Читать книгу A Walk in the Clouds - Kev Reynolds - Страница 19

8

TRAGEDY ON JEAN-PIERRE

Mike and I were brought up in neighbouring villages, started climbing together in north Wales, and several years later shared a rope in the Atlas Mountains. He had a natural talent on rock, and for a while we planned to open a climbing school in Snowdonia, but our lives took different directions and inevitably that dream faded. However, in 1977 the opportunity came to share a rope once more, so we headed for the Pyrenees with an ambitious list of routes, but from Day One things did not go according to plan.

Afternoon was well advanced when we arrived at the foot of Pic du Midi’s south-facing Pombie Wall, and by the time we’d pitched the tent shadows were marching across the face. At the same time the valley below was filling with cloud, and its tide was creeping up the hillside too, engulfing all in its path. Yet there were still climbers at work up there; about halfway to the top by the sound of it. We could hear their voices, the clatter of hardware, the ring of a peg being hammered into a crack. No doubt they would be facing a bivvy tonight.

Too late in the day to attempt anything ourselves, and before even making a brew, we were drawn towards the mountain while we could still see it, and we’d just reached the screes when the sound all climbers dread came to us.

Stonefall. A lot of it.

We looked up to see a stream of dust and a fusillade of rocks bouncing down the face. Large rocks, small rocks and a shower of stones began high up, then gathered momentum as they spun into open space. We automatically flinched and stopped in our tracks to see where they’d land, and it didn’t take much imagination to know that if any climbers were near that lot, they’d be dry-mouthed with fear.

In moments the face was swallowed by cloud, and as individual features disappeared the frantic crash of rock against rock gradually lessened and finally ended, followed by an eerie silence. Then the silence was broken by a concerned voice calling: ‘Henri.’

Silence.

Again, but more urgently this time: ‘Henri!’

Then louder still: ‘HENRI!’

There was desperation in that cry, but it was nothing compared with the sound that followed. A sound that broke your heart. From that sound a single word tore free from a mangled expression of grief. A single word one did not need to be a linguist to understand.

‘Mort!’

Mike and I faced one another, eyes wide with horror.

The clouds that enveloped Pic du Midi brought early nightfall, and the rescue team arrived as the last vestige of light was disappearing. The helicopter could first be heard in the distance, then it was overhead, where it hovered only about a hundred metres above us, searching the gloom for what seemed an eternity before it began to descend. In poor visibility there was no room for error, but the pilot knew what he was doing and set the chopper down close to the Pombie refuge, whose guardian had alerted the gendarmerie when I’d run in with the news, leaving Mike to try to make contact with the survivor. The chopper blades slowed, then ceased moving. My ears stopped ringing, and the guardian’s voice dropped to a normal volume.

An air of calm emanated from the team; they were professional, unflustered, deliberate in their movements. Each one knew his role, so three helmeted climbers roped up, switched on headtorches, and with a final word of instruction from their leader, set off in the now damp, cloud-wrapped darkness towards the unseen mountain – the mountain affectionately known to local climbers as Jean-Pierre. A walkie-talkie crackled. Someone lit a cigarette; its glow penetrated the gloom.

As the minutes ticked by disembodied voices could be heard – one at the foot of the mountain; the other high, distant and trembling. There would be long periods when only one voice could be heard; the higher of the two. But when the other answered it always came from a different position, marked sometimes by a brief flash of light when the mist allowed. Seemingly undeterred by either darkness or fog, the rescue team was making steady progress up the Pombie Wall. Mike and I were mere spectators while a drama played out above us. Chastened, we returned to our tent.

Later that night the rescue team located and secured the body, then climbed up to the survivor and sat with him through the dark, empty hours. In the safe comfort of our tent, I too was unable to sleep and maintained a silent vigil with them.

The new day dawned with Jean-Pierre cloud-free. The helicopter took off, swept across the face of the mountain, hovered there for a while, then rose to land on the flat summit, where two of the rescue team and the survivor were waiting. The third team member was later lifted from the face along with the rockfall victim, the two seen swinging free at the end of a long cable.

The victim and survivor had our sympathy; the rescue team our respect. But for Mike and me Pic du Midi’s Pombie Wall had lost its appeal. We’d climb something else.