The Brenva Route

by C. I. W. Fox

With the opening up of the climbs on the Brenva face by our late member F.S. Smythe, Professor Graham Brown and others, a certain tendency has arisen to regard the ‘Old’ Brenva route as very small beer.  In my own opinion, after climbing Mont Blanc by this route on 9th September, 1954, with David Oxtoby, this is quite wrong.  The route accomplished by Moore and the Walkers so long ago will always merit the label ‘great’.  Com­posed as it is largely of snow and ice, constantly changing under the influence of sun and frost, the conditions are never the same in successive seasons.  In beauty of scene alone it is almost incompar­able in the Alps.

We spent the eve of our climb in the little Refuge on the Col de la Fourche on the Frontier Ridge.  Our stay was solitary and, before turning in, we went outside where the moon lit up the immense mountain-side before us.  Mont Blanc soared heavenwards — a sight quite beyond description.  Far below the lights of Courmayeur twinkled as in another world.  We felt privileged to be in such a place.

Early next morning, we ‘brewed-up,’ ate some food and strapped our crampons on.  We were not to remove them until safe in the refuge on the other side of Mont Blanc.  The glacier was cold and cheerless in the starlight, for the moon had gone, but we could see as far as we needed.  A brief reconnaissance the previous evening had shown us the best way down the steep Brenva side of the Col and we were soon on the glacier.

The route across the glacier was very simple, and any crevasses easily avoided.  After an hour’s easy walking, we were clambering up the good snow on the East side of Col Moore.  The sky was beginning to lighten and the summits of the huge mountains around were flushing in the rays of the sun.  From this position, Mont Blanc looked foreshortened, and the Brenva ridge lay back, the foreground occupied by a shoulder of warm reddish-brown rock.

Our route now lay up a scoop of mixed snow and rock leading towards the left, and this proved awkward in crampons, but knowing that we should need them above, we did not waste time by removing them.  Above this, unexpected and delightful little ridges, all trending upwards, led up to a large pillar of rock.

The scene was now absolutely magnificent.  To our left the amazing East face of the Aigulle Blanche de Péteret shone with golden light, and the swarthy Aiguille Noire loomed yet further away.  The Noire seemed quite low from this position, and it was only when one looked down through the gulf to the valley below that one realised the immense sweep of its southern ridges.  To the East the sunlit ridges receded rank upon rank into the cloud filled depths of Switzerland.

But our day’s work lay before us, we were now at the start of the famous ‘ice-ridge.’  As seems usual these days, it was com­posed of snow, but it was sufficiently narrow to make us adopt Agag-like procession.  Most of the time we moved together, and in 25 minutes, we had crossed the draw-bridge of our castle and the real work of the climb was ahead.

The route now lay up slopes of ice relieved by occasional patches of hard snow.  The slopes seemed infinite, but at the edge of the infinity the gleaming white fingers of the seracs projected into the cloudless deep blue sky.  Twisting fingers of blown powder snow were streaming from the summit dome beyond foretelling of a great wind above, but in our present position the sun shone warmly on our backs.

So up we clambered, mostly without cutting at first, but as the slope got steeper our nerve weakened and we felt obliged to carve a staircase.  It’s all very well to prance about on a glacier serac in crampons, but quite a different matter two and a half miles high on an ice slope on Mont Blanc.

Before leaving Chamonix we had talked to someone about the route, and had been advised that the exit through the seracs lay to the right (looking up).  Mesmerized by this advice, we trended rightwards, and eventually found ourselves near a huge fin of rock sticking out of the ice.  Here we stopped for a bite to eat and gazed up the great slope before us.  From our position it indeed looked as though we were on the right track, and, after our rest, we continued on our way.

Soon wewere amongst the most fantastic scenery it has been my good fortune to see.  The whole world seemed made of ice.  Around us stood seracs as big as churches, gleaming blue, green and gold.  We wound through icy corridors, over bosses of shining ice, past caverns of palest turquoise.  An enchanted ice-world.  But our route ended in a cul-de-sac.  I think that we could have forced it, but it would have taken too long.

This was no place for indecision.  After reviewing the situation, we turned in our tracks and made our way out of the ice pinnacles.  It was obvious that we should have to try again further West along the slope.

This involved traversing down and around some huge ice-bosses projecting from the slope (one of these cliffs is shown in a beautiful photograph by Smythe).  The slope was sufficiently steep to make hand-holds necessary, and the ice-climbing, poised thousands of feet above the Italian valleys, was delicate.  Little security was possible, but we knew that we could trust each other not to make a false move.  In such a situation balance is at a premium and living intense.

At length we were round the steep section and could again climb upwards.  It was cut-cut-cut, dig in the pick of the axe, clamber up on the points, then cut-cut-cut again.  The altitude made us gasp with the exertion.  We kept looking up for the escape we knew must exist, but the silent seracs seemed to come no nearer.  At long last I peered ahead and saw a lowering of part of the palisade ahead.  The ice eased off to good snow, and while Dave belayed, I ran out the rope towards the gap.  To my eager gaze was revealed a broad corridor opening up towards the right.  Such moments make all the toil worthwhile in mountaineeing.  I looked downwards to Dave, hunched over his axe and then beyond through the sunlit depths of space—thousands of feet of emptiness.

My shout of joy roused him to further progress and soon we were both squatting in the snow, stuffing chocolate and raisins into our mouths.  Hitherto we had been working too hard to notice the conditions, but we now saw that we were in for a chilly time on the top.  The wind was blowing great sheets of snow off the summit dome, and the powder snow was falling on the lee of the mountain.

It was obvious that conditions were ideal for the formation of wind-slab, and, sure enough, after progressing a bit further we found that slopes under the ridge above us were deep with powder snow.  However, the presence of a large snow-filled bergschrund enabled us to walk along its recesses in safety.  To try out our theory, one of us walked along the top of the slabby snow (well belayed) and, sure enough, the slope avalanched with a ripping sound, disappearing into the depths below.

The top lip of the bergschrund (which up to now had overhung us) at last relented and we were able to clamber over onto the slope beyond.

Here we were met and enveloped in an icy blast which took our breath away.  The great North wind seemed to have the chill of outer space and we were almost paralysed with cold.  Not only this, but the wind had caused the snow to crust and this most demoralizing of surfaces was to continue for the rest of our climb.

Ahead of us the great dome rose into the clear blue sky, often hidden by the sheets of powder snow which howled across in tremendous gusts.  We took it in turn to lead, bashing our way through the snow, almost doubled up in the teeth of the wind.  It was most exhausting work.  We traversed the summit slightly below the ultimate point, and our hungry eyes picked out the gleaming aluminium of the Vallot hut.  The descent to this over the Bosses only took a few minutes, and soon we were forcing our way up the trap-door entrance of this, the most squalid, but most delightful hut in the Alps!  What a relief to get out of that terrible wind.

While we prepared some food, the weather rapidly deteriorated, and we decided to spend the night there.  After attempting vainly to seal the hut from numerous draughts, we piled all the blankets available on the beds and settled down to a fairly comfortable night.  Occasionally we awoke to hear the blizzard beating snow on our shelter and turned over, thankful that we were not out in it.

It was the following mid-day before the weather had improved enough to let us see our way down (we had neither of us been on the normal route before), but a brief clearing allowed us to take a quick bearing and we were soon down in the shelter of the Grand Plateau out of the tearing gale.

That evening the weather broke completely, and safe in the shelter of Chamonix we congratulated ourselves on having snatched such a magnificent climb at the eleventh hour in a poor season.