Introduction To The Alps
by S. Goulden
The Alps have always a romantic appeal to a mountaineer whose exploits have been limited to British Mountains. Their size and complexity, the serious commitment they demand, the preparation necessary before one can set out, all create a mystique which amplifies the anticipation. Unfortunately, this also heightens the sense of disappointment when the outcome is not up to expectations.
All mountain terrain is subject to the rule of the weather, and three years of chasing good objectives has shown that in the Alps the weather always maintains the upper hand. But experience has also shown that it can pay to sit tight in a refuge for the weather can quickly improve.
As a newcomer to mountain skiing it seemed prudent to find experienced company before getting too involved. The Club Alpin Francais proved to be the way to sensible progression and, after three winter seasons, their guidance towards an incompetent, but willing foreigner, have allowed me to reach the point of “autonomie-dans les montagnes”, which is their first level of individual respect.
From Paris, one can use the sleeper trains and wake up in the mountains. Each weekend hundreds of trains leave Paris, full of skiers, yet to destinations so diverse, that only at the ski-stations, and equipment shops, is one aware of the popularity of skiing in France. Last year I spent one weekend in two in the mountains.
Weekends are regarded only as training for long trips, but two early attempts at eight to nine day traverses proved failure – the weather won. Four long days from the refuge at Mont Fort and three days in appalling overcrowded conditions in the refuge Villar d’Arene, should dampen the stoutest enthusiasm. But one taste of the perfection of the high snows in the early morning is sufficient; one such was during a four day trip to the Gapencais.
The Gapencais, situated around Gap, are strictly part of the Ecrins, but as the most southerly part of that range, they are more like Southern Alps than the High Alps; rolling to above two thousand five hundred metres, without much vertical stuff but plenty of ridges and open valleys, they are ideal for mountain touring. Not too well supplied with refuges, they remain relatively unexploited; in our four days we saw nobody outside the villages we visited at the start and the finish.
The start was far from auspicious. The minibus from the station took us as high as possible through the ski station of Orcieres – Meriette, closed through lack of snow, and deposited us in pouring rain. The only encouragement came from the odd patch of snow visible through the silent thinning of the clouds above our heads. Donning waterproofs, we set off to climb a thousand metres to 2800 metres, the height of the col between us and our first night, a village at 1400 metres, to the east. Skis were fastened to a heavy sac in pouring rain. We were glad to put them on at about two thousand metres, although under these conditions, the skins did not behave at their best. The trudge continued to two and a half thousand metres where the steep climb to the col enlivened the day. Because the snow was heavy, with danger of avalanche, the spacing between persons was rigorously enforced. Ropes were produced to safe-guard the last one hundred metres as the climb traversed up soft snow at close to forty-five degrees and at the limit, sometimes beyond, of the skins.
At the col it was colder and the wind unpleasantly strong. Our descent was clear – five miles losing fifteen hundred metres; quite exciting under good conditions. But we were feeling the effect of the climb, plus those of the ‘sleeper’, and in my case, lacking much in technique as well as enthusiasm, I must admit to a very low point. By the time we reached the village, I had earned quite a reputation, but quite a bit of technique; not to mention being totally shattered.
The village was uninhabited, as are so many during the winter. The location of the ‘gite’ was not clear and as we searched a thunder storm broke around us. In the only shelter, a derelict barn, we watched an astonishing sequence of rain, hail, snow and hail again, accompanied by the most intimidating claps of thunder. Finally it broke up and we looked further for our refuge, being eventually led by the resident cats to the exact location. Once indoors with the stove roaring, the situation improved. Soon, food inside and clothes drying in every possible place, the evening became typical of such situations. The great difference between the CAF and the YRC is the hour of ‘lights out’; with CAF it is usually seven-thirty.
I will never get used to starts at five o’clock in the morning. My whole being fights against it and I cannot get anything to go properly. My coffee boils over, my porridge burns, I knock the table to the annoyance of everybody else, and I cannot find the clothes I need. That morning, the information that it was clear outside did not seem to get through and I was the last to be ready. Getting down to the bridge, over snow covered ice, was too tricky to give any thought to the day ahead. It was difficult enough to keep the rest of the party in sight.
Suddenly, it seemed, the morning chorus started. The light snow which had fallen during the night had given the trees a Christmas card look, and the sky was cloudless. The day cannot be described adequately. Every moment was fresh, bright, exhilerating, breathtaking – and breathless, because we were again climbing, to a high point of 2900 metres, in crossing Les Lauzes Rouses – mountains as far as the eye could see, all crystal clear – to the North the mass of the Barre des Ecrins and the Meije – the wind sufficiently cold to keep the snow frozen in the sunlight, but not strong enough to blow it away, or into our faces – the occasional eagles circling very high. It was too cold to stop to eat at mid¬day and we headed very early in the afternoon for our refuge, a shepherd’s cabin, to get rid of our packs and go out and play.
Once the sun dropped, the temperature fell until nobody was willing to leave the shelter. As is so often the case the shepherd’s quarters were locked and the section available to randonneurs was much less developed. We had the loft which was not sealed at the eaves. Ruc-sacs were used on the windward side and most of the cooking was done from our sleeping bags. In the morning it had clouded over again; no point in rushing, the day did not promise great things. In fact the temperature rose with daylight and a thaw was obvious. Our route was simple; a traverse of Mourre Froide at 3000 metres followed by a descent along the gorge of Pas du Layre to the village of Gourniers, at 1468 metres. The difficult part was below the snow line.
It was such a contrast to the previous day that I have only two special recollections; the descent from Mourre Froid was quite an epic, and the pleasure of taking off my boots before we went into the cafe in the village for a beer. I remember also the gorge as impressive but not unique, and the first primroses sticking out thrugh the snow. Apart from that the previous day was still echoing in my head.
The next morning was warm and I heard my first cuckoo. We had to decide, on this our last day, how to get back to the railway on the other side of the range. For the two alternatives the first section was common; the ascent of the Col de la Coupa at 2200 metres marked on the map as an avalanche risk. As the epic of the previous day had not been marked, we were apprehensive. In the event, it was softness of the snow which created the only problem, but it was so close to avalanche conditions that we prudently escaped down a side valley, instead of making the ridge crossing to our starting point. It proved to be a long drag, but as befits a good outing, that memory returned only whilst examining the map. The predominant memory is that one perfect day.
I would not wish to give the impression that good days are infrequent. If I were simply writing about good days the choices would be multiple. Perfection depends upon the context.
One week with several high points was from Zermatt. The first day to the Schonbielhutte was miserable in a fog, as was the second when we tried to reach Point de Zinal – we did not even make the col – but the remaining days, during which the weather became perfect, gave a taste of the High Alps in the snow which it will be difficult to satisfy. Even though many planned objectives were aborted, in such a situation, away from the pistes, but making use of the lifts, a lot can be done in a week.
The ascent of the 4168 metre Breithorn is a joke. From the top of the lift of the Klein Matterhorn, there are barely four hundred metres to climb, of which two hundred metres are ‘easy ice- but the summit ridge is committing and as we had no ropes it was not done. The exposure on that narrow ridge with eight hundred metres to the Breithorngletscher and two thousand five hundred metre to the Gornergletscher requires good security.
Downhill from the Breithorn to Zermatt at 1168 metres must be one of the longest easy piste descents in the Alps, but set in the centre of one of the largest groups of mountains over 4000 metres, with such ample time one can appreciate the situation. It is big enough not to be crowded, at least at that time, in the middle of May. Our evening destination at Gornergrat was easily reached – by rack railway.
Exploring the upper slopes of the Gornergletscher and the Weissgrat, the Cima di Jazzi and the rest of the edge that overhangs Italy proved interesting, if only to the extent of viewing the possibilities of Monte Rosa and the smaller, but stimulating, Jagerhorn, used by the Zermatt guides as a testing ground. To the north peaks overlooked Saas Fee with the Matterhorn to the west. The descent down the Findelengletscher, less massive than the previous day’s descent, presented easy power skiing of the best kind, and with a recent fall of snow, giving an escape from the tracks of the multitude. Then once more to the Gornergrat, to collect our packs, head for Monte Rosahutte, to be ready to tackle the Nordend.
Most of our group had cried off this trip but I had decided to do it, seeing that there were many tracks, and being sure so popular an objective would not be devoid of people on a beautiful Friday in May. Three others accompanied me along to the the Stockhorn, across the top of the Weissgrat and down the Gornergletscher under the Monte Rosa Gletscher. Fourtunately I had my rope since my friends found the ‘faux pas’ onto the Monte Rosa Gletscher beyond their competence.
The estimation of the popularity of the Nordend was supported by the saturation of the Hutte; no space remained available at 7pm. and several slept with their skis. The guardian, used to early starts, leaves a packed breakfast and thermoses of hot water for those who leave before 6.30pm. Although we had planned to start at 5am. I could not sleep and got up half an hour earlier. Others were similarly tense and I was not alone for long. For once I was organised and we were out in the starlight at 5am. No moon but one could make out the lie of the land. This was helpful because the terrain is complicated above the hut with so many tracks that they hinder rather than help. As the first party we had to be more than usually awake – others were following and it would have been embarrassing to find ourselves the leaders of a lost herd at sun-up. We nearly went up the Gretzgletscher but saw the discontinuity of the hillside in time. Soon we were on the open slopes of the Monte Rosa Gletscher and it was just a matter of slog.
It was cold! Even after it became light, and the sun lit up the Matterhorn down the valley, we were still in the shadow and it was cold. The heating in the boot room had not finished its work and my boots had frozen. We did not seem to be making much progress; eighteen hundred metres is a long climb. Finally the sun reached the glacier but with it a cold wind, which discouraged any thought of stopping. Our rate of climbing remained a steady three hundred metres an hour. I had to stop. I was more exhausted than I ever remember being – a drink, a Mars bar, another drink – re¬organise the sac so that lighter clothes would be easily available when heat had been recreated -another drink, and then off again.
The peace was shattered by a helicopter depositing a dozen noisy powder-bashers looking for virgin powder; too late! – we got there first – a distraction which masked the discomfort whilst I pondered on that kind of people – then the pain returned – more drinks, another Mars.
Looking ahead it became evident that the Nordend was not a good idea. The entry to the final section was barred by massive serracs, overhangs, bridges and walls. Normally the easiest summit in the group, perhaps there was no technical diffculty, but it all looked terribly dangerous and all who had passed us had turned to the Dufourspitze as an alternative. We followed, heading for a col at 4359 metres to the east of the principal summit. A bergshrund at 4280 metres provided a small ice wall. I just could not be bothered to take out my crampons, unfasten my ice-axe, get out the rope. The others went on – I had another drink, another Mars bar, then I started down. Several others had taken the same decision – some consolation.
I remember little of the descent. It was unpleasant because the shallow slope catches the sun and thaws fast, but without enough slope to give good skiing under those conditions. I took hardly any photographs! The beer in the Hut tasted good and I slept in the sun, unconscious of the helicopter making another sortie up the mountain.
We left next morning skiing down the Gornergletscher to Zermatt. The surface was like glass; the much used tracks like tram-tracks caused numerous painful falls. The climb of the glacier needed crampons for all of ten metres, then back to skis and down to Zermatt. The holiday was over; the appetite was whetted and plans began to be formed for the next year.
Somehow the long weekends have been more successful than the weeks. Perhaps one expects less, or tries harder because there is less time. On Nordic skis we have had four-day trips in the Queyras, the Vercours, the Jura. Under more alpine conditions, in addition to the trip in the Gapencais, the Beaufortain have given a very satisfying long-weekend under the impressive southwest corner of the massif of Mont Blanc. Total failures are in the minority, but there have been several trips of simple ‘aller – retour’, the conditions being impossible only when the starting point was reached.
Perhaps it’s age, or experience, or even the context, but I am no longer in search of the extreme. To be in the mountains, without restriction on movement, objective, route; to be able to decide, according to the circumstances, to do one thing or another, or even to spend the afternoon playing at ice-climbing or powder skiing, or do nothing except sit out in front of the refuge, all seem satisfying. Only the crowds detract from the pleasure, and one has an incredible feeling of superiority when one emerges from the backcloth onto a crowded ski-station. Even in Europe, one can still find peace in the mountains without too much difficulty!