John Roberts recounts a tale of helicopter rescue in the Alps.
Heard about the weather back home - sucks to be you lot. Still in Chamonix with Ben. Duncan left just over a week ago - he managed to fall asleep in Chamonix train station, miss his train, his flight and get picked up by the police for hitching on the M1.
Meanwhile in Chamonix some very large lessons have been learnt. Mainly by Ben and I on the North Face of the Aiguille du Midi. It’s a 1200m route, and in summer the first 800m are dry scrambling with a 200m section of F5c rock climbing thrown in near the top. The next 400m section is a snow ridge, forming the real character of the route, followed by three 80-degree ice pitches. The top was in great condition, the rock covered in a plastering of consolidated snow and ice. Perfect conditions for a hard mixed climb, the technicalities were well within our bounds. “Go for it,” said a notable British alpinist. So we did.
We flew up the first 400m, moving together, on real form, our target an amazing bivi site between the snow and rock sections. But as we got higher it became natural to follow a couloir rather than skirt right as per the guidebook; quickly the difficulty increased, it was much harder than expected but climbable - slowly. Ben even uttered a rare compliment and offered to cook dinner after seconding one particularly savage pitch. It was slow though, and obvious that we were off the normal summer route and we had to use a little aid. Soon darkness was falling and we hadn’t reached the bivi - luckily it was Ben’s lead.
After storming through an overhanging crown of granite teeth, he shouted down that he’d found somewhere to bivi. I was dubious - I could see light filtering through the base of what he proposed we slept on. No matter. Trying to create a flat and “safe” pedestal to sleep on, we trundled blocks back down the couloir, watching their sparks as they rattled to the bottom 600m below. We commented on how spookily warm it was - yet again, the agency that claims some of the most accurate mountain weather forecasts on the planet had got it wrong.
The next morning the freezing level had rocketed. Guides and clients were racing down from the high mountain to the sanctuary of the lower level rock routes as the massif went into a rapid thaw. A helicopter came to check up on us - we gave him the thumbs up, concerned but happy. Later we learnt that they’d been looking for a missing party. We had heard shouts across the face that night but were unable to ascertain anything. They were never found. Perhaps, hopefully, they got themselves to safety.
After warm Lucozade for breakfast and four more pitches we were well into the crux of the rock section. The supposed crux was straightforward, compared to what we had climbed, and relatively dry. But worried about melting conditions above, Ben wanted to abseil. I didn’t think that was a real option, it’d take at least 20 hours and be hugely dangerous in the current conditions - the sudden thaw was causing rockfalls and avalanches left, right but luckily not centre. I offered to lead the five remaining pitches to the bivi. We’d take stock there.
The route loomed above. A layer of 1cm melting verglas coated the rock, atop of that 10cm of wet, melting snow. I battled up for two pitches with all guns firing, using techniques I made up on the spot. Climbing some pitches without crampons and often without gloves it was impossible to climb purely as ice, mixed or rock. I dug away the snow and hacked into the verglas finding some occasional good protection, slowly creeping upwards. I thought I’d cracked it, until I hit an ice-coated slab. I inched up a few metres, found some protection and promptly fell off. No chance. I tried again, fell again. Now, soaking wet from the melt yet warm from the exertion, I pronounced it unclimbable. I lowered off and offered the lead to Ben. He swore at me.
There was nothing for it. Abseiling wasn’t an option, and neither was sitting there for days - it was helicopter time. Ben rang them and they were more than happy to oblige: “Ten minutes, get your ropes in your bag”. We packed up excitedly whilst the thumping of the helicopter could be heard rising up the valley. Suddenly it was there, filling the sky and the winchman was dangling next to us in mid air. We grabbed him, he clipped himself to our belay, introduced himself nonchalantly as Fifi and briefed us. The heli would fly past - I was to grab the wire, clip into it, unclip from the belay and jump. The thought of imminent sanctuary dispelled any doubts about leaping into free space above Chamonix attached to the underside of a chopper.
One, two three, go. Sh*t. I was hanging, spinning, pulled away from the wall, seeing the face from a mad new perspective. It’s pretty indescribable, you feel ripped from your pedestal, both emotionally and physically. Beaten. Ben and Fifi turned to dots on a vast white and black wall while I was pulled up. Next it was Ben’s turn. We circled and flew back in. You could see our meagre highpoint on the snow-covered rock and within seconds Ben was sat next to me. “That beats the f*cking Blackpool Big One,” he finally uttered. For a man of few words he doesn’t mince them.
Ten minutes later we were in Chamonix. We didn’t have a key to the flat we were staying in, so foodless and dehydrated we sat and had a beer. The contrast of where we had been only 15 minutes earlier was impossible to digest, as was the beer. It’s funny how Chamonix can be the alpinists’ capital of the world, yet walking through the street looking like one draws real attention. It’s the first time I’ve walked into a bar with a harness on – something I don’t plan on making a habit of doing. We sat buzzing in silence and called Duncan. “You’re never gonna believe the epic I’ve had getting home,” he exclaimed. “Well,” I replied, “we got a story for you too.”
John Roberts is a BMC member with a particular talent for getting into scrapes. Make sure that you pack BMC Insurance for your adventures.
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