Closed to the British for the years of the war, the Alps were the longed-for destination for those deprived pre-war mountaineers. To the younger generation of post-war climbers, of which I was one, the Alps represented a field of adventure to which we all aspired. The frontiers were open, the tourist organisations of France and Switzerland both eager to welcome a fresh flood of visitors; but there were problems. To start with rigid currency restrictions had been imposed curtailing a long visit or lavish expenditure. Added to that was training. However competent a climber may be on British hills, there was a lack of experience and required skills on bigger mountains. The old tradition that the novice required two or three seasons behind a professional guide was no longer viable, if only for financial reasons.
The Alpine Club, anticipating this problem, had organised a number of training meets where some of their more experienced members could guide the new generation of aspiring Alpinists. Family responsibilities and financial restrictions did not allow me to take advantage of this early offer, thus my first visit to the Alps was not until the summer of 1951 Some French organisation concerned with Alpine training was offering two-week courses and I joined one of these as a pupil. It was staffed by professional guides and based at the village of Monetier in the Dauphiné. I hitchhiked there in two days from Paris, one of only two British in a course of fourteen French students.
Much of the early instruction, the handling of ropes, some scrambling and walks to minor peaks were aspects with which I was familiar. It was soon recognised that I was quite competent on rock and, after some earlier routes, I was allowed to lead. I was a star pupil, that is until my first practice in crampons. This was from the Refuge Adele Planchard to La Grande Ruine at 12, 356 ft, a minor peak but my first Alpine mountain if a very modest one.
The training course concluded with a five-day venture into the heart of the Dauphiné and the ascent of a more superior mountain. This involved a long trek and the carrying of a substantial load to the Refuge du Sélé. This was perched high above the glacier on a rocky shelf, reached by a struggle up steep ground. I am not usually competitive by nature but I raced ahead of the others over the final slopes of soft snow and shale to be the first in the Refuge. Further, as if to demonstrate my superior fitness, I descended again to relieve the load of a very tired Frenchman. He demonstrated his gratitude with a warm handshake. The next day, with the guides leading, we made the ascent of Ailefroide, my first major Alpine peak, offering views from Mont Blanc to the Matterhorn
For the second part of this, my Alpine novitiate, I was to be joined by my Penrith friend Eric Arnison who, wise man, had learned of my whereabouts and came up with two days’ food. There he was, a solitary figure trudging up the moraine, a welcome sight. We returned to the hut and the next day made an ascent of Point du Sélé, a long loose ridge of friable limestone, more dangerous than difficult. We were defeated in our attempt to descend from the col towards La Berade by a highly alarming fall of rock and were committed to a return down the glacier. It was dark before we left the moraine and darker still in the forest. Fortunately we could feed at the first of the chalets and sleep well in their hayloft. It had been a long day.
After filling our sacks with food we set off to make the long trek to the Glacier Blanc and the Refuge Ecrins near its head, aiming for an ascent of the Barre des Ecrins, the only 4000-metre peak in the Dauphiné. We set off at 4 a.m. the next morning, following a guided party. It was really a long snow plod of no great difficulty, but we moved one at a time on the final steep section. It was descending this on the return that Eric fell out of his steps and swept past me on his back; but I was securely anchored.
The next morning we looked out to find a foot of new snow, but regardless of weather we had to move. Eric was due in Grenoble that night. The safest route was a long descent to Briançon and a longer bus ride. The short and quicker alternative was via the Col Emile Pic and we were advised to take this route by the arrival of two knowledgeable Russians, one of whom spoke excellent English. It was a late start and it was hard work kicking steps up the snow of the couloir and, if the weather had earlier shown some signs of improvement, we were to be disappointed. Again the clouds came down and we found ourselves in the middle of a rather alarming electrical storm, our ice axes humming. By good fortune we somehow found the Breche de la Plate des Agneaux from where we began our descent. Technically it was not difficult, but the snow was in a dangerous condition and we found it safer to descend the rocks that lay one side or the other of the couloir, moving one at a time. It was a relief when the angle eased and we had some visibility. Ahead were some miles of trackless unstable moraine, the most tedious of all mountain terrains, and now the wet snow had turned to rain. We were a wet and weary pair when we reached the road to La Grave and much to be blessed a guest house or hotel. Parked outside was a rather up-market British car.
The barman, more used to serving tourists than mountain men made us welcome. We recounted our ordeal as we cheered ourselves up with several Pernods. Pools of water gathered at our feet. Perhaps our barman was a retired guide for we felt he was understanding of our feeling of well being. Meanwhile the English seated at a nearby table looked upon us with undisguised distaste. “Don’t they let the country down,” was spoken by one and no doubt intended for our ears as much as theirs.
My Alpine seasons for the following years started off with modest plans as fitted our as yet limited experience. I joined two friends at Bourg St M aurice, Geoff Scovell and Bob Holmes. Bob had just completed his medical studies. In mixed weather and between the odd rest day we climbed Mont Pourri, La Grande Motte and other minor peaks finally descending to Val d’Isère where we were to meet Eric Arnison. Sadly at this point Bob, who for some days had been unwell, felt he must return home.
Now the three of us set off on a two-day trek for Italy and mountains more challenging, not quite sure where we would spend the night. Eric, our senior by some twenty years, was in many ways the ideal companion, equally at home in the most sophisticated hotels or slumming it in the meanest of hovels. Now he found the tumbled down remains of an evil smelling chalet and announced that this would do us well for the night. Poor Geoff, familiar with more salubrious surroundings, must have wondered at the kind of people with whom he was now associating. Our next night in a hayloft must have confirmed his fears, but at least we had eaten well at the Albergo in the Italian village of Pont.
The next day we made a leisurely ascent to the overcrowded Refugio Victor Emmanuel from where we were to make a delightful ascent of the Grand Paradiso. We were the first on the top; the Italian guided parties were still plodding up the glacier as we descended. I marvel now at my fitness in those days, and at Eric’s stamina, slower a little, but twenty years my senior. Well satisfied with our climb we descended to the Val Savarenche, down which we walked in the heat of the day the fourteen miles to Les Villes and the luxury of a small hotel.
Geoff Scovell had to return meanwhile. Eric and I planned our next ascent, a traverse from Italy to Switzerland of the Grand Combin. From the village of Ollomond we set out for the Refugio Amiante but we paused at the small village of Vause where we found good wine and food and a bed on the floor of the local shop. For this and breakfast the next morning we were charged 300 lire, less than 50p in our present currency.
We were the only occupants of the Refugio and the guardian was helpful with advice. We left soon after 3 a.m. next morning to begin one of the great days of my limited Alpine experience. There were two cols to cross and two glaciers to mount before we could even begin the ascent of the mountain proper. From the Glacier Mont Durand we climbed a steep face of mixed snow and rock which after much labour took us to the summit of this massive 4000-metre peak. Eric was not on his best form and suddenly announced that this would be his last Alpine peak. This may have been so for the European Alps, but 17 years later, at the age of 68, he was to become the oldest man to climb the higher Mount Kenya. We did not linger on the summit; a hard bitter wind was blowing and bad weather in the west seemed threatening.
Now we found fresh tracks to follow that would take us off the mountain we hoped. They did so indeed but not by the easy ‘route normale’. Whoever had gone this way was a mountaineer or guide of great skill and experience. We turned about sharply, the tracks leading to ever steepening ground of ice under a line of threatening seracs. We were now committed and could but follow. My diary of that day describes anxious moments as Eric descended steep ice on a tight rope while I above, lacking ice screws and other modern aids, could offer no security. It was a vast relief to descend on to easier ground which led us to the Glacier de Corbasière and, after eighteen hours of continuous movement, the luxury of a small hotel at Fionnay in the Val de Bagnes. It had been a long day on a big mountain and we slept well.
The next day we set off to cross to Arolla to join the Alpine Club meet, spending the first night at Cabane de Chansion where we met the charming French guide Pierre Julian. He was quite impressed by our descent from the Grand Combin, an unusual route. In jest I asked him how much he would charge to take me up a major route on the Dru. “Nothing,” he said “if you can climb quickly.” In Arolla we dined at the Hotel Mont Callon in the company of three characters well known in the climbing world: Bentley Beetham whom I was to meet again later, Gilbert Peaker who was making the last of his seventeen Alpine seasons, and Herbert Carr whose book Mountain of Snowdonia, published in 1924, I had long sought. I think it was Eric who told me of the terrible accident he suffered in 1925. He was climbing in Cwm Glas with Van Noarden. His companion was killed, Carr injured and immobile. No mountain rescue parties in those days. Herbert Carr lay there for two days and two nights before being found quite by accident by a local shepherd. They had neglected the basic rule for those that go on the hills.
The next morning a few of us climbed up to the Cabane des Vignettes. It was well worth it for the view, particularly of the Dent Blanche, but the weather deteriorated and the next morning we woke up to fresh snow and no visibility. It was time to return and Eric kept company with me back to Chamonix via trains to Martigny and Orsières, and on foot over the Col de Balme.
My third and best season was more ambitious for I had now gained a degree of Alpine experience and modest skill. Furthermore much of it was on rock on which I felt more confident than on snow or ice. Not hitching across France as before, I travelled by train all the way to Chamonix. There to meet me was Crosby Fox, now in the last week of a successful Alpine season, his face deeply bronzed and supremely fit. Among other difficult ascents he had just completed was the Ryan Lochmatter route on the Aiguille du Plan. Regardless of my long journey and fresh to the scene of big mountains, Crosby with his usual energy and enthusiasm allowed me but a few hours sleep before setting off for Montenvert and the Tour Rouge refuge, high on the Mer de Glace face of the Grepon. When this was climbed by Geoffrey Winthrop Young and Joseph Knubel, it was regarded as the hardest rock climb in the Alps.
Even today it is considered as a route deserving of respect. We thought it would be a worthy climb, but as we walked up to Montenvert we met two figures descending who would put our forthcoming efforts into proper perspective. They were Joe Brown and Don Willans, soon to become our most prestigious mountaineers. They had just made the first British ascent of the west face of the Petit Dru. Two years later, Joe, along with George Band, were to make the first ascent of Kanchenjunga.
A short steep glacier and a shorter but steeper rock section brought us to the squalid shelter of the Tour Rouge which we were soon to share with two amiable French climbers. We left at 5 a.m. the next morning, at first in doubtful weather but this did improve. For hours, and there were many of them, we climbed on this steep exposed face but on magnificent rock, for short sections up to severe standard and on one pitch, which it fell to my turn to lead, very much harder than anything before or after. We decided we must be off route but earlier climbers had made the same error for there were two pitons to offer some security. Crosby climbed with great skill, faster and stronger than me, but on balance work I was marginally more confident. Crosby, at the close of an Alpine season, was fitter and I was glad to accept his lead on three or four of the final pitches up to the Brech Balfour. I think we solemnly shook hands. The climb was over, but there was no time to linger. “Our arrival was met by a blast of icy wind laced with driving snow” – these are the words Crosby wrote to describe the situation and black clouds in the north and a growl of thunder meant we must make a rapid descent. It was already dark when after several hours of stumbling on rough tracks finally by torchlight, we reached Montenvert. The end of a great day with the best of companions.
Crosby had to return home but not before we enjoyed some socialising with that group of post-war British climbers who were to achieve so much. Amongst them was Neil Mather who had been climbing with Geoff Pigott. Now alone he was, like me, looking for a partner. He suggested we join up for the remainder of his time and no better climbing partner could I have had, or one more skilled. Already with a brilliant Alpine record, he had the previous year, along with Ian McNaught-Davis, made the first British traverse of the Peuterey Ridge of Mont Blanc. This put him in the front rank and two years later he was selected for the successful Kanchenjunga Expedition.
Our first climb together was the well known Forbes Aréte of the Chardonnet, a splendid exposed route which we did in good time, overtaking two guided parties who had left the Refuge Albert Première an hour ahead. I think Neil felt I was fit enough for something bigger, perhaps the Brenva Face of Mont Blanc and with this in mind we returned to the Chalet Biolley, that shambolic, overcrowded refuge in Chamonix of the Club Alpin Français. Few of us could afford anything grander in those days. Also staying there were three officers of the recently formed Alpine Climbing Group, Roger Chorley, Allan Blackshaw and Hamish Nicol. The A.C.C. is an elitist group of British mountaineers designed to encourage mountaineering at a very high standard, membership being limited to those who by their Alpine record had already proved their competence. It was not an organisation I felt qualified to join.
Neil and I set off the next day fully provisioned for four days for Montnenvert, the Mer de Glace and the Refuge du Requin. An early start the next morning was planned for the tiny refuge on the Col de Fource from where, according to conditions and our own abilities, we could tackle whatever the Brenva Face of Mont Blanc had to offer, Route Major if we felt on form or at least the Old Brenva. Perhaps never again would I feel so fit or so confident in both my leader and my ability to follow. It was not to be. The next morning Neil lay listless in his bunk, laid low with a stomach disorder. Slowly, very slowly, we made our way, unroped, up the Geant Icefall to the Italian Torino hut. After a couple of cognacs Neil retired to sleep in the old hut while I sat and sunned myself on the balcony of the rather splendid new hut with its magnificent view of the Brenva Face and the full extent of the Peuterey Ridge. I chatted to some of the Italian day visitors coming up by cable car from Entrêves.
It was a very late start next morning, Neil still suffering but a small ascent should be made, so up to the Rochefort Arête. We ascended unroped on easy ground to the foot of the Giant. Easy ground indeed, but that is its portent. Only days earlier this same easy ground had been the scene of tragedy when one of the most skilled of our climbers, the great Arthur Dolphin, had fallen to his death.
Back then to Chamonix from where there was time for one short ascent. This was the classic NNW arête of L’M, a minor peak but offering superb and sensational rock climbing. We led alternate pitches and I was glad of the security of the occasional piton through which I could thread the rope, and sometimes grab with glee when other holds seemed meagre.
With the long school holiday, this third Alpine season could be a long one with a succession of companions. The third was Malcolm Milne who was now waiting for me in Chamonix, a friend of Eric with whom I had done some climbing in the Lake District. Malcolm held a senior position in the Colonial Service and was now on leave from his position as District Commissioner in the Cameroons. With him was his wife and family who would provide sustenance and comfort when in the valley. As with all my few Alpine seasons, bold plans had been made as before making translations from the French Vallot guides, but as earlier the bold plans had to be much minimused. We started off well with the splendid Charmos Grepon traverse, gaining an early start by bedding down in a natural shelter or ‘gîte’ a little below the first moraines of the Nantillon Glacier. With light sleeping bags and a light stove for brewing up, we enjoyed a comortable night Of the climb itself I can recall little except my diary records a very hard move on one of the Charmos towers and my gratitude in being offered a rope by a French party for my struggle up the Mummery Crack on the Grepon. By the time we returned to our ‘gite’ it was too dark to go further. We made soup and coffee and drifted off into a long night of blissful sleep. It had been a wonderful day but sadly it was to be our last. Malcolm recently returned from the disease ridden tropics was struck down by some fearful infection which was to debar him from further strenuous effort. The remaining weeks were devoted to travels with the family and minor walks, a disappointing conclusion to six weeks in the Alps.
Malcolm never climbed again but we remained friends and met occasionally. On retirement from the Colonial Services, he took up skiing in a big way, devoting to it as much dedication and energy as he had done earlier to be awarded an Oxford Blue. Again with equal enthusiasm he took up flying, gaining his pilot’s licence in Southend, but Africa was still much in his blood and with his wife Kath he went to live in Kenya, taking up an advisory position. He bought a Cessna aircraft with which he flew over much of the continent and covering his expenses by taking wealthy tourists to see the sun rise over Mount Kenya. He finally retired to a cottage near Stockbridge, but not before one further exploit which received much publicity. He flew a light single-engined aircraft from Sacremento across the Arctic to Hampshire. Mountaineering does produce some characters from all walks of life and I am pleased to have known some of them.
Again ambitious plans were laid for the 1954 Alpine season: the Brenva Face of Mont Blanc no less, Route Major if conditions allowed or at least the Old Brenva, a climb of less difficulty, less direct and first climbed by A.W. Moore so many years earlier. My companions were to be Tom Price and Jack Carswell. A fourth member of the party was also expected, Desmond Stevens who shared the same ambition. Sadly, ambitions were again defeated, not by lack of skill or fitness, but by lack of a window of settled windless weather essential for such a feat. The disappointment must have been less for Jack for he had already climbed this face of Mont Blanc and by the most difficult of routes, the Via della Pera. Jack and his friend Charles Tilly were fortunate in having as their leader the great Swiss mountaineer André Roch.
I travelled by train and bus through Bourg St Maurice and the Petit St Bernard, arriving in the midday heat in a totally deserted Courmayeur. All shops and cafés were closed, streets empty. This, of course, was siesta time, the only two figures to ignore the ritual, arriving simultaneously with me but over the Col Ferrat were my friends Tom and Jack. We found shade somewhere and waited until Courmayeur had emerged from it sleep and the police office was open. After much form filling and the payment of several hundred lire, a camping permit was issued only to be accompanied by the advice that camping was forbidden within the canton of Courmayeur; only far up Val Ferrat or Val Veni could we camp. We mused on the power of the hotel lobby.
Still pondering the problem we made our way up th valley towards Entrèves, soon passing what could be a recognised camp site and there, ignoring the large notices Vietato campeggio, we pitched our tents. Of course the police came, a young officer almost apologetic in manner and very pleased to be offered a cup of tea. He came again the next day and the day after, but seemed to accept our assurance that we would be away as soon as the weather improved.
The weather did not improve nor did we abandon our camp. A period of excessively high wind was followed by a heavy fall of snow. All major mountains were closed but if you have to linger, Courmayeur and Entrèves have much to offer in the way of friendly and cheap albergos. Time for me was not wasted for I had a business deal to make. This when nylon rope was not as readily available as it was soon to become. There was a shortage of lightweight abseil line and, thus informed, I had come out with a 200-ft length with which to trade. Everyone had heard of Toni Gobbi, a doctorate in law by profession, but by inclination and repute one of Italy’s most prominent guides. Further than that, he and his wife had established a mountain shop which became a happy meeting place for mountaineers of all nationalities and it was there that I went with my nylon line. I did not seek cash, although it was offered, but I came away with a high quality pair of Grivel crampons. Top professional guide though he was, he had earned a reputation of being free in his advice to amateurs and he warned us of the unsuitability of all major routes on the Brenva Face for some time. Sadly, Toni was to be killed by an avalanche on a ski mountaineering trip some years later.
Much discouraged by Toni’s dire warnings and any future prospects still gloomy, we cut our losses and climbed the Rochefort Arête, a repeat for me of last year’s climb, still a long narrow ridge of some sensation. A day or so later, with a slight improvement of the weather, we walked up to the Refugio Boccalatte from where, starting at 2 a.m. in the darkness we set out for the Grandes Jorasses, which at least was a considerable 4,000-metre peak. Again we were defeated, not by bad weather or difficulty, but soft snow and the crossing of the avalanche-prone Wymper Couloir. An Italian guided party behind us also turned back. Trust the judgement of the professional guide, someone had advised; they know the mountain best.
Jack Carswell now departed and I made my way to Siena to met my companion for the second part of the holiday, Harry Griffin. We camped at Zinal and the next day climbed up to the splendidly sited Cabana du Mountet. As earlier, ambitions were high, after some minor peaks we would climb the Zinal Rothorn and then, following a rest day, the Dent Blanche. Then, of course, it must be Zermatt with the Matterhorn in mind, a traverse by the Zmutt ridge no less. Sadly, as with earlier plans for the Italian face of Mont Blanc, our ambitions in Switzerland were to be defeated by the weather conditions of that diabolical summer of 1954.
In spite of almost continuous bad weather we did succeed in climbing a few minor peaks but the only one that remains firmly in my mind is the Petit Dent de Veisivi. Again, it’s only a minor rock peak but there was nothing minor about our chosen route direct from the north. It was a route hardly referred to in the guide book and rarely climbed, but it turned out to be superb, clean, steep rock up to severe standard. It was one of those rare days when I felt supremely fit and in form. It was pure delight and I seemed to flow up the rock with the utmost ease. At the summit we met a guided party who had ascended by the traditional route. Thus ended my Alpine career.
georgespenceley4 