Cleaning up on the Pic Sans Nom.

Bang. The door booted open, Cartwright was led inside, steered toward the bed like an elderly grandmother. Aimed and abandoned, he swayed for a second before toppling forwards. Landing face down in a drunken stupor he gurgled, content.

Rudely awakened I wearily slid out of bed - someone had to arrange the bus out of the valley. Reaching the airport for the return flight looked like it could well be the hardest section of the trip. For once everything had gone so smoothly; good weather, luxury bivvies, abundant food, stacks of hard climbing and a new line ticked. But with mere hours left it was falling apart, work wouldn’t take my absence kindly, and we needed some bus tickets. Fast.

Out of season climbing, or more accurately, out of season and out of condition climbing, has certain advantages. Trouble was, we weren’t out of season. An anything but easy Easyjet flight had brought us to the crowded valley a few days before, and we’d fought our way into the crowded Bar Terrazz in search of Guy Willet, the key to a free chalet doss. We found him all right, in luck for once that day, but that meant he’d found us too. Tequila he roared, Cartwright too readily succumbed.

7 am the next morning and the chalet floor was strewn with bodies, burnt out husks that had once belonged to some of Britain’s best alpinists. We crept out, packing alpine sacks softly to avoid disturbing the comatose bodies and more importantly, my accomplice's thumping head. Raiding the kitchen to find some sustenance for the coming activities, only stale bread was unearthed. Cartwright didn’t seem to mind though, his body appeared to function perfectly well without solid food.

Dressed for success, after a quick supermarche hit it was time to join the mêlée for the Grands Montets telepherique. In a snaking, moving and vibrant queue, three frustrating hours were spent fighting the hordes of skiers hell-bent on squashing our newly acquired baguettes. Another hour of powder bashing, crevasse-crawling and deep snow flogging from the top station eventually placed us beneath our intended line under the castellated ridge of the Pic Sans Nom. The would-be-route followed a light-grey rock scar - dust, dirt and loose rock marked the way. Cartwright knew it intimately having tried it once in winter and once in summer. This time would be the final attempt; he was fed up of this face and the ridge above, one final big effort he’d declared or people were going to call him obsessed.

Still hung-over he tackled the first pitch with gusto, a stunning corner-crack line, off vertical, but steep. Perfect torques in the corner and gear. The difficulty was in the footholds, or rather the lack of them. Laybacking the whole way was the key, fifty metres of Scottish V11/8, feeling a bit too much like an E1 grit corner. Cartwright reached the belay and hauled the sacks, then I got stuck in. Revelling in the sustained climbing and spectacular setting not twenty-four hours since leaving Leicester - this was a different world. Smooth sweeping grey granite walls, sandpaper rough, towered above, hemmed us in. The air cold, crisp, sharp. Surrounded by brilliant white fields of virgin snow soothing the jagged mountains, ripping into a clear alpine sky. Skiers whizzed down from the Petit Aiguille Vert, performing giant turns in perfect neve. Swooshing gracefully in the shadow beneath the imposing moody North-Face of the Petit Dru. No doubt they stopped on occasion, savouring their awesome setting before racing to the Mer de Glace and on down to the comforts of the valley.

My lead, a continuation of the corner, twenty metres of absorbing climbing made all the more interesting by the odd loose block. Tiny flakes and edges for front-points carefully located whilst torquing and laybacking to a delicate traverse and V-groove to the belay. Cartwright soon joining me, dispatching the VII pitch easily.

It was still quite early but the next pitch looked hard. With an hour of daylight left we decided to stay put. Neither of us having a good record for finding creature comfort, especially when climbing together. A fine spot it was too, some digging gave lying room and Cartwright was happy to settle early. His hangover abated, he wryly observed that he might _actually be able to eat something now.

Jogging across town, I burst through the door of the bus company office. The woman looked startled by this early morning sweating apparition. “Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais”, I gasped, this was no time for my limited French.
“Oui, monsieur, what do you require?”
“Could you tell me when the next coach leaves for the airport?”
“Certainly, it leaves in thirty minutes,” she replied coolly.
“And the one after?” I muttered with rising panic.
“Two pm” - Sh*t, that’s the same time as the plane takes off, “Give me two for the one in thirty minutes please-quick! Merci, oooh-raah- varr!” The journey back to the chalet became a frantic sprint.

The second day dawned clear and bright. “Sleep well?” enquired Cartwright, already knowing the answer. “Aye, how about you?” I replied between mouthfuls of cake, determined to lighten the weight of my sack by eating as much as possible.
“Crap, your bloody snoring kept me awake.”
“Hmm, sorry, must have been all that food I ate for supper.”
“Must have been. And hey, don’t think I haven’t noticed that I’ve got all the gas and the stove while you have the food mate!”
Rumbled, I apologised, stuffing another lump of cake into an already over-filled mouth.

Cartwright set about the third pitch, more delicate than the first two pitches, and not as obvious. His previous encounters with the line no doubt helped, as he danced a delicate VII foxtrot across the near vertical unprotected slab. Miraculously, a number one wire sprouted from the grey and blank granite walls, a silent witness to the previous summer’s attempt.

Clipping it made the requisite delicate lurch back into the corner more secure, then it was pure hanging-scratching-tottering-torquing-climbing to the top. Seconding, it felt like the Great Slab at Froggatt - what had happened to those days of climbing rock routes with the aid of sticky rubber and chalk? English 5c, with crampons and axes, and not for the first time this season. I just hoped that the Lakeland rock-police weren’t watching.

My turn again. So soon. The slab easing off, turning into an open book corner with an off-width lying at its rear. There was no choice but to squirm, thrutching for Queen and Country. After only a few metres, I ran out of gear - typical. Engineers slab on Great Gable, all over again, even the same grade of VI/7. Hating every grunted inch of this unprotected slither-fest. Distraught to find the angle increasing the further I climbed. Relieved to finally place some gear enabling a final pull over the roof guarding the exit. Cartwright cruised it.

Time for pitch five - a fantastic steep v-corner challengingly throwing attitude down, sneering at us. Cartwright valiantly got stuck in, reaching a high point of twenty-five metres. Fully extended he fell. He tried again. He fell again. On the third time he managed to wedge a wire half in, half out of a constriction at the back of the corner. Tottering, scratching, sweating, swearing, fighting he fell once more and slithered, rattling to beneath the wire. It held.
Out of gear to fit, and exhausted, he offered me the lead, but I had to graciously decline. He must have believed recent press reports branding me as “out-of control and crazy”. Well, I’m not that crazy. So instead he scampered rightward, a rising traverse aiming for a ridge crest. I followed, it was the final pitch of the new climbing, wildly out of balance and unprotected until it joined the ridge taken by the Brown/Patey route.

Several pitches of testing climbing continued on this ridge, and I started to wonder what the hell was going on, “Er, Jules, what grade did you say this climb is?”
“It’s TD+ man.”
“Er, what year did you say this climb was done?”
“1963 mate.”
“And, er, where do we have to go?”
“Around that gendarme, across that knife-edge ridge, around the big gendarme, abseil into that notch, through the gap, up that overhanging wall, past the last gendarme and onto the ice slope.”
“That’s ok then, I thought it was going to be difficult!”
“It’s not too bad, although we spent two days on it last time...”
Eventually, at 9 pm the final difficult ridge pitch was dispatched. Easy climbing led to the great sweep of ice stuck in the middle of the Sans Nom North Face. Exhausted and happy, we settled in to the best bivvy spot ever - two great fins of rock balancing on the ridge crest protecting us on either side. The corridor between the fins runs for twenty feet with a snow-covered flat floor. Luxury is a harness free evening. Time to eat some more of that food.

I'm screaming at him, “Jules, wake up!” grasping the shoulders of the inebriated form lying on the bed and shaking vigorously. “Eugh,” he grunted.
“Come on,” I continued, “the bus leaves in twenty minutes.” I rushed out of the room, throwing my belongings into the one giant bag. Heaving it across my shoulders, buckling under the weight I head-butted the door to make a final check on my Cartwright.

He’s staggering, naked, unsure of what planet he’s on and failing miserably to focus or find a single piece of clothing. I’m now convinced the trip home will be a solitary one.
“I’m going Jules - I’ll try to delay the bus.” A snail with an out-sized shell, I stumbled into the street.

At last the ridge of retribution finally gave way, leading to the iron-hard ice-slope of injustice. We moved together at first, confident of abilities, out into the middle of a frozen, 60 degree sea of icy-emptiness. Battered by winds and spindrift, the exposure got to us and we started to pitch it. A cold form of Chinese water torture took over. Front-points, blunt from two days of rock abuse, refused to penetrate the hard winter-ice without repeated bludgeoning. Calf muscles screamed for redemption. Sixty meters seconding and sixty meters leading, one hundred and twenty meters of suffering, before a hanging rest from two ice-screws.
“F***ing ice climbing, I hate this sh*t.” Cartwright wailed, while angrily bludgeoning.
“This isn’t ice climbing, this is flagellation,” I groaned, desperately wishing he’d slow down to give me a longer rest, “we should've abbed after finishing the new stuff, why are we doing this sh*t?”

The trouble was, we both knew why. Driven, obsessed, the whispering voices locked in the sub-conscious would have started the moment the valley base had arrived. There was no other choice.

The distance inexorably reduced, until the top of the icefield was crawled. To exit, the steep ice-gully taken by Marsigny after his partner fell, leaving him alone to solo, was chosen in preference to the top pitch of the Twight and Backes route, There goes the Neighbourhood. We both had ambitions for this, but an epic at such a late stage in the game would spoil such a fine outing.

Steel fingers wrapped around, and squeezed the life from my calves, this easier gully had been a wise choice. But glancing to the left I couldn’t help studying The Neighbourhood, even convincing myself - with the bravado of someone not returning in the near future - that it looked OK. At the top, such temptations thankfully beyond reach, a down climb lead to the Charpoua Glacier, and after a magnificent effort of textbook abseil construction and glacier route finding, Cartwright led the way through the heavy door of the hut.

It was deserted, but the cooker worked, and with tons of fresh snow outside the door, this was going to be one cosy night. I pulled the remaining food out, and inbetween rooting round the hut for other more exotic delights, prepared enough risotto for an army. I delved deep, but Cartwright, no doubt smelling the closeness of fermentation in the valley returned to his liquid diet, drinking brew after brew. We settled down for a peaceful night, nothing could go wrong now.

The bus driver glared at me. “Please, un moment, monsieur, deux personne arrivent bientot,” I stuttered, pleading with him to wait a little longer. Although under pressure from the complaining passengers, on-board and checking their watches, he reluctantly agreed. Standing outside the bus to delay departure, I looked longingly towards Chamonix centre as his patience ran out, “allez, allez, no more, we go now!” he screamed
Admitting defeat, I turned toward the bus just in time to catch sight of a heavily laden, swaying figure struggling through the early morning crowds. Wait! “Deux personnes, deux personnes!”

The drunken Cartwright swayed into view. Blond hair plastered with sweat to his forehead, his boyish good looks deserting him for once . Bright-red cheeks glowing with effort and on his clothes, dark damp patches spreading like fungus. Breathing hard, puffing and panting, knocking unwary tourists flying as his head drooped even lower toiling under the strain placed by the massive sack. He reached slurring distance, “good effort Nick - didn’t think you’d get him to wait.”

“Hey, no problem mate, I owed you. It was your route, you cooked, I ate, you abseiled, I just didn’t expect the crux in the valley!”

NICK BULLOCK would like to thank Mammut and DMM.

JULES CARTWRIGHT (29) died with his client Julie Colverd whilst guiding on the Piz Badile on 30th June this year. A frequent visitor on BMC International meets, Jules was one of a tight knit group of leading British mountaineers responsible for many high standard ascents. He will perhaps be best remembered for the outstanding first ascent of the NW ridge of Ama Dablam in the Himalaya with Rich Cross, as featured on the cover of Summit 29, for which he was nominated the prestigious French Piolet D’Or award. His enthusiasm and skill in the mountains were legendary, equalled only by his prowess at the bar.

THE OUTING was a combination of three routes, Borderline (the new route), The British Route: Aiguille Sans Nom, Northwest Face, and two pitches of the Marsigny/Mohr: Nant Blanc Face of the Verte. to reach the Breche Sans Nom. The overall grade was thought to be ED3.

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