rescue team located and secured the body, then climbed up to the survivor and sat with him through the dark, empty hours. In the safe comfort of our tent, I too was unable to sleep and maintained a silent vigil with them.
The new day dawned with Jean-Pierre cloud-free. The helicopter took off, swept across the face of the mountain, hovered there for a while, then rose to land on the flat summit, where two of the rescue team and the survivor were waiting. The third team member was later lifted from the face along with the rockfall victim, the two seen swinging free at the end of a long cable.
The victim and survivor had our sympathy; the rescue team our respect. But for Mike and me Pic du Midi’s Pombie Wall had lost its appeal. We’d climb something else.
9
THE LONGEST DAY
When summer climbs are dreamed of at home during the winter months, ideas and ambitions often outstrip reality. Sometimes the weather gods conspire against the best-laid plans, and time runs out before much can be achieved, as Keith and I found in the late spring of 1975.
The shepherd’s hut was as squalid inside as it had first appeared from across the stream when we’d spied it through the storm. About three paces long by two wide, it had a low, absorbent roof through which the rain dripped at unsuitably strategic points. A makeshift shutter was placed against a tiny window, and when it was removed the squall burst in. There was only a broken pane of glass in this window. The floor was the same granite as the mountains that rose on three sides, as uneven as a sheet of corrugated iron and littered with the droppings of innumerable sheep. Cows had been outside; sheep inside. Fortunately there were neither this morning, and the hut was deserted. It was also cold, damp and smelly. Against one wall leaned a rough bench, and the only remaining item of furniture was a shelf suspended on wire hooks from the ceiling.
It wasn’t much, but with every crash of thunder we were thankful for its existence. This was no day to be caught crossing a high pass, which had been our plan when we’d struck camp a couple of hours earlier.
Our first task now was to get out of wet clothes and find the means by which to hang them. Drying facilities were negligible, but at least there was room for waterproofs to drip while we enjoyed the luxury of shirt and trousers that were not soaked through.
Outside the storm continued its attack with sheets of rain and a wind that rattled both the door and the temporary shutter at the window. It was a vicious morning that bore no resemblance to the dreams that had sustained me all winter long, and had brought us here with summer optimism and an ambitious list of routes to climb and passes to cross. This storm had a permanent feel to it. It would not blow itself out in an hour or two. It would not flee to other mountains, other valleys. It was trapped here, as we were, by a semi-circle of peaks that turned our cirque into a turbulent cauldron.
Keith settled himself on the bench and rolled a cigarette, and when that was finished he suggested we light a fire. ‘Go and find some decent wood’, he said, ‘while I start things off with this little heap of kindling.’ He motioned to a small pile of sticks laced with cobwebs beside the fireplace.
I glared at him, hating the way he’d contrived to stay inside while I braved the storm once more, but said nothing. Pulling on my cold, wet, so-called waterproofs, I went outside and slithered down to the stream beside which I remembered seeing some dead wood. Moss coated and mud-spattered it was not the most satisfactory fuel, but the long-dead branches would have to do. My search for better firewood would not lead far in this weather.
Twenty minutes later the hut was filled with smoke that burned our eyes and started uncontrollable bouts of coughing. I fled outside, clambered onto the roof, and removed the stone slab that covered the chimney. With that the smoke billowed into my face.
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘That’s a great improvement.’
Seconds tediously multiplied into minutes, and the minutes slowly drifted into hours. The fire flared and settled; it crackled and spat. Occasionally a downdraft blew smoke into the room. Sheep dung was fed onto the slow-burning wood, and our clothing took on its odour. Outside the storm showed no sign of easing.
Morning reached maturity, became mid-day. We would eat.
Keith was fastidious over the preparation of a weak soup, but it was I who had to brave the tumult for water.
All the food we’d brought from home to last a fortnight in the hills was carefully set out. This was food to sustain long days – not in crude shepherd’s huts, but on sunlit climbs from a camp in the valley beyond the mountains, now barred to us by lightning.