Name: Club Climbing Night
Start: 2026-09-03T18:00:00+01:00
End: 2026-09-03T21:00:00+01:00
Location: Dalkey Quarry

Mountain Memory II

(by Paddy O’Leary, from IMC Newsletter Autumn 2004)
A miraculous escape from a lightning storm on the Grépon in 1962.

Pádraig O’Halpin was almost forty when he started climbing; he smoked, and this was his first time in the Alps, so it was not surprising that we moved less quickly than was required on the Charmoz-Grépon traverse. Pádraig was an able climber and pioneer of new routes on Irish rock, besides being a likeable, complex individual. But, as we made our way up the Grade III and IV pitches of the SW face of the Charmoz, he struggled to move with the urgency required on a route which normally took 12 hours from Plan de l’Aiguille. By the time we had completed the Charmoz we were well behind schedule. Pádraig led the highly polished Mummery Crack in fine style, but I was too fretful about passing time to fully enjoy that historic pitch and the subsequent, exciting, exposed sections as we approached the Grépon’s North Summit. More importantly, I was not alert to weather conditions. We had just finished the delicate moves on the Rateau de Chèvre when an ominous rumble drew my eyes towards the nearby twin peaks of the Blaitière: a blinding lightning-stroke hit the nearer peak, followed by a loud crack and thunderous roar as looming, dark clouds swiftly engulfed not only the Blaitière but all the peaks of the Chamonix Aiguilles.

The storm would hit us in seconds. I tried to get Pádraig to move faster, whilst keeping the fear from my voice. We scrambled hastily along the next section, and had just reached the summit of the Grand Gendarme when a lightning stroke hit the Nth. Summit just behind us. We scrambled back down with the horrible, familiar, sulphurous smell of a high-tension discharge filling the air. We couldn’t have been in a worse place, caught as we were between two of the highest pinnacles on a long traverse, with near-vertical drops on either side, the one down to the Mer de Glace being over 2,000ft. Lightning continually hit towers and pinnacles all along the ridge. We sat, ignorant of the malevolent ways of lightning, with our backs against the Grand Gendarme, our feet dangling over the edge of a narrow ledge. Hail fell heavily, covering us quickly in a thick white mantle. Then, I heard – or did I feel? – the terrifying hiss as an electrical charge built up on our bodies. It seemed to me that the hiss came from the accumulation of hail so I flailed wildly, irrationally, at my chest, trying to brush it off. Pádraig looked on uncomprehendingly but I could see that he had caught my fear. The hissing went on, amplifying, winding up my fear. Then, we both gasped as a violent charge coursed through our bodies.

‘Oh, Good God’ Pádraig whispered, ‘what’ll we do’? I began to crawl for shelter towards a wide cleft in a pinnacle and was blinded by a stroke of lightning; its zig-zag line, as it shot down the cleft, remained imprinted on my unseeing retina for long seconds afterwards. When I could see again, I returned to where Pádraig sat, dazed and wide-eyed. Now that the build-up of fear had climaxed with the stunning charge, we both calmed down and peered with some optimism at what appeared to be a slight dissipation of the cloud cover. We even discussed how we should proceed when the storm eased.

Then, a crash of thunder, and a series of flashes which quickly came closer, silenced us as our fear built up again. The crack of electrical discharges, the simultaneous deafening detonation of thunder and the almost palpable odour of brimstone were together terrifying portents of the next inevitable charge. I held my nerve with great effort, partly to encourage Pádraig, partly out of self-respect. But I had never been so frightened. Suddenly, a tremendous sledge-hammer blow in the back; an excruciating internal agony followed by loud, twin moans as breath was driven from our bodies; and a quick descent into unconsciousness, told me I was dying. The ensuing few minutes (seconds?) can only be described and understood as an out-of-body experience in which so many dream-like things happened that I knew that this is what it meant to leave this life. But slowly I was drawn back to that ledge and the awareness that Pádraig too had been unconscious. ‘I thought I was dead’ he said quietly. We didn’t need to describe what had just occurred; we were both grateful that the other had somehow found his way back. Pádraig agonised for his family and brooded about his business responsibilities, which made me resentful. He had experienced a number of years of married happiness, I thought peevishly, while I was just a year married and my daughter was only two months old. Surely my need to live, and the likely pain of my family, were greater than his?

We gradually recovered our composure, empathised more with each other and nudged despair to the corners of our minds. But the gigantic, irresistible force of the storm was renewed and again approached from the direction of Mont Blanc. With each rapidly-approaching, explosive crash our fear mounted. I steeled myself with the knowledge that I had come safely through past alpine dangers, even thunder-storms, but Pádraig, who for years had not been a churchgoer, began to pray aloud and again referred to his family. I was a regular mass-goer and a typical Catholic of that time, but I regarded him with impatience and tried to calm him as his prayers became almost incoherent. The nearby pinnacles were again smote by strokes which seemed to split the dense cloud. I felt panic rise like gorge, threatening to suffocate me, and then, to my utter horror, I heard myself echoing Pádraig’s Acts of Contrition and mouthing pleas to God, to anything, any agency which would get us out of this terror. And then that sledge-hammer blow again as the electrical charge streamed down the rock from the summit of the Grand Gendarme. Our unconsciousness barely registered this time and could not have lasted more than a second or two. Our relieved, frightened laughter belied our fear and I recalled descriptions I had read of soldiers subjected to repeated, massive shelling, of their cycles of terror followed by relief, and then the renewed build-up of fear until brave men broke.

Somehow, the imperative to live asserted itself. I was ashamed of my earlier panic and aware that, in crossing that boundary, I had entered into other, previously unknown realms of experience. I realised that, in the throes of terror, I had yielded to superstition, to a willingness to ask for help from any source; a black cat, a rabbit’s foot would have been grasped as fervently as a miraculous medal or other amulet of my Catholic youth. An incipient, new self-knowledge was forming, a doubting of traditional verities, a whole new view of the world’s realities which was to develop further during the rest of that night, and during the weeks and years that followed. One result, I already knew, would be that I would never again bring to climbing that abandoned, carefree feeling of my youth; thoughts of those I cared for would impinge.

As the storm eased and then again began its inexorable, predatory stalk towards us, I was less afraid. An odd mixture of fatalism and a determination to rely on my own resources, replaced the earlier abjectness. For the fourth time an electrical charge spilled down from the tip of the Grand Gendarme and coursed through our bodies, but it lacked the intensity of what had gone before. The deafening roar, the sharp, sulphurous crack of lightning eased, and echoed, at a safe distance, from the summits of the Dru where our friends were climbing. It was getting late and it was imperative that we get to a safer place before darkness fell. We scrambled to the peak of the Grand Gendarme and attached a rope for abseiling. I reminded Pádraig of the guidebook’s admonition to stick to a groove on the Nantillon side in order to land in the next brèche, and watched him disappear into the misty gloom. I waited anxiously, crouching to make myself less of a lightning conductor. Ten minutes passed: there was no response to my shouts. The rope had not gone slack but, when I pulled, it slowly yielded about six or eight metres. Then I heard a faint shout. Above the wind and distant peals of thunder, Pádraig managed to inform me that he was stuck on a small, foot-sized ledge on the Mer de Glace face; he was below the level of the brèche and could get neither up nor down. I had little choice. Gambling on having enough slack to enable me to do so, I abseiled into the brèche while keeping Pádraig attached to the rope’s end. The ice-stiffened, hawser-laid rope now formed a sharp angle, with the abseil anchor and Pádraig at either end, and with me in the fork. Complicated manoeuvres followed, during which we had to cut the rope and managed to devise what we later learned to be an assisted hoist; during which Pádraig tied himself to the wrong rope, had a frightening fall (I thought it was to his death) and recovered with a desperate tenacity; and during which our determination to survive grew stronger.

It was dark when this struggle was over so we settled into a niche for the night. Periodically, we heard shouts which Pádraig was persuaded came from rescuers. He shouted ‘Au secour, mes amis!’ several times before being convinced that no help was forthcoming, that we should have to get out of this ourselves and that his shouts might confuse the other party. As we struggled interminably to keep warm during the long alpine night, and not to nod off for too long, we were charged once more – making five occasions in all – but this was a weak shock and just served to remind us that the storm could return. In the biting cold of the morning we were glad that the first few pitches were easy and included the wide, snow-covered Vire aux Bicyclettes, so that by the time we encountered difficulty we had warmed up. At the foot of the final summit tower we found the party whose shouts we had heard – a group of lightly-clad young French men and women, probably students, who had endured an even worse night than we had, trying to find shelter on an uneven ledge beneath the final pitch, the Z Crack. I got up that ice-filled crack, clawing at it, using knees, elbows, ice-axe – and a slightly demented resolve. On the summit platform I belayed as far as possible from a metal, conductive statue of the Virgin – a tidy metaphor for my new-found heresy – before looking after Pádraig . As he brought up the leader of the other party I threw our rope down the other side. I was on familiar ground here and was confident that we could extricate ourselves. Pádraig objected to our leaving the other party to its own devices, but I knew we had a struggle ahead and that the stronger Frenchmen seemed sufficiently competent.

When we eventually reached the fringes of Chamonix, Pádraig, newly returned to the fold, said, ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. I’m going to Mass.’

In fact, it turned out that we had lost track of time; next day was Monday and my friend sheepishly returned from church to the sympathetic laughter of this new-born agnostic.
Chere Couloir

(by Rob Madden, May 2008)
A climb on the North Face triangle of Mont Blanc du Tacul.

‘hello, can I help you?’; ‘Hello, Can I Help You?’; ‘HELLO, CAN I HELP YOU?!!’….I awoke with a sickly dread, believing that I was back in that terrible temp job, answering that phone over and over and over again.

Looking at the dark tent walls all around me and seeing Rob Kennedy curled deep inside his sleeping bag, a warm happy feeling washed over me. I was in fact sleeping in a tent pitched on the Vallée Blanche a million miles away from the humdrum of office life. So I snuggled back into my sleeping bag and rested peacefully knowing that in about an hour’s time I’d be getting up to attempt my first Alpine North face. The Chere Couloir on the North Face triangle of Mt Blanc du Tacul.

With a grade in or around Alpine D+ it’s that bit easier than most other North Face routes and it’s relatively short at about 300 metres. However, Both me and Rob K had little relevant Alpine and ice-climbing experience and knew that this would be a ‘giant leap’, the hardest thing we’ve ever done by some margin. We were both secretly hoping that a successful attempt would take the classic hard North Face routes off the ‘wish list’ and firmly onto the ‘to-do list’. Crawling from the tent at 05:30 I wasn’t feeling so brave and as with all Alpine starts, I seriously thought about chickening out!

Knowing Rob K would have none of it I slowly geared up and ventured out side. What a view! The night before, we had pitched the tent in a white-out barely being able to see my hand in front of my face. Now the clouds had all gone and I could see everything, crystal clear! The North Face triangle winked at me like a girl with ‘come hither’ eyes.

We didn’t even rope up as we crossed the Vallée Blanche to the base of the route. How bloody stupid was that! Maybe Rob K was afraid I’d change my mind if we stayed too long looking up at the triangle from our tent.

Arriving at the base of the Chere Couloir I had mixed feelings. There was already one party of two starting the second pitch and a party of three half way through the first. Both were moving well but I knew the hardest pitch lurked somewhere up above us. Rob K appointed me the first lead of the day, so without objecting I roped up and clambered/slipped/flopped over the Bergschrund. Realising that the last (and only) time I had ice climbed was for one day over a year and half ago I unmercifully started to front point my way up the entry slope, aiming for the safety of the rocks and fixed belay. About 10 metres to go Rob K shouted up to me saying I’d run out of rope and that we’d have to simul-climb to get to the rocks. While standing there on the sides of my crampons trying to relieve my aching calves I happened to look over my left shoulder and saw the sunrise behind the Grandes Jorasses. I wish I had the proper words to describe the feeling that washed over me, but needless to say, it was totally awesome and I’ll never forget it!

Arriving at the belay I was happy to find several pegs, tat and a big steel ring. In fact, all technical ice pitches on the Chere Couloir have fixed belays. Very welcoming indeed. Rob K was quick to arrive, change over and start on the second. Because of the parties above us we decided to cut some of the pitches short, thinking it better for the two of us to keep moving rather than wait until the coast was clear.

After a while, we had climbed about 4 pitches and the ice had gotten steadily steeper, 55 degrees, then 60 then 70. Because the Chere was so narrow and the fact that we were climbing with two ropes, we were able to put rock gear in either side of the couloir as well as ice screws in the couloir itself. Now we were faced with the crux of the route. A short, 80+ degrees piece of ice about 10 meters in length. Graded at about WI4/Scottish V this would certainly be the hardest ice climbing I’d ever done and since it was my lead I had better do it right! Starting out I placed an ice screw at shoulder height with the view of placing another one after a few metres and maybe another one just after the short steep passage. My attempts at placing the second (and crucial) screw were thwarted by thin ice. Less than a quarter way in and the screw struck rock. I cursed quietly to myself and attempted to screw in again, this time in deeper ice. Once again less than half way in I struck rock. At the same time I was getting spindrift falling thick and fast onto my face and down the back of my neck, as well as chunks of ice hacked off from the climbers above. This time I cursed loudly, VERY LOUDLY. Putting the ice screw back on my rack I gingerly climbed up to where the angle eased out dramatically, my Calf muscles burning with pain. Since I could see the belay chain ahead of me I just continued on to it, knowing that a fall from here would be the damn sore!

Rob K followed up, said ‘Jaysus, that was a hard one!’ and continued on. I agreed with Rob K.

Although the final ice pitch was not half as hard as the previous crux pitch I did get a scare when, approaching the belay chain, I encountered steep powder snow. It took me 20-30 minutes just to gain not even 10 metres of height. Up followed Rob K once more and two short and easy pitches later found us on a large ledge and an end of major difficulties.

We had done it! Well sort of. Some people abseil back down the route at this point or join the normal route via the snow slope descending to the West, but we decided to go on to the summit. We put one rope away and each took coils on the other. This was to be our first time moving together over mixed ground. Up until then I had been confused as to what ‘moving together’ actually involved. Questions such as, when to pitch? when not to pitch?, when to use an anchor?, how much gear to use? etc had kept me awake at night. But once we started moving, it became very obvious.

The two of us learned quickly that ‘moving together’ was all about using your common sense. There are no definitive answers to the above questions. It’s up to your level of experience, climbing ability, judgement, etc. Rob K led off first and as soon as I thought there was a reasonable, but not excessive, amount of slack between us I followed. Rob K placed the rope around spikes and put gear in whenever he felt necessary and as I followed I took out the gear and freed the rope from the spikes. When we came to a steep bit I threw a sling around a spike for an anchor and belayed Rob K until he was up, then he’d belay me up and we’d set off moving together again.

We moved quite well together, sometimes coming to a ‘dead end’ and having to reverse a few moves to get back onto the route, but no major errors. The mixed ground was mixed! I kept one axe close by and found myself constantly taking it out and putting it back again. Generally I found the whole experience very ‘educational’ and reckon we both made a decent effort for our first outing.

Finally we came to a clearing that presented us with the final snow slope to the summit ridge. By this time we had been on the go for about 8 hours, I felt hot in the afternoon sun and was getting a bit agitated. A small down climb on solid flakes led us onto the snow slope and I regret to say I chickened out from going second, asking Rob K to lower me on the rope and for him to go down after me. By the time we reached the base of the snow slope I was shit scared! I was afraid that the snow wasn’t solid enough and we both reckoned that the margin of error was tiny because it was steep and narrow. The great hanging glacier route topped out to our left and big crevasses were to our right. If one of us lost our footing here we could be in BIG TROUBLE! On the verge of panic we took in more coils and started up the slope. I had taken out my two axes and very quickly found myself holding both axes by the shaft near the head, burying them into crap powder snow whilst my feet were dug in up to there calves; when Rob K shouted out ‘Jaysus, this is a suicide pact!’ I think I began to cry! Thankfully, near the top (and the steepest section) the constant scouring of the wind had created good ice so we quickly climbed up onto the safety of the ridge.

Phew! I can only remember the other time I was that scared is when, leading Notorious in Dalkey I pulled up over the crux onto the sloping arête and accidentally pulled out the crucial piece of protection with my foot!

Continuing directly to the summit was impossible because of massive crevasses blocking our path. We’d have to traverse just below it, gain the West Flank and then walk to the summit using the last section of the normal route. At this stage our interest in reaching the actual summit had evaporated so we decided to do the traverse to the West Flank and descend via the normal route. Of course with all Alpine undertakings it’s true to say that you’re only half way there when you reach the summit; you still have to descend. The walk down the normal route was uneventful but I felt the traverse under the summit was a bit edgy. Stepper than I would have liked and there was definitely a small section that we had to down-climb on sloppy loose snow.

Finally, after over 12 hours on the go we made it back to our tent on the Vallée Blanche. Sunburnt, dehydrated and tired I chuckled to myself, thanking the Tacul for letting us away with it. While Rob K opened the guidebook to see what would be next, I was quite happy to put a very satisfying ‘tick’ beside the Chere Couloir.

Essential Gear
Sharp Technical Axes and Crampons. 2 60m half ropes, 6 Ice screws, Nuts sized 3-9, 6-8 extenders, a few slings and crabs and personal gear.

Access and places to stay
Get the Téléphérique up to the Midi and walk down to the Valée Blanche. You’re not really supposed to camp there but everyone does. You can also stay in the Cosmiques hut; the Abri Simond is open in Winter.
MCI Meet, Arolla 99

(by Donald Gill, from IMC Newsletter Autumn 1999)
A trip to the Alps for the MCI meet.

Donald and Mary

The Air Engadina aeroplane from Geneva was late in arriving at Dublin. When it landed it was not a powerful jet but a Dornier twin engine turbo prop with a yellow tail. It seated 30 passengers when full. The flight should be interesting! There were several MCI participants for the Alpine Meet on this flight and we were all overweight. Backpacks overflowed with tents, beds, ropes, climbing gear and more gear of every conceivable kind for alpine survival and comfort in camp. "No excess baggage charge this time" said the Swiss check-in girl, but "you will be charged excess on the way home". The two and a half hour flight was exceptionally smooth and lunch was washed down by a couple of glasses of complimentary champagne. Life was bliss at 26,000 feet, or twice our expected climbing (in boots) height! The train terminus was under the Geneva airport. The Milan express followed the shore of Lac Léman and up the wide Rhône valley between snow-capped mountains. We got out at Sion but the last bus to Arolla had already departed. However a yellow Post Bus brought us part way up the valley to Les Haudères. The driver kindly telephoned ahead for a minibus and trailer for the final leg of the journey to the campsite. We arrived at sunset and quickly erected tents.

Arolla is in the Valais area of Switzerland, in the southwest, where French is the spoken language. It is about 35 km up a valley on the south side of Sion and has an official altitude of 1998m. The campsite is in the valley below the village. It is surrounded by towering snow-covered mountain, with many glaciers hanging in suspense on their downward journey with their blue green melt water tumbling down the valley. Settling in was easy and clear blue skies on that first day enticed one to explore the village with its wooden chalets and to consult guide books and maps over a cool drink outside one of the small chalet hotels.

Glacial training

There were about 80 MCI members in the campsite with a large proportion out on the mountains at any one time. Frank Nugent, Chairman of MCI, had arranged a glacial training course for those in need. On Sunday the first group set off for a nearby glacier and were divided into groups of 5/6. Our instructors were Dawson Stelfox, Calvin Torrans, Robbie Fenlon and Murray Hamilton. I was with Dawson who quickly put us through our paces walking and climbing up and down the icy slopes with crampons and ice axes, and also cutting ice steps without crampons. From there we learned to climb ice cliffs with an ice axe and an ice hammer – suitably top-roped with ice belays screwed on to the top of the cliffs. Using the same cliffs we practised crevasse rescue technique with victims acting conscious and able to assist, and unconscious and dead weight. A system of pulleys using crabs and prusik brakes was quite effective but very hard work if the victim was unconscious – we earnestly hoped that our climbing partners would avoid falling into a crevasse! Finally the six of us roped up to practise moving together on the ice. It was time to put the lesson into practice and to hit the high Alps!

On the following day, Dick Delaney, Mary Reilly and myself headed for the Cabane des Dix at 2928m. This was quite an exhausting trek as we were feeling the altitude on the steep track to Pas de Chèvres at 2855m that overlooked the hut. The scenery was truly breathtaking with mountains all around. The route to the hut from the pass was down 20m of vertical steel ladder, along a very rocky track and across a wide, but gently sloping glacier. A steep track brought us to the hut where gear was hung up in the large hallway and we registered with the warden. The trek was over 5 hours from the campsite. There was time to relax before dinner which comprised soup and delicious chicken curry. Most of the hundred-odd residents retired to the dormitories early and the alarm was set for 05.00

The first alpine route was very memorable. At the suggestion of Frank Nugent we climbed La Luette, a peak beyond the hut at 3548m. The guide book referred to a track up a shoulder but this was obliterated by late snow. The pre dawn light reflected in shades of pink and yellow on the snowy mountains all around. We decided to contour towards the main glacier where two Belgium climbers were ahead of us and moving easily. Again we felt the effects of altitude and we were very glad to reach the snow-covered arête leading to the summit where we clasped hands in jubilation and took time to admire the view that was slowly closing in from the south-east. Time to go! We roped up for the descent and agreed that we should have roped up for the climb up the glacier and along the arête as a slip here would have been curtains. Forget ice-axe arrests in the Alps! The hut was a welcome food stop before continuing on down the valley to Arolla. The importance of an early start and early return were appreciated as the surface of the snow and ice had softened in the heat of the midday sun. There is greater security in climbing up or down frozen ice and snow in crampons.

The alpine system had evolved and our next route was up another glacier to Cabane des Vignettes at 3160m that was a base to climb Pigne d’Arolla at 3772m. This Alp towered over the campsite that unfortunately was hidden by cloud on the summit. However there were wonderful views on the way up and down the steep glacier overlooking the hut. Our performance at altitude was improving with each climb and this was assisted by adopting an alpine pace, suitably slow with few stops. The highest hut we visited was Cabane des Bertal at 3311m. This was a long slog up steep tracks from the Arolla valley Again a steep glacier led to a steep col with the hut perched high above it on a rock. It was approached by a rocky ledge with a chain support, followed by three ladders. The lady warden welcomed us at the top where we were exhausted and were glad to take ropes and gear off. We were aware the weather forecast was very bad and we just arrived in time before it started to snow. It snowed all night and hopes of climbing a couple of nearby peaks were dashed. Only 10 persons stayed in the hut that night out of a possible 70. Bad weather even deters the expert climbers! Down we went in the morning carefully picking our path down the glacier and the steep zig-zag track down rocks and grit to the valley floor.

Rock climbing was a popular spare-time activity with many of the MCI gang. There were crags quite near to the campsite and occasional large boulder the size of a double decker bus and bigger. These all had fixed rings on top and bolts to which one attached crabs and extenders on the way up. Further up the valley there were multi-pitch climbs, again with bolts. Swiss and French parents rear their young children on these boulders. I had signed on for a one-day course in Dublin and my instructor was Calvin Torrans. His general tuition was excellent on local climbing systems and general rope technique, but a full day on rock makes one weary. And that was a rest day! Alas there was insufficient time to climb crags and Alps. However, Frank Power, Dermot Dignam, Tom Fahy and Conor Burns were regular visitors to the crags. They were later joined by John Guy, who was warming up in a secret location in the French Alps. They completed some classic routes to the summits of Aiguille de la Tsa, a pinnacle overlooking the campsite, and l’Évêque, a mystical sharp peak behind Pigne d’Arolla. Conor also had time to run a secret escort agency on some rock routes and only lost his way once!

Towards the end of the second week Mary Reilly and myself made a second trip to the Dix hut with the aim of climbing Mount Blanc de Cheilon at 3869m. This was to be the last route and expectations were high. The journey to the hut was completed in two hours less than the first trip, reflecting better acclimatisation and fitness. At 04.00 the following morning more than half of the hut was up and scrambling for equipment and breakfast – pure bedlam! We set off in the pre-dawn light along a rough track on top of a moraine before roping up to climb the Cheilon glacier to the col. The route up the ridge from the col was difficult with a mixture of loose and icy rock, and a very steep glacier leading up to the snow-covered crest. A long arête of snow and rock led to the summit. Almost there! But there was a danger of being last on the mountain with a difficult descent. Prudence ruled in the guise of a Swiss mountain guide who was leading a small party of young teenagers all roped up. He agreed to let us follow him down the difficult rocky ridge onto the steep glacier. The ease and confidence of their moving together over rock and glacier made me realise that there is a long way to go to being the expert alpinist.

As we packed up gear for the journey home we said farewell to our many new, and not so new companions. A few had departed for Zermatt to have a crack at the Matterhorn. Some others transferred camp to Chamonix where Mont Blanc beckoned. We’ll be back! (And we escaped a baggage surcharge again – thank you Aer Engadina!)
The MCI Meet in Bregaglia

(from the IMC Newsletter Autumn 2001)
Climbing and craic at the 2001 MCI alpine meet.

The camp site in Vicosoprano is billed by the Swiss Tourist Board as a quiet, scenic place, ideal for family sojourns in the cool mountain air…. This year’s meet, while not being exactly raucous every night, did shake things up a bit, leaving the more restrained Europeans wondering how the usually precise Swiss got it so wrong.

An impressive array of late night challenges took place; such as the ‘walk holding a coin between your buttocks and drop it into a small cup’, the ‘pick up a coin off the ground with your teeth with only one hand and one foot touching the ground’ and the classic ‘how close can you come to alcohol poisoning without having your stomach pumped’. An act of immense bravery and testosterone was performed by one participant who calmly consumed a cricket and a slug much to the disgust and delight of spectators. Even more amusing was the posse of headtorch-wearing huntsmen who beat the grasses in search of the sacrificial bugs. I also witnessed a striptease which was surprisingly good despite the awful vocal accompaniment. Unfortunately for the talented stripper it ended in a painful-looking wedgey – some audiences are just so hard to please.

Fireworks, being legal to the sensible Swiss and a great novelty to us Irish, were a feature of most nights in varying degrees. Budding pyrotechnics had to compete with a backdrop of lightning and thunder and they also had to overcome the immutable rain. Taking these factors into account, there were some pretty good displays and perhaps the late-night noise helped clean any potential avalanches off the slopes for early morning climbers.

Water was a major issue at this year’s meet particularly in the first week It bucketed incessantly. If it wasn’t raining it was precipitating in some other way and on some days it rained so hard you got wet twice; once as the rain fell down and for the second time as it bounced off the ground. Not great climbing conditions but the crickets thrived, proving there’s a silver lining in every thunderstorm; you just have to be the right species to benefit.

The inordinate amounts of H2O resulted in many climbers retreating from routes. Nonetheless it did little to dampen the spirits of the attending mountaineers. Many classic routes were completed and the extra downtime in the camp site was busily filled with cooking, drinking, eating, drinking, gear checking, drinking and of course the great sport of talking-about-climbing and did I mention drinking?

On the climbing front, recognition must go to Nigel Callender for completing the first traverse of the glacial pond at the bottom of the camp site, an interesting and varied climb, now graded Severe. As the route is no higher than four meters, protection is not necessary, although falling guarantees the unfortunate climber a plunge in a freezing pond and possibly a cheer from the local onlookers.

As with all good climbing experiences there were a few hairy moments. I myself dangled a full leg in the mouth of a crevasse, had a close shave with a falling ice axe and was forced to drop my cacks along with my harness to pee on a minuscule ledge with gliders swooping about overhead (talk about exposure). One team had an unplanned bivouac due to bad visibility on the Bellavista Terraces on route to Piz Bernina. Despite what must have been a very long, very cold night the group arose the following morning, shook themselves off and with better weather conditions continued on, completing the 4,000+ metre peak. Other than that, a few ankles were sprained in minor incidents but thankfully no participant received a genuine Darwin award.

Good reports were received of the alpine and rock climbing courses. Perhaps I will go on one next year, it would be useful to know some proper crevasse rescue should the rest of my body follow that leg. Until then I’ll just stick to the ultimate adrenalin sport of discussing great climbing and maybe even some buttock tiddly-winks.

A big huge thanks must go to the organisers Robbie Fenlon and all at the MCI office for the behind-the-scenes work that goes into the event. Personally, I completed some great mountains, backed off some great mountains and met some inspiring people. I thoroughly enjoyed the beauty of the area, the varied routes it offered and in no small way, the camp site craic.

The North Ridge of the Piz Bernina, 4,049m
(minus the rain!)
We got off with a warning

(by Frank Winder, from the IMC Journal Winter 1952)
An ascent of the Aiguille du Peigne, 3.192m, by the Chamonix face and the SW arête, finishing by the upper part of the NW face.

The sky was clear and starry as we started from Montenvers at 3.15, but the stars had faded and the eastern horizon was already pink when we reached the Plan de l’Aiguille hut and began the trying trudge up the moraine. We had had not allowed ourselves enough time for the start from the more distant hut, or for the inevitable mistakes on a strange moraine. So the day had dawned long before we strapped on our crampons at the foot of the Chamonix face of the Peigne.

More time was wasted on difficult rock, because we did not like the look of the loose couloir which we should have taken. However. we soon regained the correct route and, climbing together, started ascending a groove running diagonally across the steep slabs which make up the lower portion of the magnificent, two thousand foot high face. Mixed climbing for some seven hundred feet brought us around to the west side of a gendarme in the middle of the face. (According to the guide-book, we should have passed to the East of this pinnacle). A steep couloir and easy ledges brought us to the 3043m. Brèche in the SW arête.

Here we had breakfast — our last meal until 2.30 the next morning. It was distressingly late (about 11 a.m.). Three on a rope was proving far too slow for an expedition like this. Consequently we decided not to take the direct route up the remaining third of the face, but instead to climb the SW arête which bordered it on the right. This was no easier, but offered opportunities of escape should time run out.

As we started the arête we realised that continuous climbing would be impossible from now on. I volunteered for the middle of the rope and carrying the luggage, leaving Peter and André at the ends to share leads. The ridge reared itself up with disturbing steepness and a succession of vertical cracks and chimneys, of grades IV and V, tried the mettle of the whole party. One steep, exposed, and delicate slab, with a piton half-way up, was outstandingly tricky. After a couple of hours of this we traversed to the left to reach a large platform below the final 100 feet, which ran up the steep NW ‘facette’.

The weather had been looking uncertain for some time, and now black storm clouds were boiling up from the South, over the Aiguille du Midi. Soon they would reach us, and distant thunder suggested that their arrival would not be pleasant. Speed was imperative. André launched himself up the Lepiney Crack (V), which ran up the almost vertical wall, slanting out over a frightening drop. A piton and a minute stance enabled him to bring Peter up, who then ascended a horrible open chimney (V). A short, pitoned artificial pitch and a difficult groove led to the summit.

Back on the platform again, a series of abseils brought us into the Peigne-Pelerins Couloir —the normal route for the Peigne. It was now 3.30, and the storm had arrived. Very heavy rain and sleet made climbing difficult, while the mountain seemed to shake with fear as crash after crash of thunder exploded above us. In an hour we had arrived at a spot near where the snow-filled back of the couloir had to be crossed. Waterfalls threatening to sweep us away now roaring down every groove in the mountain, while the air hummed with flying stones. For twenty minutes we sheltered, and shivered, under an overhang while we peered through the mist and sleet at the far side of the couloir, where the next portion of our route 1ay. We did not know the way exactly, but hoped we could find it. Very steep, and with black mud flowing menacingly over the rocks, what we could see did not attract us; but it was the quickest way down, and night was fast approaching. We decided on a dash. We stumbled one by one through a waterfall, watching for flying stones, stopped for a second under another rock, and then together made for the snow- filled back of the couloir. We had moved only a few steps when the thunder of a hundred trains coming down the couloir stopped us dead. Great black boulders came leaping out of the mist above, followed by others bigger and more numerous. Deafened and appalled we watched them pour down the snow ribbon on which we would have been a few seconds later. A few stragglers bounded towards us, dropped at our feet, and then joined their companions in that devil’s race down the couloir. Crossing the couloir was out. Anyway, the whole of the far side had been raked.

Despair as black as the near-approaching night seemed about to descend when an almost hopeless suggestion of mine — that we should cross over to the Chamonix face and descend the way we had come — was leaped at by Peter, who raced up the rocks towards the 3043 m. Brèche in the SW arete. André and I followed as another great stone-fall came down the couloir. This time the stragglers which bounded towards us had found our range, and we left the place gladly. The Brèche was quickly reached, and our chances seemed brighter — but André announced that he was almost incapacitated by stomach cramp. However he kept going and soon had plenty of other worries to help him keep his mind on other things. Nevertheless the remainder of the descent must have been a severe strain on him.

We started to fight our way across the Chamonix face. How different from the morning. Fresh snow covered everything, making the climbing highly treacherous. We were wet, cold, hungry, tired, and it was all we could do to keep moving mechanically, unthinkingly. Peter, though, had just that bit of external cheerfulness which kept despair a pitch behind . the party, but even he must have felt the same horrible uncertainty under it all. We decided against the morning’s couloir, expecting to strike that described in the guide-book instead. Too late we realised that we had missed it in the dusk and were committed to one which diagonalled across the whole face, and then dropped sheer down the North face. We left it for steep and difficult rocks on the left, hoping to be able to spot a break which would enable us to force a way back to the familiar route before night closed in completely. Horribly steep, overlapping slabs made this impossible, and after another couple of hundred feet the arrival of pitch darkness found us on a tiny ledge surrounded by hopeless precipices.

With difficulty we regained the couloir which was as steep as ever. Abseiling it had to be. Our whole two hundred feet of rope was used. As I swung down into blackness I realised that if I couldn’t find a stance and abseiling spike before I reached the end of the rope my number was up. I couldn’t climb the hundred feet up the thin rope. As we had no safety line the boys couldn’t help me — even if they had the strength left. However, a ledge and spike were found, and the others followed. The rope came down — we had now no line left for slings and just were hoping that it wouldn’t stick. Three more descents into darkness — our lamp had given out — and my feet touched snow. I was not too tired to cheer. This last time the rope did stick, and Peter ascended twenty feet to free it. Coming down again, the rope slipped off the knob on which he had placed it. He fell only a few feet, but if it had happened higher up… We found later that the rope had been cut in two places — a slight pull and it parted.

The bergschrund and the trudge down the glacier had few terrors, but the interminable moraines were just hell to our exhausted minds and bodies. The plod along the track to Montenvers was mechanical, but seemingly endless. We arrived at 2 a.m., after twenty- three hours hard going. Our dormitory was full of French tourists. When they objected to our disturbing them by getting some food, I was too tired to translate my envenomed language into French. However, they seemed to understand what I meant.

“Il y a également un musée à Zermatt. Ou plutôt une morgue, car tout ce dont le cimetière n’a pas voulu, on l’a rassemblé ici sous des vitrines impitoyablement astiquées. Débris innommables, touffes de cheveux décolorés, bribes d’étoffe, boutons de culotte en six morceaux, le tout de provenance. Killed on the Matterhorn.

Naturellement, l’une des cordes de Whymper (Whymper avait au moins dix-huit cordes le jour de la conquête du Cervin) et un oeuf.” Samivel.

Mountain Memory II

Chere Couloir

MCI Meet, Arolla 99

The MCI Meet in Bregaglia

We got off with a warning