Patience, Perseverance and Pleasure
As the autumn days became shoulder-barged and compressed by longer nights, and the snow line slunk down the mountains, there was one saved article which I re-read many times: Korra Pesce’s write-up of climbing Direct de l’amitié with Martin Elias. This route forces a straight line up the north face of the Grandes Jorasses, one of the most impressive walls in the Alps, and according to Korra, was 'the most challenging route up the Jorasses and the line that satisfied me the most.' I also liked the humour in Korra’s writing: ‘Martin patiently starts up the pitch and then asks me whether this might possibly be the fearsome expanding flake pitch. I don't need to double check: yes, it's the one. And that's why I sent you up first! Have fun!’ The route has also been climbed in good style, which I like. When Nick Colton and Roger Baxter-Jones made the second ascent of Direct… in September 1977, Nick wrote, ‘our girlfriends called for a helicopter as we didn’t return by the time we had stated we would. The helicopter came and hovered above us on our way down into Italy, just below the summit. Roger and I were not sure what to do but after discussion we decided to send the helicopter away and walk down ourselves on the grounds that if we were trying to do the climb in a better style than those who did the first ascent then we really shouldn’t use a helicopter to get down.’
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Now that my home mountains are the Alps, I’ve been playing my pointless-yet-entertaining game of trying to free-climb existing hard routes. It’s a challenge to link difficult pitches of ice, rock and snow up a big mountain, and it demands a high level of climbing ability. There are some routes which had sections of aid (where previous climbers have pulled on gear) and I’ve managed, through a combination of luck, specific training, or sheer bloodymindedness, to be the first to free them. Two highlights include Vol du Dragon on Les Droites in 2021 and Voie des Guides on Les Drus in 2022. I thought the famous Jorasses might also have an opportunity to play this game, and the Direct de l’amitié had been burning in my mind since last autumn. My ego also wanted more than two First Free Ascents, just like I always want more in my climbing, so I greedily looked around.
But January has short days and bitter temperatures, and I knew from previous experiences that I must be patient to avoid jumping the gun. Rob Smith and I discussed objectives, and he pointed at the Chamonix Aiguilles. ‘There’s one idea up there: the couloir above Mini Blast, on the Blaitiere’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking at it for two years from my kitchen window.’
Attempt 1 saw us right back at the climbing wall - we didn’t want to cross a sketchy avalanche-prone slope on the approach. Rob and I didn’t discuss much before turning around; at least we were practicing our patience. We make a good team and are perseverant. We’d already trained and climbed together a lot this autumn and winter.
A few days later, conditions had improved so we followed our original track back towards the Blaitiere. Our cheeks were numb and I constantly swung my hands to flush blood into my fingers, but I was happy to be moving towards an alpine goal. The temperatures were -21 degrees C during the day when we soloed the initial five pitches of ice route up Mini Blast. It followed a wide granite couloir which narrowed and turned a corner, so with curiosity we began questing, switching from ice to nevé and (slightly crumbly) rock. ‘This pitch is insane!’ Rob and I agreed; it made me think of Alaska, where the couloirs are steep and striking. Popping out of the couloir at the top and enjoying some sunshine, we moved up and right, then found a tent-up bivy. ‘Insane!’ We agreed again.
Following our noses the next day, we entered a giant shield of granite. I pulled through steep ground and then rocked onto a slab with tiny crystal footholds, shouting ‘watch me!’ as I went. My crampons zipped and I shocked onto my arms, but gripped the axes tight. My patience had been tested and that now I was climbing, I loved it and wanted to rage. ‘Fuck yeah!’ A helicopter buzzed us, and we later learnt someone had told the PGHM to check us out, saying ‘surely no-one could climb up there in January.’
Above the shield it returned to more conventional terrain, and the valley was hidden by fluffy white clouds. Just after dark on our second day we straddled the summit of the Blaitiere. We rapped down to our first bivy platform later that night. We’d been wondering whether we should’ve left our tent, sleeping bag, mattresses, extra food, stove and gas at this bivy and climbed light to the summit, but were also unsure how long it would take. Neither of us wanted to bail if we were still a long way from the summit late at night, so we carried the whole lot… only to have wished we’d left it there. Oh well, good training I suppose!
Coming back down, I feasted at the bakery and basked in the comfort of home with Christelle. Although climbing brings pleasure, there is an enormous sweetness to life on the ground.
Again, I thought of the Jorasses, but remembered: patience, patience. I roped up for a new variation on the Pelerins with Symon Welfringer and Les Barbares in the Argentiere basin with John McCune. Whilst climbing with Christelle I’d seen the line of the latter route and noticed the good conditions: placage was surprisingly abundant this year. Both of these were excellent routes with equal mixture of high-quality climbing… and long, tiring descents!
‘Warmer’ weather arrived and I knew it was time for the Jorasses. I felt fit, psyched and somewhat accustomed to the unusually cold winter temperatures. Tom Seccombe agreed to attempt to free Direct de l’amitié on the north face. Previous teams had freed all except one pitch: the ‘Expanding A2 flake.’ The clue is in the name, I guess, and in hindsight I should’ve known that a rotten and slightly dangerous aid pitch isn’t going to make for a free attempt. Anyway…
…Big routes demand big packs, I thought as I shouldered my bag and staggered out of the Aiguille du Midi with Tom. The wind cut into our cheeks but I was happy. The Midi really is an incredible feature, one part tourist attraction with a giant rocket sticking out of its head, and one part teleport between Chamonix and the massif.
By nightfall, Tom and I were comfortably camped beneath the Jorasses, practically using the 1000-metre north face as a headboard. A familiar cocktail swirled around my head: excitement, anticipation and fear. Alpine climbing is such an uncertain game, where events can change in an instant. Reaching the top is never guaranteed, especially when trying to climb onsight and free. Persistence is a very useful attribute. I began to doze… and in a blink, the alarm went off.
My memories of climbing the Direct… are now condensed. I can remember the squeak of ice axes and crampons as Tom and I plodded up the initial ice field, taking turns carrying the enormous haul bag. Moderate pitches quickly ramped up, and Tom made some brilliant leads; then I took over and ‘fought like a bastard’ too. I don’t remember where we bivied, except that we used my inflatable G7 portaledge - without it we’d have been slumped miserably in our harnesses all night. Still, it was very snug to fit two big guys on a single mattress. Everything took ages, and it was a miracle we didn’t drop anything. We acted as if handling an unexploded bomb. The first ‘M8’ pitch felt alright, but the second was tricky. I rocked onto the belay pretty pumped, and the occasionally shitty rock got my heart racing, but I would still give it M7+.
The second bivy was a happy repeat of the first: make an anchor for the portaledge, crampons off, hang up all the gear in a mess, squeeze onto the ledge, shuffle into the sleeping bag, don’t drop the stove, mmm hot food, crash out as two dudes crammed into a one-dude-portaledge, pretend to sleep, wake up, reverse. The ‘Expanding A2 flake’ pitch was just that. Cams crunched grossly when I weighted them and I told myself to breathe more calmly! when I made a few moves aiding off my axes. From the belay at the top, I was flipping psyched to be finished with it, and not flipping psyched to try and redpoint it. It was a shame, as freeing a big route on the Jorasses would be nice. But this pitch was not one I would like to repeat; once was enough. We continued up.
Getting to the top was really sweet. The last pitches dragged, and the haul bag snagged on everything else, showering rocks. ‘It’s a chossy crag,’ Tom chuckled at some point during our ascent. For all its reputation, the Jorasses isn’t actually very good rock, and we’d occasionally hear a sickening whhhiiizzzzzzzz as a rock bombed past. At the final pitch, I could definitely taste the sunshine on the summit ridge, but I definitely couldn’t find a belay amongst the shit rock. ‘Can we move together?’ I shouted down. My brains were getting boiled by the choss. ‘Errrr…’ Came the reply. Tom (the total machine) carried the haul bag and second’s pack for about five metres until I could flop onto the south face and thus give him a belay - and start pulling up the pig.
But six hours later, my mates Alex and Harry handed us pizza in the car park. I’ve forgotten all the bad bits and the hunger and the fatigue and not freeing the pitch and just remembered the pizza. It was another great adventure with Tom, and he’s very determined. I was happy to have waited for slightly warmer weather; trying to climb in the baltic temperatures of January would’ve been unproductive. I was a bit disappointed to have not done the first free ascent of a route on the Jorasses, but at the same time that expanding A2 pitch was not the one to attempt to free. Another time, another route, hopefully.
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The winter continued, but it’s important to change the scenery sometimes. I visited Slovenia with Christelle, where we enjoyed good friends and a change in landscape together. Returning to Chamonix, I climbed Ecaille Epique on Les Droites in a day with Symon and Silvan Schüpbach - until we reached the Tournier Spur, and at about 150 metres below the top I was sick everywhere with a bad stomach. After much deliberation, we called for a helicopter. I’d like to go back for this route.
At the very end of the winter, it all worked perfectly when I climbed the British Route on the north-east face of Piz Badile with Gašper Pintar. We’d arranged to go climbing in the past but never actually tied in together until now; our ‘blind date’ showed that patience pays off. We’d waited until we had the right objective at the right time, with suitable weather. On the route, we got lucky and the high-quality pitches went fast and onsight. This felt like a satisfying end to my winter.
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Despite a wet spring, I quickly switched into rock climbing mode, wanting to climb a ‘hard’ sport route. In recent years I’ve been busy with other things (or a bit slack), and not pushed myself into redpointing beyond a couple of 8bs. 8b+ is a pretty tricky grade which requires real commitment to both the process and specific training - plus I wouldn’t be able to just lank it. Christelle and I visited Saint Leger in March, and once I clipped the chains of Le Nabab (after pulling on virtually every bolt) I knew the ‘solid 8b+’ route was both five stars… and felt nails.
Saint Leger is a brilliant crag and a very comfortable place to hang out, which makes it ideal for a project. The small hamlet of Saint Leger du Ventoux is a typical Provençal cluster of yellow houses, used to watching the world go slowly by. It’s situated in a quiet and isolated valley with a lazy river winding past. The nearby crags are generally overhanging and punchy, with infamous French grading.
Parking at the Jardin Singulier, you can sleep in your van, enjoy hot showers, toilets, and even borrow a bicycle to make the 15-minute commute to the crag. You need only leave when you run out of food. This seems to be a very forward-thinking solution to accommodating sometimes hundreds of climbers who visit a usually undisturbed region with insufficient facilities or desire for the sudden influx of people. Other locations (such as Ceuse) are slowly moving in this direction, but Saint Leger’s Jardin Singulier has (with the help of external funding) found a good answer.
I’ve really enjoyed making microscopic progress on Le Nabab, embracing the process instead of thinking of the goal. Christelle’s patience and support has been really helpful, never complaining despite long belays. The route is 35 metres long, quite run-out, and I’ve come to know it (and the big falls) well. The limestone is yellow, orange, black and grey. The holds are big, small, ratty and sculpted. The moves are technical and the key is to be fit, fresh, with a good sequence and have strong fingers. In short, it’s a long experience! But daily life is a luxury, and I can take great pleasure in trying - and testing myself on - the route. Sunny mornings are easy to wake up to; you can swim in the river on the approach (although the temperature is always set to ‘fresh’); and easy tunes with friends beneath a full moon can finish a fine day. There’s a great group of people here who are very welcoming, and they’re all climbing really impressive routes with no fuss.
I’d prefer not to say too much about the experience of Le Nabab until I’ve climbed it, but for now I’ll just say I’m enjoying trying hard.
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Postscript: just when I really believed I could do the route, and was doing it with one rest, it rained heavily. The crucial jug at half way, where you must shake out and recover, seeped, and then stayed wet for another week. The mixed weather continued and the forecast called for more rain. I waited, waited… then ran out of time. I stripped the draws out and focussed on my next trip, to Pakistan.
But I’ll be back!
