After two days in the comfort of the Scheidegg Hotel, studying the face through the telescopes whilst trying not to give the game away, and a weather forecast for the next three days looking good, the time has come to try and sneak in under the radar.
At midnight I steal myself away from the warmth of Mrs G’s arms, and along with my young Italian stallion partner, head for my third bout with demons and destiny.
The air is cold, abrupt and jolting. I huddle into my down jacket and try to not let the past and doubts come to the surface.
By 2am we are at the foot of the face. I avoid looking up at the ominous bulk looming above us, and we start to solo the lower third of the face. If I’m going to succeed this time, I’m going to succeed quickly. The young Italian spider with his shinning teeth, square jaw and absurd level of fitness and prowess reckons two days tops?
Thankfully, the snow is predominantly good neve, and there are only a couple of sections where our pace is slowed by knee deep wading. We make pretty rapid progress and reach the base of the Difficult Crack by around 4.00am.
Whilst I am more than happy to put my young partner on the sharp end for the difficult sections, I feel a strange need to lead this pitch myself.
My movement is ungainly and off balance, clunky and singularly lacking any grace or finesse. The back of the crack is choked with boiler-plate hard ice, and the walls either side alternate smooth bare rock and verglass. At about half height, I have expended far too much energy, and my confidence is slipping. I clip into a piece of faded tat disappearing into the ice at the back of the crack, and take a moment to give myself a good metaphorical kick up the arse.
I haven’t put myself through all the hard work of the last 12 months, and overcome the psychology of my history with this face, to screw up this early. Besides, I can’t let the young whippersnapper below take all the plaudits. I’ve got the reputation of old farts to preserve.
Launching back into action, the climbing brain finally switches on, and I start to feel like I have the right to be up here again.
Confidence returning, I reach the top of the pitch. The Italian stallion makes a mockery of my performance by running up it in less than five minutes.
Starting to get into the groove now, we cover the ground to the Hinterstoisser quickly, and as the darkness begins to give way to the half-light and eventually dawn, we swing across the fixed ropes of the heavily iced traverse, and I begin to start feeling optimistic.
The First Icefield is lean but straightforward. The Ice Hose has - much to our surprise bearing in mind a couple of reports we’ve heard from a few weeks back - got a good runnel of ice on it, and despite only one sketchy piece of gear, I find it not too hard. The pitch above it however is a different story. Apart from the odd streak of verglass, it is bare, and looks desperate, and I’m glad I’m not on the sharp end. However, the young Italian spider is more than up to the task, and dispenses it in an almost casual manner. I on the other-hand require a tight rope on a couple of moves.
By 10.00am, we reach the Swallows Nest, and stop for a rest and some fuel. All the hard training over the last 12 months seems to be paying off, because I feel surprisingly good and strong. We look across towards the huge swathe of the Second Icefield, and check for anything coming down from above, but apart from some plumes of spindrift and the odd sliver of ice sliding off the icefield itself, the face is still well frozen in place.
As speed is crucial, we decide to unrope and solo across to the Flat Iron. Rested and fuelled, we make our way onto the centre stage of this enormous amphitheatre. Minus the umbilical of a rope, it all starts to feel much bigger and serious, and the doubts and anxiety start to rise. I have to steel myself to push them back down again.
The climbing isn’t hard, it’s just metronomic, an endless series of step and repeat movements in that mental no mans land between focused concentration and hard wired instinct, underpinned by the harsh and sphincter twitching reality that one slip could be fatal. However, unlike my previous two return trips across this huge slab of snow and ice, perched like the gothic roof of a decaying Cathedral, there is no artillery bombardment from above. I think I might actually be starting to get some kind of perverse enjoyment?
By around noon, we arrive at Death Bivi. I have no inclination to stay here long. It is a place I’ve spent too much time at in the past, and I do not wish to revisit the memories of those horrible hours and days.
Without looking back, we quickly head off to the Third Icefield. The climbing is deceptively hard. The ice alternates between bullet hard and brittle, interspersed with fragile neve over ankle deep poorly consolidated snow, and we are both glad to reach the foot of the Ramp.
The next few pitches provide really enjoyable climbing, hard but never rearing up in anger, and we swing leads with a pleasing and precise rhythm until we reach the Waterfall pitch. Even though it’s my pitch, I decline - cowardice is always the better part of valour – and point my young spider at it. When it’s my turn to follow, I’m glad I did, it’s hard!
The ice in the Ramp Icefield is like trying to front point the hull of a ship, and my arms and legs are starting to feel the strain.
Soon we reach the Brittle Ledge's, the place from where I nearly never came back from last time. I say a silent prayer to the mountain gods...
