Brought to a sudden and abrupt awakening by the blasting of our alarm pumping Bloc Party into the quiet early morning silence, I lay quietly basking in the cloying warmth of the sleeping bag confidently contemplating the inevitability of the ascent of our first big mountain. This was to be our first alpine peak, a training peak, a starter for bigger and better things to come. Described in the guidebook as a popular and well-trodden beginner’s route, easily completed within five hours; visible from our never-ending approach right up the glacier on the previous day it had seemed exactly that; easy and short. Reluctantly, I leave the comfort of the bag, hurriedly pile clothes on and emerge from the tent into the cool crisp glacial air. To my left, Duncan and Andy are stirring in their bivy bags. Behind them the sun is just breaking over the highest mountain in the region, it’s light; warm and golden spills gently down the snowline lighting up the entire mountain. It is very beautiful, and very fleeting. Olly emerges from the tent behind me, sleep still in his eyes - it’s probably still in mine. A few jokes are exchanged as we begin to stuff our packs with all the rubbish we think we might need up on the hill. Once we’re prepared we wolf down a hasty breakfast snack of pain au chocolate and some glacial water and start pulling on our crampons, ready to go. Andy and Duncan are up; they plan on doing the same route as us, but will be a completely independent climbing team so I doubt whether we will see them that much today given our earlier start than them. Hoisting our bags over our backs, Olly and I look up at the foreshortened mountain - still dark in the early morning dawn - and set off to conquer our first alpine peak.
The ascent turns out to be exhausting for us both, but technically quite easy and thoroughly uneventful. Exhausting for Olly because of his lack of hill walking muscles (being more defined along the developed upper-body rock climbing physique) and I because of the altitude come sunstroke I was still suffering from the previous days ascent. Thus progress was somewhat slow as we meandered our way up the sloping ice fields, stopping frequently to get our breath back and drink in the scenery, only to then push ourselves further up the mountain against all the signals from our aching and over laden bodies. Duncan and Andy, much fitter and acclimatized than ourselves, overtook us relatively early on and had disappeared out of sight around a rock buttress. We temporarily get held up by another party’s retreat and down climb in a narrow and steeply inclined snow gully. But the hold up gives us a thorough rest, and once the other party had moved past Olly attacks the ice gully with vigour, leading the entire pitch with ease. And then we are on the col, looking down the other side of the mountain to the valley on the other side. It is another 40 minutes to the summit, but this time on easy rock, which through of our endless hours spent climbing in Welsh quarries, poses absolutely no problems whatsoever and before I knew it, we are standing along with Andy and Duncan on the ridgeline summit. It is nine o’clock; we took only two hours to get here.
It all seemed so easy; my main preoccupation at this point was what I was going to do back at our glacier camp for all the hours of daylight remaining having brought no books or anything to keep myself occupied. However, I should have taken the situation more seriously as it was our decision making at the summit that created the epic that we subsequently had to suffer through. Disliking the idea of returning the same way that we had come up, we collectively resolved to descend the other side of the ridge, which the guidebook assured was a route. Yet because Duncan and Andy had not brought any rock gear we would have to work as a four, one team leading and leaving our gear placed along the pitches so the other team could move swiftly over the ground using our gear and removing it when the last person went past it. The problem, as we did find out, is that this method is slower than anticipated, as the lead team still has to wait for the very last person to return all the gear once the leader had run out. The ridge was awkward, with very little places for four of us to even stand to pass the gear between us. Progress slowed to a crawl. The ridge was so much longer than we had expected; each time I saw an edge of the ridge that could not be seen past, I longingly hoped that over it, there would be a slope that would lead meanderingly back to the glacier and thus back to camp. We were denied such a blessing; each time we reached these edges all they yielded was yet more ridgeline, more rock, more climbing. We hadn’t expected to be up here this long! My water had run out at the summit and now the sun, bearing down mercilessly from it zenith in the cloudless sky, was causing a racking thirst and making our body sluggish and mind irritable. Indeed it was happening to all of us, sharp exchanges began to flair and everyone sensed that we were losing of control of the situation. We have to get down! I have to drink!
We begin to lose our way. An argument erupts between me and Olly over whether we should lead down the melting snow ramps that wind around the ridge over the exposed 1000ft north face or else descend down a shattered gully on the south side to a likely looking spire from which it may be possible to abseil safely, and hopefully down to the snowline. After a few sharp words we end up taking the abseil. The gully leading to the spire we wished to abseil off is steep and completely composed of shattered rocks. I am the first one lowered down – a blessing as I have the security of a rope above me in case I fall - which nearly happens when a foothold peals away underneath my weight, seriously shaking me off balance. I reach the spire; a big, apparently sturdy, spike of rock – looking down I can see a snowfield that stretches seemingly right down to the glacier. This is our way down! I throw the rope around the spire and then clip it back to my harness, securing me to the rock. Now the others have to get down, it is a slow, slow pitch. Olly and Duncan have a much tougher time getting down, as they do not have the security of a rope above them and any slip would mean a 50ft fall past me and down the wretched gully below. At long last after, we all end up awkwardly placed around the jutting rock, waiting as each person slowly descends out of view below.
It takes a further hour to finally complete the abseil, miraculously without anybody getting hit by any of the several tonnes of debris we unearthed through our movements. The time at this point is around two o’clock, seven hours since we first set out. We all thought that once we had got off the ridgeline and the rock, back onto snowfields we would be down at camp within the hour. From our new perspective we found that this wasn’t going to happen. It would be another gruelling three hours before we would eventually stumble exhausted, sunburnt and dehydrated back to the relative comfort of our sleeping bags and to the blissful embrace of a well-earned sleep. But for now we have to keep moving; Andy prepares the abseil whilst Olly get ready to lead the next pitch. Once more we set off, winding our way down, off this immense mountain.
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