A day in the Life of Ban Sam Yord

The village of Ban Sam Yord belongs to more than two hundred Hmong people.  My first view of the village was a rather disappointing blue tin roof, much like the one on Khamma's kitchen Thai in Thamuang.

The scene quickly changed into a scene of huts scattered on the hill side with chickens, ducks, pigs, cows and goats wandering around.  

There was a lot noisy activity taking place in the centre of the village, coming mainly from the men folk who were constructing a small building in which to store rice. They were using machetes, crude saws and a hammer and nails; as we say in the north of England 'rack of th'eye and rule o'thumb'.  As usual, there were more watching than working!  In between this centre of attraction, many children were running around playing games or just being inquisitive towards the new strange arrivals.

The Tourist Department constructed the hut we stayed in especially for visits like ours.  It was quite spacious with a room for sleeping and a kitchen.  The floor was hard packed dirt but it was cool and cosy.  After claiming a sleeping place on the raised platform that was the bed, we ventured round the village to see what was going on.  

We called in a home where four generations lived; the eldest was grandma at a good 78 years old. We saw children playing a game with spinning tops and watched the animals living cheek by jowl.  

By the time we arrived at the rice store, the men had stopped and were viewing us quizzically.  They were smoking from a water pipe and Mark and Til could not resist having a go.  By their reaction and their antics for the next thirty minutes, there was no doubt that the smoking mixture was a bit whacky.

Our guide, Somphone, asked what we would like for evening meal.  We had a choice of goat, duck, chicken or pork.  We settled for pork and Somphone promptly identified a succulent specimen in the yard.  A man from the house next door caught it and trussed it up.  It was small, but it could kick and squeal like an animal ten times its size.  First, the front legs were tied together, then the back legs and a small log passed from front to back.  It made enough noise but was bound in such a way it could not move.  Just outside the hut was a water well, which was the main supply for drinking, washing and cooking.  There was also a square frame, and the log, complete with trussed pig, was placed in the frame at about waist height.  The pig’s head was at the side of the frame and because it was upside-down, the underside of its neck was exposed.  Somphone placed a bowl under its head and, at that precise moment, out of nowhere, another man appeared with a knife and slit its throat.  Warm blood poured into the bowl as Somphone stirred it with his hand to prevent it from congealing.  The pig was jerking and writhing until all life had expired and it became meat rather than an animal.

Once the flow of blood had stopped, the pig was untied from its bondage and the job of scrapping the hair from its skin began.  Boiling water was poured over the skin and using a spoon suspiciously similar to the one we used earlier in the day at lunchtime, its hairs were 'shaved' away.

It took sometime to de-hair the pig, but once finished the anatomy lesson began as Somphone opened up the pig to reveal its insides.  Everything was carefully extracted out of the animal, including ears and trotters, and eventually we started to recognise pig meat.

It was a strange experience.  It is no use taking moral high ground.  This is the way of village life in a remote forest in northern Laos.  It is different culture and it was my privilege to learn from their way of life (or death if you prefer).

Activity switched to the kitchen as the cooking pots boiled over charcoal fires and Somphone took control.  We chatted amongst ourselves and in the common ground of a Laotian forest, we exchanged stories of background and travels.  I think our German friends were quite impressed with the catalogue of expeditions and travels Dave and I had notched up.  It never ceases to amaze me even if I say it to myself!

After the culinary theatre of the preparing and cooking the pig, the actual meal itself was not exciting.  I had a feeling the best meat ended up on somebody else's plate in the next hut.  What little we had was tasteless and smelt of steamy abattoirs.  The pumpkin soup was good as were the vegetables and spicy sauce.  Sticky rice does nothing but give the illusion to the stomach that it is full, and if you eat too much, it bungs you up for days. However, Somphone's work was appreciated and he was the perfect host.

There was no pub to go to, so we settled down and listened to the noise of village.

I awoke at some stage to hear a very faint chanting coming from a hut that I thought was behind us.  It was a rhythmic repetitive chant with about four voices.  Interspersed I could hear distressed cries of someone in obvious pain.  Then it stopped.  Next morning I learnt that someone had been very ill in a hut about 100 metres away and the shaman tried his best to save her life, but she died.

Trekking in the Nam Ha National Conservation Area

We spent the next couple of days on buses travelling to Luang NamTha, which is a small town very close to where Laos borders with Burma and China.  This was once the Golden Triangle, infamous for cultivating opium and illegal drug activity.   The plan was to trek into the National Park and stay in a village or two with the locals.  Eco-tourism plays an important part of the economy and they welcome intrepid foreigners to join them on strenuous hikes through dense forest, up and down hillsides, through rivers and eat local produce with the villagers.  The sun is very hot at this time of year, which does not make it any easier.

The journey took a day and half.  It was interesting to see this part of Laos, which receives relatively few foreign travellers.  The countryside is spectacular and our fellow passengers were great fun.  Sat next to me was a 19 year youth from Vietnam whose English amounted to my Vietnamese.  He shared peanuts and other snacks and called me Witnala, another variation on my surname!  I never discovered his name or found out what he was doing.  

We sometimes walked as the bus drove through the mud.  The precarious position of housing made me wonder how they managed to keep from slipping into the water.  I would not be happy staying the night in some of them!

We arrived at Oudamaxi as the sun was sinking behind the dust clouds in the west.

Next morning we caught the mini bus for the 5 or 6 hour journey to Lumag Nam Tha.

Luang NamTha is a busy market town with a very busy bus station.  We stayed at the Bus Station Hotel, which was ok, but felt a bit grimy for its $4US per night.  There were some decent cafes and restaurants and even the internet was available (this was 2006 remember).  At one cafe, a couple of Akha women enquired in hushed tones if we were ok for ganja.  

We have never found a need for this so we did not even have to think twice about the warning posters from the Laos PDR Central Committee for Drug Control sponsored by the United Nations Narcotics Board of Control.  Instead, we opted for some fun haggling over local crafts.  We took a version of a Laos massage, which is supposed to knead out the knots, sooth the stiffness and bend out the bumps that accumulate following a week of relatively uncomfortable travel on river boats.  It was excruciating but the hot sauna brought back the blood to the body parts strangled by the sadists posing as masseurs. A great way to spend an afternoon for only 3$US.  

On the way back to the hotel I decided to have my hair cut after spotting a small barber shop.  It was not the best hair cut I have had but at 5,000 kip (30 pence), it was certainly the cheapest.

Trekking is organised by the Tourist Office and we were lucky that a trip was departing next morning exactly to the area with the stop-overs we wanted to experience.  It is very unwise to venture into the park without a guide because maps are unreliable and the tracks are constantly changing.  It is easy for a foreigner to get lost in the dense undergrowth, reading 'missing persons presumed lost' posters testified the warnings.  It is also a sobering thought that American bombing raids between 1964 and 1973 left Laos the most bombed country in the world.  We were aware that there is still a lot of unexploded ordinance, probably not so much in this region, but you do not get a second chance if you step on a land mine!  Over 260 million tons of bombs were dropped on Laos during the war; that's 210 million tons more than the combined total of bombs dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1999 and 2006, or a plane load of bombs dropped every eight minutes, 24 hours a day, for nine years.  Staggering!!!  (See www.legaciesofwar.org for more info)

We joined two other trekkers, Mark and Til, students from Bonn in Germany.  Our guide was Somphone and his young assistant was Mouaxeng (pronounced Mowasing).  After stopping at the market for fresh vegetables and sticky rice, we drove to a roadside village where the track up the hillside, through the rice fields and into the forest and beyond began.  It was baking hot in the noon day sun as the mad dogs and Englishmen zig zagged up the path.  

We were soon sweating, but thankfully, we had an early lunch and a leisurely break, which gave us the opportunity to get to know each other a little better. 

Onwards and mostly upwards, we trekked for about three hours before we reached the village Bam Sam Yard.  This is home to about 200 Hmong people and it did not take long to meet our hosts.

Apocalypse Now country

The Nam Ou hotel was a ramshakle affair, taking on the air of a backpacker's hostel, without the 'hostel' bit if you see what I mean.  It was laid back and comfortable, almost, but not quite, an oasis from the chaos of the river bank. 

I awoke at 6.30 am to usual sounds of Laos village life, similar to the previous morning - listening out for cocks crowing, birds tweeting, the chatter of women against the 'pock, pock, pock' of mortar against pestle grinding chillis, mango and spices into aromatic sauces.  I hear children playing, babies crying, the odd motorbike and adults coughing.  Not just any old cough, but a male voice choir of hawking, retching, gobbing and spitting stringy strands of spit and goz in long glutinous lobs in the direction they happened to be looking into at the time. I cannot get used to the way Asian's clear their lungs in the mornings.

I did not have the gumption to work the shower, so I had a cat lick in cold water, packed my bag and presented myself for breakfast.  What a start to the day!

After a stroll through the town, picking our way through the mud and gobs of spit, we arrived at the pier in search of our boat for the final leg.  

We met a couple of student backpackers from Switzerland who informed us that the boatman wanted $20US each and that they could not afford that price.  When Dave and I enquired, the price was the same.  The students could not see the logic in charging the same price for more passengers, so they started to haggle.  Dave and I stood back and watched a skilled haggler perform a master-class in driving the price down to $12US each.  Very impressive.

Meanwhile, there was huge entertainment in watching the ferry boat cross over from the far bank.



The huge floating pontoon carried trucks and cars and was kept from floating downstream by a tug.





The current was deceptive and at one point it seemed likely that the float would escape, but the boatman knew every inch of the river and skilfully guided the platform onto the ramp just below where half the population of Muang Khua had gathered to witness.

The vehicles rolled off and relieved drivers continued on their way to China on road 2E.

Although the movie Apocalypse Now was based in Cambodia, about 600 kilometres south, my imagination often wandered with visions of 'Charlie' lurking on the banks ready to snipe at our vulnerable boat chugging upstream.

My day dreams were brought into sharp focus as we boarded our vessel.  Today we had the 'comfort' of being protected by a armed guard who took position, with his rifle, on the stern.  I convinced myself it was a hunting rifle, but all of a sudden the prospect of meeting Colonel Walter E. Kurtz seemed a little bit too real for my liking!

The river was becoming narrower and there were less signs of villages, fishermen and boats, but more bird life, especially kingfishers.  The boat was full and the seats were even harder than the previous two days.  

At one point we stopped and picked up three young men and six pigs.  Two of the pigs were small enough to put inside bamboo baskets, the two medium sized pigs were apparently trusted to sit quietly in the back, but the two big ones had to be trussed (presumably to stop them running all the home - wee wee wee wee!)

The pigs obviously objected and fought and squealed as their captors bound their legs together.  It did look distressing as they bundled them into the back, but this is the way of the world in these parts.

We arrived at our destination, Fong Sali, around 5pm.  We were about 25 kilometres east of the Chinese border, 25 kilometres west of Vietnam and about 40 kilometres south of the northern border with China.  It was very remote and a far cry from the 'hot spot' of Luang Phrabang.

As I disembarked, or rather unfolded my spasmed body from the near foetal position it had fossilised into, I managed to spike my hand on a rusty nail.  As I did so, my reaction caused me to do the splits over the side of boat, resulting in dragging my crotch and associated body parts on the rails.  I was not sure what hurt the most, but the bleeding hand needed attention.  Later I discovered the other area needed the attention of a Savlon antiseptic wipe as well!  

However, the immediate need was to negotiate a bus ride to the town to find a hotel.  Being older and wiser than our Swiss co-passengers, we left them to negotiate the price.  

There was a stand off as the driver smelt US $ in our pockets, but there were six locals who wanted to ride the bus as well.  It became obvious we were subsidising their fares and they would not be going until the price was agreed.  

Eventually the Swiss compromised, and although we had to share the back of the bus with the pigs, we were at last on our way.

As we climbed onto the back the bus, the pigs were tied onto the tailgate!  It had a bad day for the pigs, and tomorrow would be worse as various bits of them would be sold at the market.

We found a hotel in the town and after a meal with our Swiss bargain hunter friends, it was an early night to work out how to find a bus for the long journey south to Oudomxai.

Day Two - A slow boat to China

Despite the early evening rain, there was hardly any rainfall during the night.  I woke to morning sounds of village life in Asia.  Random cries from the chickens. The occasional motorbike, crying children and the soft sweet singing of the women folk as they prepare food with fresh produce bought in the early morning markets.

I showered, even managed a shave in the cold water.  After breakfast we left the Many Poon and made our way back through the streets to find a boat for the next leg.  First the good news, the boat was running. Secondly the bad news, we were the only passengers and it would cost $60 US.  No choice.  We had to pay, but noted that suddenly the boat filled with local people and it was safe to assume they paid considerably less, or not at all.  Still, $30 each for a day on the river is a good price especially if it helps the local economy.  

We boarded the boat and I was intrigued that food preparation was carried out right next to boat.

The cargo that was loaded in the stern ranged from dvd players to pigs trussed up in bamboo baskets.  I cast my eyes over the passenger and counted twenty two people.  I noticed one girl with sharp cheek bones and stunning eyes.  She was in her twenties and was desperately trying to control her son, who I reckoned was a bout two years old.  She was losing the battle and judging by the look on her face, the will to live as well!  She hit him, but this made matters worse until the boy became exhausted and fell asleep.  Another young mother was feeding her baby and I realised that babies in Asia, especially in the villages, do not wear nappies.  How the mothers know when their baby is going to wee or poo I don't know.

As we set off under and chugged under the bridge, we entered some rapids, which for a moment made us realise that if this overloaded boat should tip over, we would make the world news.  After that early excitement, about ninety minutes later we suddenly stopped.  Dave and I had no idea what was going on, but most people got off the boat and sat on bank.  It gradually became apparent we had too much weight and the boat was taking in too much water.  Eventually a replacement boat arrived, but we couldn't work out how somebody knew to send one.  Mobile phones don't work and there was no village to run to.  It must have been by message on a boat returning downstream.

Everything was transferred, including the dvd and the pigs, and we set off again.  Dave and I found ourselves sat opposite five Akha ladies.  Follow this link for more information http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akha_people

They kept staring at my hairy legs and again I realised that staring is a national pastime in Laos.  It is an inquisitive, thoughtful and silent stare, which neither gives indication that knowledge is being stored, or simply thinking that 'What on earth is this I am looking at, and I wonder where it comes from'.  I could not make eye contact with them and one of the ladies even kept her face covered nearly all the time she was on the boat.  I thought she had a cold, but she was probably embarrassed.

Throughout the  day, our fellow passengers departed and eventually we had the boat to ourselves.  Because of the unscheduled delay, we were travelling as dusk fell and it was touch and go if we have enough fuel.  Our best estimate of a five hour journey turned out to be nine hours bordering on epic.

We arrived in Muang Khua as darkness fell, and luckily for us the Nam Ou Hotel was only a few strides across the muddy banks of the river.  At $3 US a night, a supply of Beer Lao and tasty veg soup, it was even more convenient.

Into the Golden Triangle, northern Laos, by river boat

In September 2006, I visited Laos with Dave.  The plan was to travel as far north as possible on the Nam Ou from Louang Phabang, which is more or less in the centre of northern Laos. Once at our destination we planned to visit hill tribes before catching a bus back to Louang Phabang.  Sounds easy when you say read it like that.

Louang Phabang Mekong River

In Louang Phabang we stayed at a hotel called Lam Sok and explored he town's ancient temples and river banks.  The rain poured down all night and did not bode well for the river-boat trip.  In the morning there was no electricity therefore no shower.  However, after a hearty breakfast and with rucksacks packed we waited patiently for the boat and hopefully other passengers. We had heard that the boat does do not depart with less than five passengers, unless $80 is forthcoming from hard up travellers.  According to the 'timetable', or the word of mouth rumour, whichever you prefer, the boat departs at 8am.  By 9.30am there was still no sign of a boat, but our spirits had been lifted by the arrival of a Swiss couple who wanted to go on the same boat.  A short time later, it arrived with a fifth passenger and we were set to go on the adventure.  Had we misread the timetable, looked at an old one, or even the wrong one?

The Nam Ou (River Ou) flows into the Mekong river 25 kms north of Louang Phabang at a place called Pak Ou.  At this point there are caves on the west bank hoarding thousands of Buddha images, whilst on the opposite bank the village of Ban Xang Hai is famous for its whiskey made from fermented sticky rice.  Contrasting images characteristic of south east Asia.

The Nam Ou soon revealed its own character.  It is narrower than the Mekong and the high river banks revealed spectacular towers of limestone.  Sadly the sun was not shining, but sound of the boat's diesel engine chugging away and echoing off the rocks reminded me, once again, of my favourite movie Apocalypse Now!

The river was in full flow because of the monsoon rains, and it was fast flowing making our progress seem laboured as we made our way upstream.  The river is the life-line to the villages scattered along the banks.  Not only does it provide transport, but also food, irrigation and washing water.  The dense forests provide wood for housing and a small income from its sale to Europe and North America.  Back in Louang Phabang, I had noticed sacks of rice labelled with the United Nations food programme logo and wondered if they were destined for the ramshackled villages lining this beautiful river. 

Occasional rapids appeared and made our hearts beat faster as the prospect of sinking was a constant possibility.  If you feel unsafe on this journey, I advise you to take your own life vest! Brilliantly coloured birds, small and large, constantly darted across the river  looking for and sometimes diving for fish in the green water.  Their eyesight must have been at x-ray standard to see further than six inches in silty water.

There was no shortage of people, usually children, by the water's edge.  The women washing clothes, food or themselves and the children playing on mud slides, laughing, shouting and waving with joy as the boat passed by.  There wasn't a computer game in sight.  The menfolk, looking more serious were fishing, logging or tending the rice fields.  Always a stare sometimes a forced wave, but rarely a smile or expression of emotion.  More bewilderment at white men on a boat.   I had fleeting thoughts of Jerome K. Jerome but hoped for less comical eventualities.

The boat was about a metre wide and twelve metres long.  It had a low roof, which meant crouching and, as tall foreigners with hardly any flexibility in back or legs, we found awkward.  The wooden seats became extremely hard, and although the boatman had thoughtfully provided cushions, they did not contribute to the level of comfort.  There was little chance of stretching the legs, other than the infrequent stops whenever the boatman thought about it.

Our stopover for the night was the village of Nong Khiaw (I think Google maps refer to this town as Hat Sao).  Nong Khiaw, or Hat Sao if you prefer, is the first point at which a road bridge crosses the river.  This makes it easy to fine on the map.  Darkness was falling as the boatman waited patiently for a family to finish their ablutions.  We entered the village by  forcing our cramped limbs up the steep steps.  We both commented on the similarity to villages we had passed through in Nepal.  Tea houses lined muddy tracks where children, chickens and dogs ran excitedly in all directions saying hello and giggling when we replied in English.


We found a room at the Many Poon guesthouse for $4 per room, including mosquito net, but the bargain price meant we shared the shower and squat toilet with the owner and his family.

For those of you not familiar with Asian showering etiquette, you quickly learn that it is achieved by scooping cold water from a tank and pouring it over the body, lathering up the soap and rinsing off with addition scoops of water.  Not ideal, but it does the job.  The art of using a squat toilet is also learnt by necessity, and for some becomes a preferred modus operandi.  However, with dodgy knees and zero flexibility in my legs, I prefer the traditional design patented by Mr Thomas Crapper.

Dusk was falling as we walked over the bridge to the Sunset Guest House for supper and a welcome Beer Lao or two.  I had pumpkin and coconut soup followed by egg and vegetable fried rice.  Sadly the setting sun was absent from our lofty position on the terrace of the Sunset Guest House, and as the rain began to fall we ran back to Many Poon for a night cap and good night's sleep under mossie nets listening to night sounds of the forest, the occasional dog bark and the snoring of other guests through the paper thin walls. 

The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 My Summary

When I read Phil’s story I remembered that after we returned to England, I made a tape recording of the climb.  I either was too lazy or had no time to write down the details.  Amazingly, I found it in an old tape deck and it is in good condition.

My story with my voice is not as entertaining as Phil’s written word, but I suppose somebody in the family will play it one day and be reminded of me.

There are no discrepancies between the versions, even the times are the same; set off at 5.20am, summit reached at 10.50am, return to hut 14.50hours.

I made more of the dangers we encountered.  For example as we climbed up the Coolidge Couloir the mist and clag crept up the mountain, threatening to envelope us so that we could not see where to go.  In addition, I recorded that crossing the bergschrund was very difficult.  Short climbing on loose rock with crampons scraping for purchase and an ice axe thumping into fresh snow trying to find something to pull up on.

I noted Phil was in good form leading up the couloir.  He climbed for two hours without a stop!

On the descent I recalled that we had three choices to cross over the bergschrund.  Firstly to back climb, but that was too dangerous; secondly to literally run and jump, but there was a high chance of falling and breaking a leg, or falling into an unseen crevasse; thirdly to abseil off the frozen rock.  I noted and respected Phil’s good judgement in choosing the rock from which to abseil.

In my conclusion, I said that I would never forget this day out in the mountains.  I also commented that I was pleased, privileged and happy to be with two good climbers on day that we will never forget.  This is spirit of mountaineering with the Powsers.

Sadly, Phil died about eight years ago following a stroke.  Everyone that knew him misses him.  His sense humour often got him to trouble, but he was able to laugh at himself.  I still vividly remember him singing Danny Boy in Irish accent in a very Welsh Anglesey pub at a Saturday night singsong.  Not exactly the best choice of song, especially as he forgot the words and we were invited to leave!

As I read his story of the Ascent of Mount Pelvoux I heard Phil telling the story.  The words in capitals are exactly the words Phil would emphasise as he narrated the tale. 

It is 21 years this week since our epic adventure.  Doesn’t time fly?

Phil on the summit of Mont Pelvoux with his favourite SNICKERS

Phil and Pete back at the hut after our epic

The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 Part 2

Phil's drawing of the route taken

Ascent of Mont Pelvoux (3,946metres) 28^th 29^th August 1990

By

Phil Winder

Part 2

No problem returning to the col, but the couloir looked a lot steeper going down.  We also had a new problem.  The layer of new snow which had adhered to the ice and provided some support earlier in the day was now AVALANCHING down without any help from us.  Every few steps and we went into an involuntary slide.  OK except that there was a large crevasse below us.  All did several ice axe arrests – Pete decided to turn face into the slope.  Progress was slow.

The way over the bergschrund looked dodgy; it was either a spirited leap or an abseil.  A convenient rock embedded in the ice provided an anchor.  Ray was doubtful.  A channel was cut in the ice round the rock (just like John Hard showed us at Torside J).  Phil tried it.  OK.  Next Pete, then Ray.  The angle of the slope relaxed as we reached the main glacier.  Back to the rocks and moraine and a rest and off with the crampons at last, after 7 hours.  The ice slope was avoided by skirting around it.  All that remained between us and the SAFETY OF THE HUT were the dreaded ICE SERAC BLOCKS.  It was a desperate spot.  The Glacier du Clot de l’Homme hung in natural ice arches above us.  The blocks as big and green as snooker tables were fresh and clean.  Pete scrambled half way across and stopped.  MY GOD he’s stopped in the middle.  ‘I have to clean my glasses’.  Phil shot past him muttering unprintable words.

Twenty minutes later (1400 hours) we were in the ‘nice’ cabine consuming omelettes au champignons and a nice bowl of TEA.  It was Phil’s turn to carry the ROPE AGAIN.  Just below the hut, a loud rumbling (not the effect of the omelettes) signalled yet another fall of ice blocks – thought provoking?  (One of those could alter your looks).

Trudging down the lacets (remember that word?) and along the valley, savouring the tranquillity of the alpine scene and the contentment after an epic ascent.  Past the pinewoods, overtaking tourists, past the towering rock faces – ‘NEIL! NEIL! Climb when you’re bloody ready!’

FIN

Foot notes

—        When making ice axe arrest you should caution it with the words, ‘Anything you say may be used in evidence.’

—        Glacier du Clot de l’Homme – probably means something rude.  Clot is from the verb ‘clore’ – to close, shut or end.

—        Repere – means a mark – this peak has a trig point

—        Le Phoque (m) means a seal – the one that smells of fish

 

P.W.



Couloir Coolidge (photo by Thomas Gurviez from http://www.summitpost.org/ - permission pending)



The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 Part 1

Phil Winder

Ascent of Mont Pelvoux (3,946metres) 28^th 29^th August 1990

By

Phil Winder

Part 1

Not since 1953, when the Queen, after her coronation, climbed Mt Everest with Sherpa Tennison, has the news of a greater ‘feet’ of mountaineering broken on the unsuspecting British public than the ascent of Mt. Pelvoux (Poldu or Poldark according to Ken O’Connor).

When their leaders, John Hughes and Peter Neumann, abandoned the base camp and its rarefied ATMOSPHERE, three members of the expedition remained.  They were (in descending order of weight) Peter Griffies, Ray Withnall and last and certainly least, Phil Winder.  They had resolved to do something BIG.  (But Bob Wint wasn’t there). Their attention was turned to Mont Poldu (sic).

No information was available concerning the route; bookshops were scoured for information, in vain.

‘We will just have to give it OUR BEST SHOT,’ said Ray as Phil brought him his tea in bed that fateful morning on the 28^th August.  The day had dawned warm and sunny with no hint of WHAT WAS TO COME.  The meteo was quietly confident of ‘beau temps’ for the next day.  The first plan was to take the mountain by STORM tactics (a la Neumann / Winder method) but this was rejected because of a lack of confidence in the route and the fact that we thought it would be too ‘naquering’.

Mid afternoon saw our intrepid trio, fully accoutred, moving up the valley path from Ailefroide (1,500 metres).  ‘NEIL! NEIL! Climb when you are ready.  (Pause) NEIL! Where the bloody hell are you?’  Just some Brits on a 1,000 foot rockface.  Other expletives.  NEIL was not very popular.  Someone abseiled from an invisible platform.

The path rose gently up the valley beneath the pines.  Sweat rolled off Pete, even though PHIL WAS CARRYING THE ROPE.  After about 1 ½ miles the path divides (1,932 metres), one along the valley to the Refuge du Sele, the other straight up.  What seemed like 87 lacets (French for zig zags) and 1 hour 40 minutes later, a huge cairn appeared.  The Poldu (sic) hut (2,704 metres) is cunningly set back and not visible until the last moment.  Plan B* looked doomed to failure – La Cabine de Mont Pelvoux was EMPTY.

Alors, the hut lady was very friendly – if a little fat – and produced ‘eau chaude’ and ‘potage’.  Later two guides arrived with their clients – one was to climb Pic sans Nom, which initially follows the same route that we were destined to follow.   Phil, lapsing into fluent vernacular, chatted up, first the lady client and then the guide and was HORRIFIED to hear about the DESPERATE long way up Pelvoux with abseils and large crevasses, until he realised the guide was talking about the TRAVERSE of Pelvoux.  However, the Couloir Coolidge was not recommended – tres dangereux – better go by the Rochers Rouge.

‘Right, we’ll give it our BEST SHOT’, said Ray and we walked outside behind the hut to reconnoitre the start.  The path ran for 50 metres to the base of a grade 2 rock scramble up a cliff.  Should be fun in the dark.  Clouds were covering the peaks as dusk turned into night. 

That night Ray wrote in the hut book, ‘This is a nice hut’.

Time for bed – just seven of us in the dorm.  ‘Thank God Ken O’Connor is not here’, and other prayers for success on the morrow.  Instead of Ken, God sent his second best SHOT, a THUNDER STORM to keep us awake.  The rain lashed down, HOPE OF SUCCESS WAS EBBING – ZZ ZZ Z ZZ……

‘Bonjour, il est quatre heures!’

‘Merci Madamme’, a dit Pierre.

‘Phoque off’, replique Phillipe et Ray.

The guides and clients got up.  ‘Jasus d’ey’re goin on de hill.’

‘Go and see what the sky looks like Pete.’

Peter returns – ‘A bit cloudy, some stars.  You go Phil, see what you think.’

‘Sod it’ etc.  Yes there was a chance, anyway we had PAID IN ADVANCE for morning tea water.  That was the decider.

There followed a leisurely breakfast.  The guides left well ahead of us.  5.20am found our heros blundering up the ROCK BAND to the path above.  Two sets of lights away to the left gave us a rough idea of the route.  Our faint path led us to the moraine below the Glacier du Clot de l’Homme where we were confronted by huge SERAC blocks.  Luckily, we could not see where they came from.  Beyond, a traverse left over broken rock led to a STEEP ICE SLOPE.  So crampons on.  What we took for a path across was just a dark band of the ice – we crossed the ice onto broken slabs, but obviously off route and too high.  Crampons off.  Route found, round a rock bluff and up loose scree and rock ledges to moraine by the Glacier de Sialouze.  Dawn approached – she told us that we had passed the Rochers Rouge, but high up on the right ran the COULIOR COOLIDGE, under six inches of new snow.

Ray was carrying the rope now, so Phil was well ahead.  Pete had taken an original route on the ice, which put him in third place.  We’d passed the rocks SO THE COULOIR IT WOULD HAVE TO BE.  Crampons on…….two hours later, having crossed the bergschrund via a rock ice scramble, and with mutinous mutterings from Ray below, Phil announced that he reached the col and the upper glacier.  JUBILATION and A REST.  NOTHING COULD STOP US NOW. (Is that a pop song?)

The Glacier de Pelvoux was nothing like so steep as the coulior.  At first on the ridge, and then with the ridge a gauche, and roped up, we simply followed the edge of the glacier until we reached the SUMMIT rocks.  It was 10.50am.  Sunlight bathed the glacier and rocks of the Repere on the far side, whilst below a sea of cloud hid all but the Barre des Ecrins (scene of earlier triumphs).  FANTASTIC – CONGRATULATIONS – HANDSHAKES (no kisses) – PHOTOS – EAT SNICKERS BAR and a cup of coffee.  Phil wandered off to a minor summit to check that it wasn’t higher – it wasn’t.

The drop on the left was horrendous.  We solemnly toasted ‘ABSENT FRIENDS’.  ‘This is a nice mountain’ said Ray.  He decided that he would write that in the hut book when he got down – if we got down!  Will Ray, Phil and Peter GET DOWN – Stay tuned for Part 2 of this gripping narrative. 

Commercial break ‘I bet they drink Carling Black Label!’

Ray Withnall in his climbing days

Pete Griffies with Alpenstock and Peels Arms sweater