North-north-east of, and near to Mont Blanc, is a compact group of bold buttresses and ridges supporting a multitude of dark rock pinnacles whose slender spires seem close against the sky. These are the Chamonix Aiguilles. The conquest of the more important of these bold granite towers was largely due to the inspiring energy and determination of the late Mr. A. F. Mummery, one of the greatest of bygone mountaineers. For devotees of rock-climbing pure and simple, the Aiguilles of Chamonix are a veritable paradise, for they form one of the few mountain groups in the Alps where the rock is so firm and reliable that one can climb for hours on end without encountering a single loose stone or questionable handhold.
Rock-climbing, particularly on good, sound rock, has never held any great charm for me. I have always regarded it as but one of the simplest, most easily learnt and less important branches of a wider art, and, as it is met with on almost any big snow-and-ice expedition, I have never felt disposed to go out of my way in search of it for its own sake. It was not until the close of the summer season of 1910 that my friend, Ph. Visser, induced me to launch out on an expedition where rock-climbing was avowedly the main attraction.
The Requin
The Dent du Requin, one of the more popular of the Chamonix Aiguilles, is a bold, rocky tower rising to a height of over 11,200 feet from one end of the long ridge which falls away from the Aiguille du Plan towards the east. Early on the morning of August 29, we left the Montanvert in two parties, the first consisting of Mr. Lugard and his guide, Joseph Knubel, a rock-climber of great distinction hailing from St. Nicholas in the Zermatt Valley, and the second of Visser and myself. Following the customary route towards the Col du Géant as far as the great icefall of the Géant Glacier, we made our way up unpleasantly steep screes to the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, over whose much crevassed surface we eventually gained the southern slopes of the ridge connecting the Plan with the Requin, at a point where broken rocks gave easy access to the crest. Six and a half hours after leaving the Montanvert, we arrived at the point on the ridge known as the Shoulder, and the Requin appeared in full view. I must confess to a feeling of disappointment; it was obvious that there could not be more than an hour’s difficult climbing. The six and a half hours’ ascent from the Montanvert had been tiring and utterly devoid of interest in the mountaineering sense, except for the comparatively short passage over the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, and I failed to see how one hour’s rock-climbing could merit such a tedious approach. Knubel, who had already made several ascents of the peak, now went ahead with Lugard and, climbing without difficulty, arrived at a gap in the ridge just below the lower end of the immense and partly overhanging chimney that cleaves the Requin almost from head to foot. At the foot of the chimney, a steep slab falls away towards a ledge which Knubel and Lugard gained by the use of the doubled rope. Visser and I followed, retrieving the rope after reaching the ledge. Then, mounting a series of short, very steep chimneys, we arrived on a broad platform. Henceforward, working spiral-wise, we climbed to the summit. The climbing was difficult throughout, but it was always perfectly safe. The holds were everywhere extraordinarily reliable, and it was probably this selfsame reliability and the fact that a party preceded us all the time that made the Requin, as a climbing proposition, seem hopelessly dull and monotonous. Only now and again when one’s eye travelled down the tremendous precipices to the gloomy, shut-in basin of the d’Envers du Blaitière Glacier, did one become conscious of one’s airy position and feel the vivid sense of exhilaration that every real mountain climb provides almost throughout.
Chamonix Aiguilles and Mont Blanc.
Descending the Grépon.
