I’m almost horizontal. Feet pressed hard against a slippery rock face, crampons with just enough purchase, elbows hooked over the twisted metal wire that holds all six of us to the mountain. It looks rusty, and some of the pins have popped out of the rock. The most peculiar thing, which I’ve just noticed, is that I’m not scared. As I’m pondering this curious sense of detachment, watching snowflakes travel upwards past my face, Ewan loses his grip and dangles helplessly next to me. Ever the inscrutable Scottish investment banker, he doesn’t seem all that alarmed. I give my straining carabiner a worried look.
This is our annual trip to the mountains, we liked the Austrian huts last year and the Ötztal route from Obergurgl sounded like a good step up in difficulty. We don’t really know each other outside of these ski touring adventures, I’m certainly happy to not know Giles in his professional capacity (he’s a surgeon). Five of us plus the guide, off into the wilderness with a few mountain huts for refuge. The perfect antidote to modern life.
The clanking ski lifts as we set off are gradually replaced by pained mutterings from Kev. His new boots are doing their best to eat his feet, so when we get to the first hut he opts to stay and administer first aid. I suppose as a prolific ice climber he’s not usually thinking about boots. The rest of us jettison superfluous weight and are heading towards the first summit of the trip.
“I don’t see why we need to climb that today, it’s miles away,” Chris grumbles behind me. Giles and the guide are making quick progress ahead. I shrug and wipe some sweat off my forehead. “Maybe eat something?”
I’m looking forward to getting to the top of something high. Last year’s mini peak had felt like a breakthrough and I want to push myself to the next stage. From my current vantage point this looks like a straightforward skin up a valley, then a nice walk to the top. What I lack in climbing skills I like to think I have in fitness. Shame I can’t lend some of that to Chris, who’s still swearing behind me.
“Come on mate, they’re waiting for us,” I call back, while trying to decide if Giles is smiling or frowning.
“We don’t have time to get to the top and back before dark,” the guide says. Giles definitely isn’t happy. “We’ll head up there,” he points to a spot that looks worryingly close to a huge cornice hanging off a ridge. “Then ski back to the hut, the snow is nice here.”
I feel a bit of tension in my midriff ease. Giles isn’t impressed with the change of plan but we always stick together. Ewan takes a bite of a chocolate bar, he looks as unfazed as ever.
Clipping my heels into my skis and tightening the straps I launch myself happily at the steep slope below. The sun glints off white ridges and black jagged peaks around us. I bounce through soft deep powder … for about ten metres. A ski tip catches and I bury myself head down. “Keep your skis together!” Giles shouts over, “it’s bum skiing, stop trying to turn.” I give him a thumbs up and shiver as a load of snow slides inside my jacket.
The next day has no summits, just a lot of distance and elevation to cover before the next hut. Plus “a bit of a technical descent.” Everyone seems about as rested as is usual at this stage, which is not very rested at all. Altitude, exercise, beer, wine and schnapps, plus all sleeping in the same room. So we’re all a bit tetchy and rattly as we set off. A steep icy descent to the bottom of a narrow ravine doesn’t help. Once we’re moving uphill and start sweating we have other things to think about.
We stop for our second breakfast on a huge glacier, which always feels like the completely wrong place to stop. There aren’t any crevasses here, apparently. We keep our skis on and sit on our backpacks, admiring the view. The guide is pointing at what looks like a vertical side of the glacial valley, then upwards to where I can just make out the contours of another glacier. I’m not really listening, and suddenly we’re heading that way. There must be some mistake.
Nope. We zigzag up and up and up, each of us in our own little bubble.
I take a turn breaking trail. My skis sink over a foot into the snow with each step. It’s exhausting and I’m reminded yet again how strong and fit the guide must be to do this week after week. The sky has turned grey and it starts to snow. As we approach the top we spread out, the vertical convex curve of the glacier means crevasses. A loud “whump” sends my heart into palpitations, must have been a snow bridge collapsing. The guide just beckons us to keep moving up to the safety of the ridge.
Skins off, skis strapped to my pack, crampons on. The guide pays out a rope and attaches our slings to a loop every five metres. Giles goes first, down what looks like a gentle enough slope, Chris next, then me, Ewan, Kev, finally the guide as anchor.
It’s not long before the snowy ground gives way to slippery looking rock. A wire pinned into the mountain disappears over the edge. I can see the valley beyond, it looks like quite a long way down. It’s too late to ask if there is an alternative route.
We inch our way down slowly, heavy packs making it even more difficult. Then the gap appears, it doesn’t really seem possible to get over it. The wire is flapping about, and the cliff is vertical. Chris taught people to climb when he was in the army, and seems to have an inexhaustible supply of lightweight kit to hand. He’s clipping on extra carabiners for the rest of us to use. We keep moving, I don’t really have a choice given I’m attached to everyone else. Suddenly a loud scraping noise makes me turn around.
Ewan is hanging next to me, then a few seconds later Kev slips. At least his body is on a ledge, with just his legs adrift.
I’m mostly keeping myself from dangling with the toes of my crampons, so there is nothing I can do to help. I’m tempted to take some photos to “capture the moment” but decide it’s probably inappropriate.
Chris shouts up to Kev, “get onto a knee and pull on the wire, we’re all stable.” Just, I think. Eventually Kev manages to leverage himself up and takes a moment to catch his breath. I look to my right, Chris and Giles are on a ledge. “How the fuck did you get past this bit?” I ask calmly. “Lean back, trust your harness, and get a foot over this way, there is more grip than you think, then I’ll clip you to this post.”
I look back to see if everyone is ready to move, Ewan has already followed the advice and has both feet against the wall. Kev nods and shouts back up to the guide, who has the end of the rope wrapped around another metal post.
A few moments later we’re all past the gap and shuffling along a gradually widening ledge. It soon gives way to a narrow chute full of snow and an easy belay down to safety.
“Scary?” I ask the guide. He shrugs and smiles. “No not scary, we had a rope!”
We file into our dormitory, banging rucksacks against each other and the narrow doorway. There is one very wide bed, large enough for nine. At least we won’t have to snore into each other’s faces. We’re on the top floor of the hut, the toilet is one floor down. For a group of old blokes, that’s just annoying.
Giles opens the window, even though it’s already minus 10 degrees outside. “You lot stink, and that’s before Ewan’s had his vegetarian beans for supper.”
Nobody wants to be nearest the door, but nobody wants to be pushy and claim the best spot. I’m tired and hungry and need to sit down, and throw my bag into a space somewhere in the middle. “There is a shower isn’t there?” I ask nobody in particular. Apparently not. I have a clean set of base layers for the huts and the last day. It seems a shame to put them on when I’ve been dripping with sweat all day. I suppose I’ll just get used to the stench, I usually do.
Kev and his mangled feet opt to stay at the hut, Ewan goes for a nap. The rest of us head up the nearby glacier towards the Similaun, a “very easy summit.”
Stopping to faff around with kit I take the opportunity to eat the sandwich I made earlier. The mountain bread is not light and fluffy, it’s more like thick cork floorboards. I’d applied a liberal amount of butter to counteract the density, wedging in some cheese and mystery meat as an added treat. The guide crunches over, “do you want the rope? I don’t think it’s necessary.” Well no, you’re a guide, I’m a software engineer from South London. “Ok,” I say, glancing at him briefly, “I’ll see how I go.” I look back at my lunch, then glance longingly at the hut far below. I could be drinking beer and swapping foot maintenance tips.
The guide goes first, then me so he can keep me safe, I hope. Then Chris and Giles who seem completely relaxed. Maybe it’s practice, but I’m sure either I’m missing something important, or they are.
“Turn your feet sideways, put all of your points into the snow.” Fine, but this is making it really hard to avoid looking into the void on either side of me. I sort of crouch and twist my head so all I can see is a small area around my uphill foot. All my focus is on making sure each footstep has enough purchase to hold my weight.
I bump into the guide. He’s stopped in front of a ridiculously big rock, which is obnoxiously in the way of our route. “Rope for this bit,” he says. I just nod and clip the loop into my harness, giving it a good pull to make sure it’s tight. I glare at the rock until I hear the others arrive behind me. I follow the guide, really bloody quickly. Ridiculously fast, though it does have the side effect of occupying my entire head. “No!” he shouts, “the rope must be tight between us, so if you slip I can brace you, otherwise we both fall.” Oh … right.
At a much more leisurely pace we continue until there is just a very narrow but almost horizontal ridge between us and the summit. For some reason it has a huge metal cross embedded in a block of concrete on it. The distraction shifts my focus from my feet and I feel slightly dizzy. I’m suddenly very aware of having nothing to hold on to but a thin green rope attached to a much lighter human.
I sort of shuffle along, which is really hard when wearing crampons, and wrap an arm around one of the taut steel wires bracing the cross. When I put my hand up for a high five the guide just grins and wraps his arms around me, “you made it!.”
There is no sign of Chris and Giles, which is weird, maybe my burst of speed earlier opened up a big lead. Without letting go of anything solid I manage to take some photos, then the guys appear. “Crampon came off!” Chris shouts. We all shake our heads, “fuck’s sake Chris, what was the point in saving 30 grams if the bloody things don’t work?.” “Yeah but I really like the colour,” he grins.
We bounce gracefully down the glacier to the hut afterwards. I manage to keep my face out of the snow, and we arrive just as the wind really starts to pick up. There is just one other group here, everyone else cancelled and is further down the valley. It feels luxurious having all this space, which is just as well as we end up being stuck there for the entire next day.
With nothing much to do my adrenaline levels return to normal, and the feeling of elation gives way to something else. The final ridge walk to the Similaun keeps looping in my head, details present that I hadn’t noticed at the time. I wouldn’t say I’m scared of heights, but I’m definitely worried about falling off something high. Perhaps they’re the same thing.
“Umm Chris, question for you.” We’re in the dorm, reading and dozing under thick blankets, there is ice on the inside of the windows.
“Go for it mate,” he says sleepily.
“You know how I get a bit wobbly on exposed bits, does that ever stop?”
He props himself up on one elbow and looks over. “It does, the more you do it, the more you trust your kit, and the more you trust your kit, the safer you feel. Like you were on that dodgy traverse with the wire.”
“Ok, so it’s normal to feel like this?”
“It is, and yesterday wasn’t easy at all, you did really well.” He smiles.
“Thanks mate.”
“Alright lovebirds,” Giles pipes up from his woollen cocoon in the corner, “is it time for a weissbeer yet?”
Eventually the storm eases off a bit, we can just about stand up without being blown over. The process of getting back to civilisation is mostly a straightforward descent down a valley. The obstacles are only avalanche debris, ibex and the occasional chamois.
We pop out in Vent, at the bottom of a ski run. Exiting our multi day wilderness bubble feels a bit overwhelming. Luckily there is a bar opposite the bus stop and the next one isn’t due for an hour.
Giles, beer in one hand, some sort of cocktail in the other, is poking at a pile of gear with one foot.
“So Chris, what unwanted kit are you selling us for next year? Kev needs some new boots.”
