Number in series 70; Year of publication 1986 - Fell and Rock ...

112 THE NORTH-EAST SPUR OF THE DROITESmomentary gap in the cloud showed the couloir joining the ridge at aconspicuous notch, 500ft. above.Upward hopefully, with the ice gradually steepening, but the crampon trailleading reassuringly upward; and where others had gone, surely we couldfollow? Then came the retreat sling, complete with karabiner, at thepsychoplogical point where the couloir became too steep to hold ice. I don't liketo see karabiners on retreat slings; it suggests a touch of panic in its erstwhileowner. It was certainly working on me; especially as the weather gods, who hadobviously not studied the meteo forecast, chose this moment to start a steadysnowfall. The beetling walls ahead plus the falling snow around us started thatold 'hunted' feeling gnawing at my gut. As the strategist of the team I feltresponsible for the situation. If we could not gain the ridge, a bivouac in thestorm would follow, with the issue still unresolved, and then what tomorrow? Along-drawn-out descent? UGH!Getting a grip of my thoughts I tried to think objectively. It was still only 3o'clock and the ridge was no more than 200 ft. away. One good lead would crackit. I composed myself and by the time Dave arrived, looking his imperturbableself, I was able to indicate his next lead up a downright nasty pitch in anoffhand, casual manner.He removed his crampons and eased his way up the compact gully wall,moving diagonally leftwards towards the base of a broad chimney. The holdswere small, slicked in places with ice, and the rock yielded no protection. As therope ran out to half length, without a runner to interrupt its graceful arc, hecame to a bulge broken by a thin crack which looked crucial. My mind beganplaying the morbid game of'What happens if he falls off now?', and the part ofme that doesn't always enjoy Alpinism became positively unhappy. Then camethe reassuring clunk of a stopper entering a tailor-made crack, a quick step-upon a sling (what the hell! — this is the Alps) and it was all over bar the shouting.The wide chimney, designed for Gaston Rebuffat legs, gave some trouble butled to a big, secure ledge. The last 50ft. to the ridge crest was OK but for a onefootedquick change into crampons as we suddenly returned to the realms of ice.Thus released from our captivity, we dodged around gendarmes as the snowfell and the hunted feeling chased us along the clouded ridge faster than wearylegs wanted to go. Then within minutes the snow stopped, the clouds partedand an early evening sun beamed benignly on the magnificent cirque of theArgentiere glacier. Such is the human mind that not only did I stop worryingabout our situation, but there was even a slight pleasure factor creeping into thegame. Another diversion led us over the North Face again, now on easy but icyslopes, with one of the biggest voids in the range to aid concentration on thejob. Back to the ridge for the last time and at 7.30 p.m. we chose a bivouac siteamong sheltering rocks just short of the summit and settled down to await thebiting cold at 4000 metres. But it did not come; the temperature stayed abovefreezing point all night and a continual clatter of stonefall in the LagardeClimbing up to the Breche on the N.E. Spur of the Droites. G. Oliver 282