all of which reminds me of a trip to The Ben in the early 1960s:
…despite continuing bad weather, I went out in the afternoon with Barry Taylor, who hadn’t previously done much winter climbing. He wrote about it, saying, “We made our way to the Little Brenva Face with no intentions of doing any serious climbing. We didn’t even have crampons with us. Curtains of mist swallowed up the hut as we picked our way in solitude over boulders and across patches of snow that was becoming heartbreakingly sludgy due the fine drizzle. Although we could only see seventy feet or so in any direction we finally took a chance, how big a chance we didn’t yet know, to go for the summit.
Tony led the first pitch and I followed over a small crevasse and up a reasonably hard bit of rock to reach a sloping ice covered stance and belay on a peg hammered in between rock and ice. As Tony led on into the mist, I realised that the drizzle was not only making conditions desperate, but water was finding its way down my neck, up my sleeves and in though my cheap ex-army duvet which was soaking up water like a sponge. Whilst following the next pitch and trying to pass an off-balance move on some rock, there was a deep rumbling sound above. A distant ‘plane maybe? Or thunder? Then Tony shouted down, “Avalanche! Hurry up”. Luckily it passed us by and I reached the belay which was a sling that kept falling off a rock knob, and an axe stuck in snow like porridge. Tony went up again over snow and a blue ice bulge into which he hammered a couple of rock pegs that fell out immediately after he moved up. Avalanches were still coming down but he said the next belay was in a safer place.
It was, so we had our bit of food and some brandy. The mist was clearing, so we made for a ridge on the left, crossing a snow chute beneath dodgy looking cornices that were now in sight above. We reached the ridge in two more pitches, a harsh freezing wind hitting us as we climbed onto the edge, moving together on wind- crusted ice where crampons would have halved our time, a nerve wracking experience. Up on the top, whilst Tony was looking for his compass, I was fascinated by the noise made by the frozen surface of my duvet rattling in the wind. Descending, we found Number 3 Gully, but it looked bad, so we moved on to Number 4 which provided a splendid glissade. What a fabulous feeling, shooting down through the mist between the black walls of the gully. It had been a good day out after all. We discovered later that we had probably climbed Slalom, one of Ian Clough’s routes.”
Of course you could have made a connection with Thomas Mann, but The Magic Mountain isn't really a mountaineering book…
One other tenuous connection I can think of is Fritjof Nansen; the crossing of Greenland was more than a bit mountain-y. But very far removed from the work that earned him the Peace Prize.
all of which reminds me of a trip to The Ben in the early 1960s:
…despite continuing bad weather, I went out in the afternoon with Barry Taylor, who hadn’t previously done much winter climbing. He wrote about it, saying, “We made our way to the Little Brenva Face with no intentions of doing any serious climbing. We didn’t even have crampons with us. Curtains of mist swallowed up the hut as we picked our way in solitude over boulders and across patches of snow that was becoming heartbreakingly sludgy due the fine drizzle. Although we could only see seventy feet or so in any direction we finally took a chance, how big a chance we didn’t yet know, to go for the summit.
Tony led the first pitch and I followed over a small crevasse and up a reasonably hard bit of rock to reach a sloping ice covered stance and belay on a peg hammered in between rock and ice. As Tony led on into the mist, I realised that the drizzle was not only making conditions desperate, but water was finding its way down my neck, up my sleeves and in though my cheap ex-army duvet which was soaking up water like a sponge. Whilst following the next pitch and trying to pass an off-balance move on some rock, there was a deep rumbling sound above. A distant ‘plane maybe? Or thunder? Then Tony shouted down, “Avalanche! Hurry up”. Luckily it passed us by and I reached the belay which was a sling that kept falling off a rock knob, and an axe stuck in snow like porridge. Tony went up again over snow and a blue ice bulge into which he hammered a couple of rock pegs that fell out immediately after he moved up. Avalanches were still coming down but he said the next belay was in a safer place.
It was, so we had our bit of food and some brandy. The mist was clearing, so we made for a ridge on the left, crossing a snow chute beneath dodgy looking cornices that were now in sight above. We reached the ridge in two more pitches, a harsh freezing wind hitting us as we climbed onto the edge, moving together on wind- crusted ice where crampons would have halved our time, a nerve wracking experience. Up on the top, whilst Tony was looking for his compass, I was fascinated by the noise made by the frozen surface of my duvet rattling in the wind. Descending, we found Number 3 Gully, but it looked bad, so we moved on to Number 4 which provided a splendid glissade. What a fabulous feeling, shooting down through the mist between the black walls of the gully. It had been a good day out after all. We discovered later that we had probably climbed Slalom, one of Ian Clough’s routes.”
How old fashioned - not just in the bracing levels of danger, but brandy at the stance!
Dunno about old fashioned, but why brandy?! Neither of us were big drinkers, nor could we afford brandy - how did that happen I wonder?
Great read.
Of course you could have made a connection with Thomas Mann, but The Magic Mountain isn't really a mountaineering book…
One other tenuous connection I can think of is Fritjof Nansen; the crossing of Greenland was more than a bit mountain-y. But very far removed from the work that earned him the Peace Prize.