Shattered dreams and sun-drenched rock

I carefully moved up, inching my foot nervously forwards, trying to avoid showering Will and Rachel with scree. It seemed futile - the gully was full of loose rock and grit almost to knee level and the slightest movement set off a mini avalanche. Every promising looking handhold simply snapped off as I gripped it, the cams I'd placed seemed like a cruel joke. I wiped my brow in an attempt to stem the streams of sweat trickling down my forehead and stinging my eyes. This was not the Alpine vision I'd been sold, I reflected bitterly. We hadn't even meant to be climbing this mountain.

We'd spent so long planning a trip that was both ambitious for a first Alpine holiday yet well within our grasp if things went well. Adam, Rachel, Will and myself were headed to the Arolla region of the Swiss Alps, a popular training ground for novice alpinists. Our plans had been carefully laid over several months; a campsite chosen, ferries booked, routes picked, maps and gear purchased, alpine clubs joined, techniques practiced. We were intending to climb Mont Blanc de Cheilon, a mighty pyramidal peak frowning over several glaciers and Aiguille de la Tsa, a sharp rocky spire thrusting into the heavens above the village of Arolla. Despite appearances, both of these peaks should have been attainable.

The magnificient Mont Blanc de Cheilon from the Dix Hut.

We were even considering heading over to Chamonix and having a crack at the Cosmiques Arete, if all went to plan. And how could it not? Will's insurance was booked ahead of time, my satnav couldn't take us anywhere near Strasbourg and we were packed and on our way to Dover in great time on the Friday. The only dark cloud on the horizon was the threat of bad weather suggested by the long term forecast. But mountain weather is unpredictable, and long-term forecasts are nearly always wrong... Right?

Things started going wrong long before. No sooner had we made it to France then I started to feel rather uncomfortable indeed. As we headed across France and into Switzerland, the level of discomfort and the frequency of required stops increased. No one will ever know the truth now, but my suspicions lie with the Burger King at Dover ferry port!

Nonetheless, it's hard not to get excited when the big mountains are growing larger through the windscreen. After rounding Lake Geneva, we caught up with Adam and Rachael in the Sion Valley by a roadside crag where, shirtless in the baking sun (and sandwiched by urgent loo breaks), I followed Will up a baking hot sport route to bag the first tick of the holiday.

The following day, while the others headed up to the Ferpècle Glacier to acclimatise and practice crevasse rescue, I sat in the tent reading a book and listening to the rain hammering down outside, too weak to move far and afraid to move too far away from the toilet in any case. Later, things began to look up. A three day weather window was opening and I was feeling strong enough to at least trek up to the hut, so we broke camp, packed bags and cars and embarked on the grueling march up to the Dix Hut carrying food, climbing gear, clothes and hut stuff for two days.

As the trail wound up through alpine meadows, the peaks reared up around us and the scenery became ever more impressive until we reached a final col and the view expanded to encompass Mont Blanc de Cheilon and it's glacier. The Dix Hut, perched atop a ridge of rock above the glacier, appeared as a tiny speck in the distance. To reach it we still had to descend a series of ladders from the col, pick our way carefully down the tumbled screes, cross the glacier (avoiding a dip in the rivers winding their way across the surface) and negotiate the medial moraine. After one final, exhausting slog up the ridge we were finally at the Dix Hut and able to grab a drink and cool off, enjoy the surroundings (and in my case, dash to the loo!)

One of the many rivers winding across the surface of the glacier. Beautiful, but another hazard to be carefully negotiated!

Our plan was to stay two nights in the hut, tackling Mont Blanc du Cheilon in one long day followed by La Luette, a lower and easier peak on the second before heading back down to the valley. Our plans suffered a severe setback that evening while packing for the next day, when Adam discovered to his horror that he had left his crampons safely in the van back down in the valley. For someone with a reputation for being squeaky clean and super efficient, his wounded pride must have been at least as difficult to bear as the thought of a day lost. Rachael, Will and I decided to instead tackle La Luette as a 3 on the next day since logistically it made more sense to climb Mont Blanc du Cheilon as two ropes of two. Secretly I was relieved as my full strength had not yet returned, and I had doubts about my ability to perform in the state I was in. There was the added advantage of avoiding the 4am start time and opting for a slightly more civilised 6am start instead.

Our room in the hut was incredibly stuffy and a constant dry mouth kept me awake. I moved bunks to be able to stick my head out of the window and catch a chilly mountain breeze. The mountain looked mesmerising framed against a splash of stars across the night sky, with tiny distant pinpricks of light that signified climbers winding their way up the glacier, avoiding the worst of the crevasses and seracs. It was with some relief that we arose before dawn a couple of hours later, leaving Adam slumbering in his bunk, and set off along the path through the moraines under a sky turning rapidly from purple to pink to daylight.

I soon found myself labouring slightly, with my poor fitness and lacking the extra day's acclimatisation. By contrast, Will claimed to be feeling at his physical peak. We soon discovered why when we reached the first short stretch of glacier to be crossed to gain the col: Will had left his crevasses rescue kit and helmet back in the hut! Exasperated, we were able to cobble together 3 slimmed down racks from mine and Rachael's full sets, and continue on our way.

From the col we had a choice of routes: turn right up the rocky ridge or continue along the glacier on the other side and find an alternate route up the side. We chose the former, winding our way up a lose shaley ridge until we came to a sudden cliff which was too large to safely abseil. Cut off from the rest of the ridge, we retraced our steps back to the col and instead stepped out onto the glacier, roped together as a three. We skirted along the edge, looking for a likely line of weakness up the screes to gain the crest of the ridge. The going was easy even without crampons in soft wet snow, and we were easily able to step over numerous small crevasses. Further along, our path was blocked by a much wider crevasse yawning open ahead of us. A suspect-looking snow bridge was the only way across, so treading carefully and keeping the rope taut between us, we were able to safely bridge the gap. Looking down while stepping across, I could see the crevasse twisting down into impenetrable depths: not a place to hang around admiring the view!

A short tramp further and we disembarked from the glacier and began the exhausting scramble up the shattered scree slopes towards the ridge. We snaked back and forth across the slope, not entirely sure what we were supposed to be aiming for and sliding back one step for every two taken forwards. As we gained height, a series of gullies began to come into view above us, heading towards the ridge. From below it wasn't remotely clear which would be the most amenable so we headed for the nearest large gully to us. It looked like a fairly straightforward squirmy scramble but to be on the safe side we roped up anyway and I elected to lead on up, placing gear when possible.

The climbing tuned out to be miserable. Although it was at an easy angle, there were no positive holds to be had at all and everything was built of the same friable rock that crumbled or snapped when you touched it. This fed a torrent of scree that had completely buried my boots in the floor of the gully. I heard a shout from Will asking why I hadn't placed any gear yet. I called back to say that I hadn't found any decent placements. To hell with it I thought, and pushed on up anyway, emerging from the gully onto a large intermediate ledge, with more gullies leading up to the ridge. I was at least able to place some marginal protection, and positioned myself and the rope to provide Will and Rachael a passable belay up to join me.

With a sigh of resignation I started up the second gully, reaching the point where this story began. After more thrashing and tunneling, I reached the top of this second gully to find... yet more gullies above, and the ridge apparently no closer. A brief shouted discussion with Will and Rachael followed, in which we quickly agreed that it was getting too late in the day, we were getting nowhere, noone was having fun and this stupid mountain wasn't worth all this toil and danger anyway. So I carefully retraced my steps back down the gully to reach my companions. For the descent of the second gully, I had the luxury of being lowered on a rope, and being able to kick as much crap down as I wanted without worrying about anyone below. For Will's sake I placed a few bits of (mostly psychological) protection on the way down, and retreated out of the line of fire. It was with palpable relief that I discovered a nut placement which, when weighted in a certain direction, was absolutely bomber, so I shouted this to the others and leaned back to wait. Rachael shortly joined me and nearly sent us both hurtling off our ledge when she leaned the wrong way on the nut, the precariousness of which I had conveniently forgotten to mention. Without the aid of a lowering rope, Will took rather longer to join us but we were soon safely assembled back on our ledge.