The Beckoning Silence

Contents

Copyright Notice

List of Illustrations

1 Games on a dangerous stage

2 Intimations of mortality

3 High anxiety

4 Given wings to fly

5 The coldest dance

6 Rite of passage

7 Because it’s there

8 The stretched dream

9 The Eigerwand

10 Against the dying of the light

11 Heroes and fools

12 Touching history

13 Do nothing in haste

14 Look well to each step

15 The fatal storm

16 The happiness of a lifetime

17 Half silences

Acknowledgements

Selected Reading

List of Illustrations

Section 1

Joe cutting loose on Quietus Stanage Edge, Derbyshire

Ian Tattersall on the summit of Alpamayo

A ghostly face in the ridge watches over climbers following our tracks on Alpamayo

Joe on the top pitch of Bridalveil Falls
.

Given wings to fly: Joe launches on a 56-kilometre cross-country flight in Brazil

Ray on Bridalveil Falls, Telluride, Colorado

Joe ice climbing in Vail, Colorado.

Rigid Designator, Vail, Colorado.

Joe climbing in Ouray Canyon, Colorado.

Section 2

'...the beckoning silence of great height.' Eiger North Face, September 2000.

Trudle and Anderl Heckmair with Joe and Ray. Kleine Scheidegg. September 2000.

Sedlmayr and Mehringer's names in the Hotel des Alpes Register, Grindelwald.

Joe, Anna Jossi and Alice Steuri, with the register, Grindelwald.

Joe beneath a sunset-washed Eigerwand.

(left) A sombre Ray packs for the climb. (right) A sobering reminder of previous attempts.

Joe climbing the Difficult Crack.

The face turns into a deadly trap after a violent storm.

Ray belaying as the storm sweeps in.

Joe crossing the Hinterstoisser Traverse during the storm.

Ray at the Swallow's Nest.

Ray dodging stone-fall while retreating across the Hinterstoisser Traverse

Alpenglow over the Scheidegg Wetterhorn.

Joe at the Swallows Nest

Joe retreating on the Hinterstoisser Traverse.

The North Face of the Eiger from the Kleine Scheidegg Hotel.

The Eiger looms above Kleine Scheidegg.

Section 3

The wildest dream: George and Ruth Mallory.

Moon rises over the Walker Spur. Grandes Jorasses, Chamonix. Photo by Bradford Washburn.

Chris Bonington cutting steps into the Spider on the first British ascent, 1962.

Don Whillans climbing the First Ice Field using an ice dagger.

Brian Nally retreating across the Second Ice Field after the death of his partner, Barry Brewster.

Carruthers and Moderegger on the Second Ice Field before they fell to their deaths.

Karl Mehringer and Max Sedlmayr waiting for good weather at the Hotel des Aples, Alpiglen, August 1935.

'We are deeply indebted to Frau Jossi for her hospitality. She was always there with a helping hand. From two poor climbers, with our warmest thanks.' Entry in the visitors' book of the Hotel des Alpes, Alpiglen.

'Bivouac on 21/8/35. Max Sedelmajr, Karl Mehringer, Munich. Munich H.T.G. Section Oberland.' In June 1976 a Czech rope found a cigarette tin with this yellow note on the Second Ice Field, 41 years after it was written. It was probably Mehringer who wrote the note, since he misspelled the name of his climbing companion.

A youthful Toni Kurz smiles back at us from the past. Alpiglen, 1936.

'If only the weather holds,' said Andreas Hinterstoisser to the photographer, Hans Jegerlehner. Unluckily for Hinterstoisser and Kurz, the weather did not hold. But that was only one reason for the disaster.

Austrians Heinrich Harrer and Fritz Kasparek and Germans Anderl Heckmair and Ludwig Vorg (left to right) on 24 July 1938 after the first ascent of the North Face of the Eiger.

Stefano Longhi, trapped above the Traverse of the Gods, waves to a passing plane. 'Fame! Freddo!' were his last desperate words.

Using a 370-metre steel cable, Corti is recovered from the face. This was the first time a climber had been rescued from the Eigerwand.

Section 4 - The Filming of the Beckoning Silence

Joe and Cubby Cuthbertson preparing to be filmed below the Stollenloch window.

Cubby about to be winched down to the Swallows Nest.

Joe on the 1st Icefield.

Tough filming conditions.

Roger Schaeli in costume as Toni Kurz.

Hinterstoiseer checks his digital camera while Kurtz calls home.

Toni Kurz gets 'frostbite' sprayed onto his left hand.

Kurz death scene.

Keith Partridge descending gingerly towards the Hinterstoisser Traverse.

Keith Partridge, mountain cameraman extraordinaire with the 1,000 foot high Rote Fluh looming behind him.

The team preparing to film rockfall sequences on the summit slopes of north flank of the Monch.

Joe waiting for the rockfall scene.

Joe filming at the Swallows Nest.

Joe descending for a piece to camera on the Hinterstoisser Traverse
.

Copyright Notice

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Copyright Joe Simpson 2002

Version 3.0 

eISBN 978-0-9575193-2-9

Published by DirectAuthors.com Ltd.

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All rights reserved

First published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by Jonathan Cape

The right of Joe Simpson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Acknowledgement is due for permission to quote from
The Wildest Dream
by Peter and Leni Gillman (Hodder Headline Ltd),
The White Spider
by Heinrich Harrer (Flamingo/HarperCollins Publishers),
Into Thin Air
by Jon Krakauer (Pan Macmillan) and ‘No Woman, No Cry’ (Words & Music by Vincent Ford) Copyright (c) 1974 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS). All rights for North and South America controlled and administered by Rykomusic, Inc. (ASCAP) and for the rest of the world by Rykomusic Ltd. (PRS). Lyrics Used By Permission.

All Rights Reserved.

The Beckoning Silence

by

Joe Simpson

Dedications

To Ian ‘Tat’ Tattersall

‘We miss you, kid.’

Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are naught without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.

Edward Whymper,
Scrambles amongst the Alps

In memory of Matthew Hayes and Phillip O’Sullivan whose dream stretched to the very end.

1 Games on a dangerous stage

The ice was thin and loosely attached to the rock. I could see water streaming beneath the opaque layer undermining its strength. I glanced down to the left and saw Ian ‘Tat’ Tattersall hunched over, stamping his feet at the foot of the ice wall. He was cold and I was taking far too long. I could sense his impatience. This first pitch of
Alea Jacta Est
, a 500-foot grade V ice climb looming above the valley of La Grave in the Hautes Alpes, France, should have been relatively straightforward. It had felt desperately difficult and precarious.

I looked down at where I had placed my last ice screw in a boss of water ice protruding from a fractured and melting ice wall 35 feet below me. If I fell now I would drop 80 feet and I knew the ice screw would not hold me. The ice boss would shatter and it would be instantly ripped out. It had quickly become apparent that the route was in poor condition. Lower down I had found myself moving from solid ice onto a strange skim of water ice overlaying soft, sugary snow. It was just strong enough to hold my axe picks and crampon points but it would never hold an ice screw. Hoping for an improvement I had climbed higher and moved diagonally towards the right side of the wall. Then the ice began to resemble something more commonly found furring up the icebox in my fridge. I moved tentatively over rotten honeycombed water ice and onto frightening near-vertical slabs of rime ice – a feathery concoction of hoarfrost and loosely bonded powder snow. It was now impossible to down-climb safely and I tried to quell a rising tide of panic as I had headed gingerly towards the ice boss that was gleaming with a wet blue sheen near where a rock buttress bordered a rising curtain of ice.

As I twisted the ice screw into the boss, I watched in dismay as a filigree pattern of cracks spread through water ice. I saw water seeping out from beneath the fractures and stopped winding the screw. Clipping the rope to the screw I tried to ignore the fact that it was my first point of protection and that it wouldn’t hold my weight let alone a fall. If I fell, I knew that I would hit the ground from over 100 feet. I glanced back at Tat but he wasn’t looking at me. It was surprising how very lonely you can suddenly feel.

I moved up slowly, gently hooking my axe picks in melt holes in the ice, careful to pull down and not out. My right foot slipped away as wet ice sheared from the rock and I shuddered down, then stopped. I breathed deeply and stepped up again, forcing the single front-point of my crampons into a shallow crack in the rock and balancing on it as I reached higher and planted my axe into a marginally thicker layer of ice. There was a cracking noise as the ice flexed free of the underlying rock, then silence as it held my weight. I held my breath and pulled steadily on the axe shaft.

The route description mentioned a near-vertical wall of ice trending rightwards. I remembered the old adage about ice climbing which stated that 75-degree ice feels vertical and vertical ice seems overhanging. I felt physically strong but mentally my resolve had begun to crumble. It had been a slow, insidious leeching away of my confidence directly proportional to the height I gained. Above me a rock wall reared up and the ice curved into a short corner. I spotted a small piece of red tape poking out from beneath a fringe of wet snow.
The belay
, I thought with relief,
protection, safety at last
.

My spirits rose at the welcome sight and I made delicate moves up the ice wall until I was perched cautiously on the tips of my crampon points digging into a moustache of frozen moss and turf. I was alarmed to notice that the turf was not part of a rocky ledge but simply a tuft of vegetation glued to the rock wall. I reached up with my axe and carefully pushed the pick through the small loop of red tape. An experimental tug indicated that it was a solid anchor and I relaxed as the tension ebbed away.

‘I’ve found the belay,’ I shouted over my shoulder. There was no answer from below. I swept the dusting of snow from around the tape, hoping to reveal a couple of strong bolts. My heart sank as I saw two knife-blade pitons that had been driven half their length into a hairline crack in the rock. The tape had been tied off around the blades to reduce the outward leverage that would have been exerted if the eyes of the pitons had been clipped. I looked quickly around for some other protection to back up this worryingly feeble belay. There was nothing. No cracks for wires or pitons and the nearest ice was too thin and weak to take an ice screw.

I looked down past my boots. A rocky buttress plunged away beneath my crampon points. There was now a fall of over 150 feet if the two blade pegs ripped out. I began to feel nervous. A shout from below was muffled by the sound of a passing truck on the nearby road.

‘What?’ I yelled.

‘Are you safe?’ Tat yelled.

I glanced at the two pegs and my stomach tightened.
This isn’t good,
I told myself sternly.
We’re on holiday. This is supposed to be fun!