moods of the barre des ecrins
Brad has spent a lot of time in refuges lately. I say this not so much to highlight the sheer amount of time he has spent in the mountains recently, but rather to allude to the the number of days he has spent holed up at altitude waiting for the weather to change. When you add his three days in refuges to our three tent-bound days unsuccessfully attempting to outsmart storms in Italy with Gus, you might think that the sum would yield a healthy appreciation for a poor forecast.
But if you thought that, you would be wrong. Last week, despite slightly unfavorable weather reports, Brad and I decided to stick to our maxim: "Better to get out and get stuffed than not to get out at all", and headed up into les Ecrins. This time, rather than finding ourselves cooped up, we were reminded of why we take our chances with mother nature, happening upon an ideal and unexpected weather window.
When we packed the car and left Grenoble on Thursday morning, Brad could barely contain his excitement. We were heading for Ailefroide (which directly translates to 'cold pasture'), and what he declared was the most beautiful parking lot in the world. Never one for parking lots myself, I dismissed his enthusiasm and didn't brace myself for anything too special. However, you now stand witness to a rare occurrence: an admission. I was wrong. It
is possible to be taken with a parking lot.
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| Brad descends toward Ailefroide |
The unlikely road to the Ailefroide parking winds up a narrow glacial valley flanked by towering granite cliffs and an alluvial flood plain. When we finally rolled into the lot, we both ogled in wonder at hanging glaciers, milky rivers and steep rock faces. Littered around the valley floor were enormous glacial erratic boulders and fields of blossoming alpine flowers.
While the trip to the parking lot could be deemed a sufficient destination for the day, we found ourselves looking anxiously further up the valley toward the Glacier Blanc and the Refuge des Ecrins, where we intended to spend the night. Hoping to beat storms, we cut our rubbernecking session short, slung on heavy packs and started up the well-established, heavily trafficked trail.
After about two and half hours of steady climbing, we found ourselves at the foot of the enormous Glacier Blanc. The Parc National des Ecrins is a beautiful place. Compared with the highly popular and commercialized Northern Alps, les Ecrins feels remote, austere and breathtaking. And once on the massif's biggest glacier, we felt like we had made it to the inner sanctum. With 25 feet of rope between the two of us, we made our way slowly and inefficiently across the glacier, stopping every few minutes to to stare in awe at the rugged peaks surrounding us. The plan for the next day was to get an alpine start, and ascend the Barre des Ecrins (the tallest peak in the range), but at the moment I would have felt satisfied to have gone no further. Sitting several hundred feet above the glacier and looking out contentedly from the dining room window of the Refuge des Ecrins, we enjoyed a similar view--expansive glaciers, towering seracs and and proud peaks, with summits shrouded in clouds.
Evening in the Refuge was a bustling world of aspiring alpinists. The Barre des Ecrins and in particular, its rounded sister peak the Dome des Ecrins, are very popular climbs. They both top out over the (coveted) 4000 meter mark, and the Dome doesn't pose any major technical hurdles, making it a relatively easy tick for accumulators of high summits. At dinner (which we, the stingy black sheep of the refuge, spent cooking our own food in the corner) the Guardian's announcement of the latest weather forecast was met with multi-lingual cheers.
The Refuge des Ecrins has two wake-up times: 3am and 4am. The Guardian organizes the rooms according to itinerary, and he rouses our room at 3. In the dining room, the jovial spirit of the night before has been replaced by concentration. Everyone, ourselves included, takes themselves very seriously. I imagine every mind going through the same mental checklist: harness-check, crampons-check, helmet-check, piolet-check, and the list goes on... Though the whole hut is awake, we all exit in near silence, cautiously picking our way down the scree slope back to the snow. Ahead of us, we can see a line of climbers, only visible by the glow of their headlamps ; efficient rope-teams making their way up the glacier.
The trails to the Barre and the Dome begin together and we file into the line of climbers moving deliberately into the blackness. In the dark, you don't think about much. It is 4am. There is a well worn piste that you follow and assume will avoid any grave danger. Your sphere of concentration is limited to the pool of light emitted by headlamp. Though there are many of us moving at once, we all seem to have blinders on, each consumed by our individual worlds.
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the magic hour
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At about 6:30, the blinders come off. Off to the east and across the valley, the sun is making its slow ascent into the sky, and rays of morning light peek around clouds and mountains. I feel like I just woke up out of a haze, realizing for the first time in several hours just where I am. I am reminded of my trip with the Middlebury Mountain Club up Mount Rainier, and the feeling of awe when night gave way to dawn and we felt like all of our work was paying off. Only here, and only after laboring for days and through the pre-dawn hours could you enjoy a sunrise like this. Ah, yes, even more than the feeling from yesterday,
this is why I do this.
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| "mellow ridge romp" |
About two-thirds of the way up the Glacier Blanc, just below the bergschrund (the giant crevasse at the top of a glacier), our course veers left. Now fully awake and feeling hyper sensitive to our surroundings, we find ourselves alone as the rest of the rope teams traverse right toward the more straightforward Dome. We are in untracked terrain, and despite thick fog, Brad somehow manages to navigate around obstacles, and we arrive at the base of the ridge.
The route starts out technical. Brad begins, leading the first pitch which we are surprised to find is all ice. I follow, and when I join him at the belay, he suggests that I take the 'sharp end', and lead the next pitch. The solid ice has given way to rock, snow and rime, and I make my way up, via the path of least resistance, until I find the next anchor. We continue this way, taking turns on the lead, until the difficulty eases off. By this time, the cloud level has risen, and we are rewarded once again with panoramic views. And reminded of the exposure. Brad would describe the climb at this point as a 'mellow ridge romp', and I would feel obliged to point out that this particular romp is not only perched at the top of a long steep snow slope ending in a bergschrund, but also peppered with glimpses of the void where the steep south face of the Barre des Ecrins drops perilously off for hundreds of meters. My intention, in saying this, is not to terrify our mothers, but rather to emphasize the fact that even after passing the 'technical' part of the climb, the battle is far from won, and constant vigilance is still necessary.
After 6 hours of climbing, we arrive at the summit (4102m) just as clouds roll back in. We are the first and only team of the 70+ guests at the hut to do the Barre des Ecrins that day. We quickly enjoy our typical mountain lunch of bread cheese and sausage, feeling a wild mix of emotion-- elation, exhaustion and anxiety; having climbed up over 3000 feet, we still have to climb back down.
The descent back to the glacier was a continuation of the ridge traverse, taking us over mixed terrain that finally ended in rappels down to more level ground. Soon we rejoin the herd path and carefully make our way down the hill, much more aware and in awe of the the tortured nature of the glacier--yawning crevasses and precarious seracs jumbling their way at varied paces down the fall line. It seems incredible that we wound our way through all of this in the pre-dawn darkness. Like zombies we trudge back to the refuge, excited to put warm soup in our bellies and get horizontal.
The day's climb is a big step for me. It is not that I progressed so much in my ability (the climbing is no more technically challenging than routes we've done before), but rather that I advanced by leaps and bounds in the the realm of confidence. On a traverse it is rarely much more or less dangerous to take the lead than to follow, but leading adds an extra mental component that I hadn't really ever employed before at altitude. It is at once bold and meek; you must be confident, and know that you are in control and also vigilant, respecting that you are completely at the whim of the mountain. And you must trust, and be trusted by your partner, who's fate is, by a few dozen feet of rope, completely entwined with yours.
I were both very excited to show her a window into our lives here (though I think my excitement trumped Brads...). During her all too brief visit, we enjoyed foliage which reportedly rivaled Vermont's this year, finally checked out the Musée de Grenoble for a casual viewing of
