Mt Blanc

In 2017 I stood on top of Mont Blanc with two friends Richard and Arthur. It was the first mountain I climbed unguided, a step up in my capabilities, made me joyous, teary and tired.

Mont Blanc

The freakout. I think I have made myself sick. Or it could be the altitude. 

We slept last night in the Cosmique hut (Chamonix, France), and today are to have a 'rest day'. Which for Richard and Arthur mean doing another climbing route. I wake up, and although don't have the hangover that I can see pulled over the boys faces, I feel sick. I opt to stay in the mountain hut, to sleep and rest. I eat a tube of Pringles accompanied with one of the most expensive hot chocolates I have ever bought, both which do nothing for my nauseated stomach. Huh. The boys come back from an easy route called Chanel, looking better than they left, and we organise our packs for tomorrow, which for me (as I am not carrying a bag) means stuffing as many Snickers bars as I can manage into the pockets of my Gortex jacket. I also stuff; spare batteries, and a small tissue packet because I know the mountains are better than fiber. We book the 2am breakfast along with all the other Mont Blanc hopefuls. Then fart around until dinner time.  Dinner is a 1kg tin of ravioli, cooked on our little stove in the snow outside, instead of the 30€ Cosmique hut offering. We also opt to sort our water out instead of the 7€ 1.5L of Evian. Let's just say we're doing Mont Blanc on a budget. The duty of collecting snow falls on me, because apparently I am not fast enough to win the shotgun-not-finger-on-the-nose-game. I put my crampons on, take my ice axe and plod down the hill, past the crevasse that Arthur drunkenly fell over last night, and pick a non-yellow looking bit of snow. I scrap off the icy top bit and freeze my fingers off placing handfuls of-soon-to-be water into the equivalent of an Aldi bag. My job done, Arthur is on melting and cooking duty and we have a two-course meal of the aforementioned rav with a second course of ramen noodles. I head to bed and leave the boys to it. 

01:45 my alarm rings, and I put my clothes on, it takes me about fourteen minutes, fumbling around in the dark half asleep. Richard's alarm goes off at 01:59 and he literally stands up out of bed, slips his shoes on and is ready. What?

Downstairs, the dining hall doors are open, and the flood of 30 climbers pours in, lining up for coffee, corn flakes, and stale cardboardy bread. We have as much as our 2am stomachs can handle, and head to the gear room. The same thirty climbers now are in a small wooden panelled great room gearing up. Feet being shoved in boots, harnesses and helmets being clipped. It is hard to find room to sit down. Arthur has somehow lost his hat and glasses, not a biggy normally, but capital S Shithouse on a mountain. When you're staring at glaciers and snow for 14 hours at altitude, you can go snow blind pretty quick, also that same sunshine is intensified at altitude, and give a pretty good burn. Richard has a spare pair, but I feel it is more the cool style of his own pair that Arthur is worried about, and not the snow blindness. 

“Arthur drops his pack, unclips from the rope team, and starts doing push-ups. Something is wrong.

We head outside, it is fucking freezing, we sit on a bench, put on crampons and rope up with me in the middle, Arthur leading. We head off, and surprisingly I am super calm and don't have the pit of dread in my stomach that I normally have the night before and the morning of a climb.

We walk on a blissfully flat glacier for 20 minutes, and in my head I know that three mountains have to be summited and then descended to get to the top of Mont Blanc. And? We have to do that all over again to get back. But, first, step one; Mont Blanc du Tacul (the first of the three 'Monts'). We start ascending a black hill, and all I can see is the back of Arthurs feet illuminated by the circle light of my head torch. This section feels pretty steep, like we are going up a flight of stairs, and above us I can see other parties' torches, it looks like stars floating in the air about 200 meters vertically above us. My head torch starts to flicker and turns itself off. This happened before on Kilimanjaro, and I realise the batteries are dead. I tell Arthur, he commands to stop, and I change them. Richard anchors himself with his ice axe on the snow wall, and I fiddle around my Gortex to retrieve the batteries, change them, and wish someone would compliment on how clever I was to put a spare set in such an accessible position. I receive no such praise, and we continue up the switchbacks. 

We get to the top, and feel pretty great, fresh and not fatigued like I thought I might be. Good start. We go down a gentle slope, and we see a heap more parties ahead of us which give me a sense of security. Walking across a big saddle between the two mountains we ascend again, our second Mont: Col du Mont Maudit. The light is changes from black to a dark grey. We zig-zag up and up, and I see huge seracs looming over us. What is a serac you may ponder? A serac is a big fuck off scary chunk of glacier, that range from the size of a caravan to Kayne's most expensive mansion. They hang off the side of mountains, until the time they decide to break off, which is who knows when. These ones we pass are like three-story buildings, with icy white faces, gaping black mouths and somehow they suck in every sound around them onto an empty hole of silence. They feel ominous and I am glad that I can't see them properly in this grey morning light. 

A blurry image taken from the top of the crux.

We reach the base of the crux, an 80-meter vertical ice climb. We are in line with maybe 12 other people, and Arthur puts his bag down and gets ready to lead up the wall.

A point to mention on mountain etiquette. From what I have gathered so far, when lots of parties reach a bottleneck, it kind of becomes a free for all. Beginners who are slow and have fear in the whites of their eyes generally get climbed over (quite literally) by more impatient and experienced climbers. Those less experienced but set a good pace generally have to employ a zen-like state and wait for the super slow people in front to sort their shit out. 

Arthur sets off, climbing past (and over) a bunch of people who look like black blobs with lights on their heads stuck vertically to this wall. He reaches a rocky bit, makes an anchor, and calls for Richard and me to follow. We are all roped up, my ice axe is strapped to my wrist, Richard exclaims "Lets Go!" and I think 'Here goes nothing!'. The first bit is quite fun. Swing ice axe into ice, hold on to it, step one foot up with a swift kick to the ice, other foot up, repeat. Also, try not to get a kick to the head from Richard crampons above me. I'm blowing pretty hard by the time I reach the rock, and we start the second pitch. Arthur flies up it again, this time, when Richard and I follow we're stuck behind a super slow woman. She is clipping onto the fixed line. (A rope that has been placed on the route.. who knows when or by whom.) The woman clips into the bites (loops) along the rope, climbs one meter, unclips. Clips onto the rope again, climbs one meter, then clips to the next bite. All with agonisingly slow movements. I notice from my headlight beam and stink eye, she's not had much practice with doing up or undoing a carabiner. Fuck sake. I'm only wearing thin fabric glove liners, and my hands are starting to freeze. My fingers are going numb, and I blow onto them a bunch of hot swear words. 

Finally we make it up to the top. The top being a one meter square, 50-degree slope, leading off to a knife-edge ridge, our way to the next mountain. There is a 2000 meter drop off our table top, into I can't see where. Arthur is also livid, and apologies saying "It's not normally this slow" I feel like less of an asshole that I hated that woman for a minute. We coil the rope, and when I say we, I mean Arthur, and are on our way. 

He is in a bit of a shit mood, and we move off quickly, the sky has turned pink and purple, and it is quite incredible, but my eyes are focused on the 1-foot ledge we are walking on, next to an ice wall, below us that 2000m drop I mentioned and have not forgotten. Think of Mila Jovovich in the 5th Element when she is walking on the ledge of the building running away from the police, except I was not strolling that casually. We reach a nicer sloppier area, and Arthur drops his pack, unclips from the rope team, and starts doing push-ups.

Something is wrong. 

He then sprints up a ten-meter slope, and jogs back down. All in his crampons.

Richard and I call out 'What's wrong?!" and he puffs that his hands are frozen. He's had frostnip before when he climbed Elbrus, a mountain in Russia. When you get frost nip once, you are more susceptible to get it a second time. Now I find it quite contrary that most of these high altitude illnesses have such benign-sounding names. Frostnip, high altitude sickness.. in reality, you can lose your fingers to frostnip (cause it can turn into frostbite), and you can die within 24 hours from high altitude sickness.

The seriousness of Arthur a) telling us his hands feel frozen, and b) his attempts to remedy the problem switches me into a bossy caring mum mode. I tell him to come here, I open my pants and shove his hands in my crotch. What? It's the best way to help cold hands. And the most fun. And maybe the funniest, because Richard becomes paparazzi and takes a few shots of the scene laughing as he circles us. I am pretty happy to have this moment captured, but discover later (as with all the pics Richard took) That Richard can't take photos. I both find this both enduring and vexing.

A few minutes later both my crotch and Arthur's hands are the same temperature, and we use the break to eat a snicker and grab a drink. We have just one more hill to climb and then we will be on top of France! The morning has begun in earnest, and the sun breaks over the easiest bit of our climb. Big snowfields with tracks of people that are in front of us saddle up to the next steeper section, and we stroll gently for half an hour across the crusty ice. The sun is warming us, and I take my jacket off, there is no wind, a bunch of other climbers around and it is a beautiful day. Life is grand!

The cheery girl skipping past us.

Until we reach the next bit. As the slope increases, I get slower and slower and slower. I feel crappy, and teams that once were specks behind us begin to overtake. I keep asking Arthur (who is leading) slower, please. I feel energyless from the altitude. The slope that seemed it will only take twenty minutes has taken us forty already, and I think we are only halfway. I feel terrible, like a failure, and think I never make it up this stupid fucking hill and why do people do this anyway. We stop again (just one of the multiple pauses) and a girl skips pass with her boyfriend sing-songing "Looking good Guys" I hate her and am envious that she looks so good and light up this hill. I feel like I am never going to be the girl that looks effortless and cool in the mountain environment with all this gear on. I am always too slow, too heavy.

Richard practices for his career in photography.

After what seems to be an endless vertigo effect hill we reach the summit. Arthur has already clipped off the lead rope and is trotting ahead. Richard and I unclip too and pose for some more (terrible) summit shots. When we finish turn our attention to the true summit and see Arthur ahead, about forty meters along the summit plateau, knelt down digging. I know that he is burying a bracelet that I had asked him about when we first met. It is a woven rope that belonged to his friend who died in a plane crash. He stays knelt down for a bit, then walked slowly back toward us. Arthur drops to his knees and is crying. Richard tells me to go over, and I do, kneeling on his am cuddling him. I start to cry.

Arthur in red on right, Richard in middle, and me on the left yielding the ice axe ecstatically.

Feeling Arthur so sad in the moment, his grief for his best friend, seeing him emotional, coupled with my own stuff; the relief of getting to the summit, the shadow thoughts of fear and dread and not being good enough. Arthur turns and sits down, bring me in between his legs and cuddles me from behind. What was empathetic sobbing turns into shaking uncontrollable crying and I feel very safe with Arthur holding me and Richard standing in the background. This goes on for a few minutes too long (Arthur quizzes me concerned about it later) as it has become weirdly enjoyable. A big cry at the top of a mountain with a hunk o spunk holding me. I realise that is fun is only being had by me, and pull myself together. We're only halfway. A few money shots with the boys, a nice gaze around at the valley, a Twix bar and we're off again. On a side note, it's 10am, I have eaten four snickers and am sick of them.

We plod down the hill, me smiling smugly at people on their last leg up. I am such a cow sometimes. We pass the beautiful open snowfield, the sun is warm and we spread out horizontally in a line. There is glorious ice cliff to our right that falls away to Italy, and is making beautiful snow shadows and lines of lilac and grey. The ice has softened underfoot and I feel like skipping.

We traverse the saddle, over to a ledge running along a steep side, its tight with a foot wide path in the shadow of an ice wall. Sunken footprints and the vertical ice wall next to my shoulder makes me concentrate on each of my steps. Richard is heading our group and is faster than me, the rope connecting us is tugging my harness pulling me forward. I am worried that I will trip forward and stack it, pulling the boys off with me if I fell. I ask him to slow down.

We reach the top of the ice crux, a little round dinner table of sloped snow, which drops off to I don't even look where. There, we meet a pair of climbers, young and fit who have just come up the icefall. It is pretty late in the day, but they are asking of the conditions, as they are doing a traverse, after the summit heading down the Gouter route (the one we were going to come up originally). I think they are cool and autonomous and must be 'real mountaineers', but then remember I am here too, at this same point on the mountain. Just me and two of my friends.

Arthur drops the rope, makes a rappel, and disappears off the side. I begin to freak, I am tired and feel very little energy in my body. Richard asks me if I want to go next, but I don't know, I just want someone to make decisions for me. I do go next, and Richard tells me to make a rappel. At this point we have been climbing for eight hours and, I forget how to make it right, and ask him to help me. He gives me verbal instructions, but I don't trust myself that I am doing it right. I get frustrated with him, telling him to make it for me because now is not the time for some in-the-deep-end-learning especially when using going down a remote 80-meter ice wall. He looks a little disappointed and makes it for me. I suck up my fear and drop off the side of the ice wall.

I reach Arthur at the middle rock and wedge into it unclipped. Richard follows down, while we wait for him I have time to whip out my phone and take a video. We do the second pitch and end up at a now crampon trodden, snow pillow, surrounded by crevasses. We rope up again and walk zigzaging under the tremendous ice seracs that were before hidden in the dark. Walking under a large serac I feel fear enter my whole body. Like I am passing quietly next to a shadowy wild monster, who is watching me. If I don't make eye contact, he won't take me.

This whole day has been a roller coaster of self-belief and self-depreciation. The journey down the mountain I am getting increasingly scared. The relief and lightness I felt after the immediate summit has gone and now I feel tired, mentally and physically. I am concentrating on every step that I make. Each crampon biting into the snow just right, each leg swinging into the next foot hole, wide enough not to catch my gaiters and trip me.

Step, crunch, step, crunch, iceaxe swing.

Step, crunch, step, crunch.

Richard pulling ahead all the time, me wrestling with belief that I should be fast enough to keep up with him, or should be bold enough to tell him to slow down so I can get this shit done safely. We reach the last snowfield were Arthur deems it safe to have a rest.

We sit down on the outside of a camping circle against some snow bricks. I Iay down in the snow, eat some chips and take swigs of warm sugary tropical juice that Arthur has luged up. Round the bend, four climbers appear. They are camping here tonight and are going to attempt Mont Blanc tomorrow. Later I learned that there was bad weather which came through that evening and thought about these guys, hoping they were alright. Although they were a pretty quiet bunch the best bit about this encounter was they smoked. Arthur had gone through his pack two days ago, and Richard had refused to get him another on his re-supply. Out of principle. Arthur stood there in the snow, head back, billowing joyous smoke into the air. He looked a happy man.

After about forty minutes we reluctantly regroup, rope up and head down the last Mont. This was properly the worst. Remember I said it was like climbing a staircase in the dark? Well now it was midday, and the sun made mushy work of those stairs. Steps that covered only the back half of your crampon, and left your front foot hanging in mid-air. I was painfully slow until we got to an even steeper section. Arthur ordered us to wait, I think he sensed I would be even slower or I might fall. He unclipped, hoped down in front of me, and put in an ice screw. He then belayed me and Richard down on it.

When he lowered me down I felt great! I skipped and hopped with no fear, and was even able to keep up with Richard who had switched into turbo mode. I wish I was this carefree without a belay. I need to work on my footwork. Arthur then belayed himself down quickly, making it look like a grassy knoll in the backyard. We finally make it down this asshole face, all the while me thinking fondly of those times I did not have to concentrate on every single move my body made. For fourteen hours.

Richard unclips, happy to be off the chain of a slow Steph. Arthur takes this time to pretend I am his dog, and pulls me forward and back with the rope. This is fun and sexy until I fall, up to my waist, into a crevasse that was covered by a snow bridge. Now entering tired hysteria, I am laughing so hard at this point that I can't get out, and have pretty much no energy to do so. Richard and Arthur are in convulsions over the sight and don't help at all.

Snow covered wet legs later, we pass the Czech guy who had given us a swig of brandy a few nights ago. He had turned back at the icefall. He looks impressed that I kept going, saying that it was way out his depth. I am surprised, as even though I was pretty much scared for fourteen hours, there was no point where I considered turning back. We arrive at the hut, I shout us all beers and put our name on the list for the 30 euro dinner. Because the boys were very patient with me they deserve it, also it was way cheaper than hiring a guide. We are surrounded by nervous hopefuls going up to Mt Blanc tomorrow, and they quiz Arthur on everything they can. Richard has gone to take a nap and I am happy to sit silently, and just be very proud of myself.