HAUTE ROUTE 2010
by Paul (Crampons) Hardy
Slim Jim assessed the gathering before him with hawk’s eyes.
There was Ian, second-timer, ready to try again, full of enthusiasm, and questions. Next to him sat Graham. Second time for him too. Pince-nez wedged above his eyebrows he looked every bit the Cornish doctor he was. But would he be able to save a life was what the others were thinking. John, a litigator, looked on, intrigued. His long rakish locks and cat’s whiskers belied a determination to succeed, but according to his own rules. Paul and Emma sat close together, smiling, perhaps nervously at times. A farming couple form Shropshire, they looked like good sorts, and up for an adventure. All the men clocked that there was a woman on the team, and were impressed; Emma less so that she was alone. There was another couple there too — siblings: the frères Pascall. Philip the Elder was small, neat and alert; he had an assured presence. By contrast, James the Younger, 14 years his junior, was tall and big, with a friendly, open face and strong blue eyes. It seemed odd that they were brothers, but somehow it worked. And then there was Jonathan, the youngest (and slimmest) on the trip, with the look of a pro. His quick darting eyes soon assessed that, armed with his ZAGs, he might be the fastest on the Route. Colin, tall, lean, watched with anticipation. At 62 he was the oldest in the group, but you could tell from his conversation that he was an experienced skier, ready to try one last challenge. Seemingly laid back, dispensing harnesses and tranceivers, was our other guide, yet another Paul - actually as hawk-eyed as Jim, with quiet authority. And lastly there was this author, whom modesty* and a complete lack of self-awareness prevent from being described further.
How did this cast of characters fare? Well, in short, those who set out succeeded in completing the Haute Route, and so fulfilling a dream. But along the way...
Several of the debutant routiers learned that a kick-turn was not a ballet movement, assessed in brilliance by how long the up-hill ski can be left to dangle in the breeze. They also learned that a couteau was not a knife to eat with and that crampons were heavy things with spikes, which filled up and weighed down a rucksack, pierced holes in prized new ski jackets, and were best left behind in a hut.
Philip the Elder soon established himself as both the sommelier and photographer of the trip. He proved adept at sorting the good grape from the bad in the extensive hut wine lists. And as a photographer he would pop up as if from nowhere at the summit of an achingly long skin, and while others were clearing blood from their throats and gasping for breath (other than Jonathan of course) and wishing they were at home in front of the telly, he would marshal them all into position for a perfectly choreographed Haute Route picture.
The nights were always challenging. John trumped all other head-torches with a clockwork version, and the quaint sound of it being wound up became a signal that it would soon be time to turn in. Less quaint was his snoring, and occasional other exhalations, joined in harmony by a number of other offenders, including the author. Non-offenders in the nocturnal noise stakes were Graham, Jonathan, the frères Pascall**, and, of course, Emma, who smelled of roses throughout. So bad did the noise become that one night Graham preferred to perform the role of gooseberry in a room with Paul and Emma, on orders to prescribe himself a sleeping pill. And the group soon learned to leave a window open in the dortoir at night, risking the freezing cold rather than fight for oxygen amongst trapped, fetid fumes.
The mornings were a question of slick routine, which the group generally failed to master. Most couldn’t remember in which hut they had to sit down to pee, or were caught out by waiting 15 minutes for one of two loos in a hut of 120 guests to become free. But by hook or by crook they managed to assemble in front of Drill Sergeant Kerr for the 7 o’ clock parade, packs now leaden with the extra weight of two or so litres of thé de marche.
The days, it has to be said, were even more challenging than the nights; but also extraordinarily exhilarating. By clicking into a regular tempo, long distances were covered sliding boot by sliding boot, couteau by couteau, and for really steep ascents, crampon by crampon. Rhythm to all of this was the key — but it was not always easy to find. The demons of fear, or fatigue, or self-doubt, would sometimes get in the way; but by lunchtime’s arrival these had all been conquered.
And that was the joy of the Haute Route: that sense of personal accomplishment, achieved in the most majestic but harsh of environments, and surrounded by a team of others who had all decided to take on the same challenge.
In terms of performance, Jonathan was right: he was the quickest, seemingly breathing in the same air as Jim. John’s performance was typically maverick — on some days he was snapping at Jonathan’s heels, on others taking the tourist route. Patrolman Paul became stronger the moment he planted a patrouille des glaciers flag in his rucksack, which could sometimes be seen silhouetted like the aerial of an army radio controller in the morning sun. Emma, Graham and Ian were consistently strong performers; James the Younger burst through with impressive finishes towards the end; whilst Philip the Elder would appear as a speck in the distance one moment, having stopped to snap the innards of a crevasse, and then eating a chocolate bar with the rest of the team the next. This author’s performance was a mixed bag, but his blisters proved to be a popular talking point and a difficult medical treatment.
The only shame of this week’s adventure, blessed with clear days for all but the first, was that Colin’s knee prevented him from coming on the Haute Route; but to see him in Argentière on the group’s return was a great way to end a memorable week.
*Ed: Paul is definitely too modest. His intellect, wit and charm were valuable to the cohesiveness of the group. A Parliamentary legal adviser, he previously spent some years in Brussels – but we don’t hold that against him. His courage and determination to complete the route, in spite of the considerable pain of his blisters, were legendary. Whether Dr Graham saved any lives during the week is an open question – but he certainly lanced some prize blisters on the terrace of the Dix Hut.**Ed: Sorry, further exercise of editorial control: only one of the frères Pascall was a non-offender.
