The summit of the Grépon.
The Venetz crack is the dark cleft which ends under the flat stone on the summit.
Facing page 258.
Returning to Max, I imparted the reassuring news, but to heedless ears, for he proved far more interested in plying the usual inefficient pocket-knife edition of a tin-opener in an attempt to lay bare the luscious contents of a two-pound tin of Californian peaches. His efforts were too vigorous and determined for any tin to withstand for long, and we were soon enjoying a feast of peaches and Nestlé’s milk. The only thing lacking was snow which was sorely needed, not only to dilute the somewhat concentrated ingredients of our meal, but also to assuage the thirst that assailed us. After lunch, following our usual custom where time was of no vital importance, we settled down to sleep, not omitting, however, to secure the rope to the summit stone as a guard against the dangers of rolling out of bed. We found out later that these simple actions had been assiduously watched from Chamonix and gravely misconstrued by the many telescope owners who, while making petty fortunes, had been explaining to their clientèle of trippers that we were two mad young Englishmen who would certainly come to grief because we had with us no stalwart guides to ensure our safety. Now, on lying down to sleep, we suddenly disappeared from their view, and the rumour at once went round that we had fallen off the summit! Two hours passed by without our reappearing, and the rumour had deepened into conviction; even one of our friends in Chamonix had begun to have fears for our safety. At 3 p.m. we awoke and began to prepare for the descent. This sudden resurrection put an end to the supposed tragedy, but henceforward we were not only fous but absolument fous, for no self-respecting Chamoniard has any use for a mountain-top except to leave it as soon as is decently possible after gaining it. Personally I love to dally in such places as long as is compatible with safety. Memories of hours spent stretched out in half-somnolent ease on the great sun-kissed slabs of summits, in splendid isolation, with the blue vault of heaven above and the brown-green earth spread out below, are treasure beyond price, eternally one’s own and never to be lost, inviolate to the onslaughts of the getting, grabbing world.
The descent on the Nantillons side of the summit was effected without difficulty, and landed us out on the previously neglected ledge close to a collection of rope slings indicative of the beginning of the next pitch. This proved to be a chimney some eighty feet long and seemingly quite unclimbable, at all events in its upper portion; the doubled rope, however, solved the problem as effectively as usual, and we found ourselves on a little platform at the top of an apparently almost unbroken series of huge precipitous slabs falling away to the Nantillons Glacier. To descend without an enormous amount of spare rope seemed out of the question, but, as the edge of the platform on which we stood was garnished with the bleached remains of two rope slings, we concluded that it was the usual way down. So Max held my rope and let me over the precipice. I descended quite a hundred feet, but no feasible way out revealed itself, and I had to go back. The return cost us both a stern effort, Max pulling in the rope while I lent him as much assistance as possible by making what use I could of the few available holds. Casting round for a way out of the impasse, we chanced upon a boot nail in the bed of a steep but short chimney leading up in the direction of the ridge. We immediately followed up this timely clue and gained the top of the chimney, to find, a few steps farther on, a simple and straightforward line of descent open out before us. The way led frequently over steep ground, but everywhere there was a profusion of holds and belays, and the rock still remained as firm and reliable as cast iron. At half-past four, the Col des Nantillons was under foot, and the acrobatic part of the day’s work was over. One could not help feeling that a baboon would have acquitted himself throughout with much more distinction than any of his human brothers.
The remainder of the descent was accomplished without incident. The crevasses near the head of the Nantillons Glacier were readily negotiated, thanks to reliable snow bridges that obligingly provided a crossing at the very places one would have chosen oneself. Passing by the foot of the couloir leading to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, we picked up the axe and knapsack left there in the morning and then, swinging round to the left, hurried across the sérac-swept slopes to the great crevasse. The ladder was still in position, and soon we were on the little rock island, where the rope was taken off and stowed away.
We had originally intended to make Chamonix that evening; but to do that now would entail hurry. It was our last day of a wonderful season of health and happiness-giving adventure in the Alps, and we were loth to leave the scene. To hasten from the midst of these great towers of silence and the white purity of the snows they nurse was impossible. So we decided to pass the night at the Montanvert. Eager to retard the flight of our little season of freedom, we strolled downwards with lagging steps, pausing at whiles to drink in the glories of the mountains as the shades of night closed in upon them.
That evening, after dinner, we sat together, somewhat heavy-hearted, on the hôtel terrace overlooking the Mer de Glace. The Grandes Jorasses and the Rôchefort ridge were dimly outlined against the starry heaven. The Charmoz and the Dru, dark, ghostly pillars almost piercing the skies, stood, as if on guard, at the portals of that great world of snow and ice-bound rock where we had found true happiness, and to which we were now to bid farewell for a space.