In an account first published in Mountain Magazine in 1991, Robert Durran and the late Brendan Murphy - one of the most gifted mountaineers of his generation - endure a gruelling ordeal on the Eiger's '38 route.

Five Days One Easter 

Robert: This article first appeared in Mountain Magazine in 1991. Brendan Murphy was one of the finest mountaineers of his generation. At this time, however, I was more experienced than Brendan in the mountains and we had an all too brief climbing partnership in which our strengths seemed to complement each other's perfectly and which culminated in the ascent of the Eigerwand which is the subject of the article. Afterwards I took a conscious step back, but Brendan went on to have a mercurial career in the Alps and beyond until his tragic death in 1997 while descending Changabang after his brilliant ascent of a futuristic route on its north face with Andy Cave.

August 1988

Brendan: The bearded guru sat forlornly in a corner of the Verdon campsite. I had finally persuaded him to abandon his Chamonix hovel due to the persistent bad weather, but he was clearly yearning for his beloved mountains. He consoled himself with yet another croissant and, seemingly oblivious to the glorious sunshine, returned to his alpine library. Robert was not inspired by the French rock climbing scene - high on bolts but low on character. He has a healthy appetite for adventure befitting an alpine connoisseur, and his experience with "sports climbing" had left him sadly disappointed. His preferred sport was to wander through the campsite laughing at the lycra; his breakfasts lasted long into the afternoon, much to the envy of the lettuce munching weirdos.

Robert: The Harlin route on the Eiger would be a good tick – certainly sufficient to be able to retire in style. Easter would be the ideal time of year – plenty of ice and relatively free from stonefall – surely worth a look if a partner could be requisitioned. Brendan seemed the ideal victim. Adequately naïve in alpine matters but infuriatingly cool on a serious crux, he had, however, begun to display the tell-tale signs of a closet rock athlete; a pull up bar, thinly disguised as a towel rail, had recently appeared in his bathroom and visits to the gym had been rather too strenuously denied. A little light therapy was definitely in order.

March 1989

Brendan: Laden with enough food to siege every route on the face, we sped across France. The bravado had worn a little thin by now; we only had two weeks holiday and the chances of doing anything except spend a large amount of money seemed fairly remote. Even so, Robert saw it as an excellent opportunity to avoid the annual pilgrimage to Pembroke and we pressed on in the knowledge that at least we wouldn't go hungry. Base camp was on a hairpin bend just outside Grindelwald. We arrived at night totally exhausted from the drive and crashed out on the first piece of grass we could find. Next morning we were roused by the sound of coaches taking "beautiful people" to the pistes. Spot the Brits.

Robert: The face was awesome; lots of snow but it might just be possible. Brendan's suggestion that we abseil down and practise the clips was not very helpful. However, the meteo was superb and excuses were fast running out. Things began to look really serious when Brendan forked out for a week's parking ticket. We packed ludicrously heavy sacks and fought our way onto the late afternoon train to the Eigergletscher. A burst tin of sardines in Brendan's sack only served to heighten our unpopularity with the skiers, and we were glad to make our escape, shuffling round the corner to the foot of the face.

Our bivvy was a complete psyche-out. The enormous Nordwand loomed above in a hardly inviting manner, and our resolve steadily dwindled as the time for departure drew nearer. Several hours the next morning wallowing through deep powder gave us just the excuse we needed, and we had no difficulty convincing ourselves that retreat was the only option. The relief was immense. Perhaps we could go eurocragging now? But no, Robert's contingency plan was to take the train to the Jungfraujoch for a few days acclimatisation. I couldn't really argue.

Early morning ascents of the Monch and the Jungfrau were rewarded with perfect sunrises and our exertions in knee-deep powder were certainly getting us fit. On both occasions we were back at our 5-star bivvy having our second breakfast in time for the daily stampede of skiers and Japanese tourists. Strangely enough, we saw no other climbers. A shortage of food a few days later sent us scurrying back to the valley, only pausing to gawp at the north face through the Kleine Scheidegg telescope. This resulted in an outbreak of sanity – the Harlin route had been a very silly idea! The '38 Route looked a soft touch in comparison – not sufficient to retire immediately, but ample justification for the trip. The meteo was good for another three or four days; that should be plenty of time – perhaps we could tick the Matterhorn on the way home. We pared the sacks down ruthlessly; food for three days, fuel for five, lightweight pits, minimal hardware. Next evening the only other passenger on the last train up was a gentleman in brogues, pinstripe suit and pink shades. Once again we fled to the familiarity of our bivvy beneath the face.

Although conditions had only improved a little, I felt much more optimistic about our chances this time. The weather was glorious and I was quietly expecting a fairly straightforward ascent. The first pitch early the next morning quickly shattered all my illusions. Robert spent a long time leading a steep unconsolidated gully and it became clear that we were in for some sport. Fortunately, however, there was perfect neve above and, although the Difficult Crack and the Hinterstoisser Traverse proved quite tricky, we made relatively good progress. Even so, what normally takes a few hours to solo in summer took us a full day and we only made it to the Swallow's Nest bivvy before dark.

As on the first day, the climbing on the second was brilliant; often hard but never desperate, always serious but never completely out of order. My only hesitation was at the foot of the Second Icefield. I had just scared myself, wobbling on my crampons in my hurry to second a thin slabby traverse which I felt I might have been unwilling to lead. Added to this, a layer of high cloud had drifted over and I felt a duty to play Devil's advocate to Brendan's unruffled confidence. With the sunny valley still beckoning below we talked of retreat, but, though my doubts were real, my words were mere gestures. We stormed on, moving together across the vast tilting gable of the Second Icefield. The Flatiron, Death Bivouac, the Third Icefield all slipped by; the Spider was inexorably drawing us into its web. We spent our second night on the face half way up the Ramp, each in his own snow coffin, one above the other. I was now intoxicated by the quality of the climbing; the tremendous situation, the awful commitment, the aura of history and legend. This was climbing at its best – artificially put yourself in a wild situation and then escape from the terrible reality, upwards or downwards, either a fulfilment, the summit a bonus. An intense and private game. What did it matter if some media star had soloed the route live for breakfast television – gloriously irrelevant!

An otherwise perfect dawn was marred by the sight of lightning on the horizon. True, it was a long way off, but it was a stark reminder of the seriousness of our position. I used to enjoy watching thunderstorms far out to sea from the warmth and security of my bedroom in Cornwall, but on this occasion I felt exposed and worried. The climbing on the Ramp soon banished such thoughts. Technical mixed ground, steep ice and aid; never before had I come across such intricate pitches requiring such a high level of concentration. Superlative climbing high on the North Face of the Eiger, a mountaineering dream come true. We were too absorbed in the route to take much notice of the weather, but as we reached the Brittle Ledges the first snow started falling. A fresh layer of powder quickly covered the face, filling every crack and disguising every feature. Within a depressingly short time the season had reverted from spring to winter. The mood of the climb had changed completely. I could no longer enjoy the challenge; I just wanted off. The change in our fortune seemed to rejuvenate Robert, and he changed up a gear and took control. We have this useful rapport which works well in the mountains; whereas I had been supplying the drive lower down on the face, it was time for the more experienced Robert to take the initiative. There was no need for discussion, it just happened quite naturally.

With retreat no longer an option, everything had become focussed on an upward escape; the Spider or a huge swing onto a marginal belay, whichever it was to be I found that I could take perverse pleasure in the situation now that there were no more decisions to be made, only individual moves to be overcome, survival the motivation.

The Traverse of the Gods will be etched in my memory for ever. For four long pitches we teetered rightwards towards the Spider. All the while the snow continued to fall and the face was regularly swept by spindrift avalanches. There was an appalling lack of protection making our situation particularly frightening. I had plenty of time to reflect on our vulnerability to the forces of nature – we just didn't belong there. Each time I came to follow, all traces of Robert's movements had been obliterated by fresh snow. The climbing was so precarious that every move I made must surely be towards minimising the inevitable pendulum. A tension traverse and a final hard section brought us to the relative security of the Spider. By this time it was getting dark and there was no improvement in the weather. We started moving together up the ice, neither of us able to see or hear the other. Patches of hard ice and several particularly heavy avalanches all served to keep the adrenaline pumping. The occasional twitch in the rope was the only sign that I was not alone in this nightmare.

We reached the top of the Spider at about 8pm and by the time Brendan joined me I had not even found a belay let alone a bivvy site. Our attempts to dig a snow-hole were foiled by hard ice, but at least we had a couple of tiny ledges and a token ice-screw for protection. I was conscious of the dangers of hypothermia, but with the continuous bombardment of spindrift there was no hope of lighting the stove. It was a long and miserable night. I had a strange sense of unreality about our situation. Here we were trapped by the Spider, and yet there was little fear, just a vague sense of regret that this time I might have left everything behind for good. We frankly discussed the merits of prayer but decided that He was unlikely to take pity on the protagonists of such a futile game. We discovered afterwards that we had both tried our luck nonetheless.

Daylight reluctantly returned but there was little change in the weather. We decided to stay put. While we were struggling to make brews and trying to keep warm, we could hear the sound of the "piste-bashers" far below; it seemed ridiculous to be feeling so strung out when the frivolities of civilisation were so close at hand. By mid-day the snow had stopped and with the improved visibility we decided to make a break for it. Two hours later we were starting up the Exit Cracks. The warmth of movement and the discovery of good ice rekindled our spirits and we even dared to think of the summit.

The first steepening was thankfully more like Point Five than the prescribed 5 Sup. I remember savouring a particularly fine groove which succumbed to torquing and "moac-on-a -stick" hammer placements. However, as the hours slipped by and the weather closed in, our optimism gave way to despair. Good ice gave way to powder covered rock, culminating in two terrifying pitches up an horrendously loose chimney. At one point, bridged runnerless thirty feet above the belay, I felt sure I was about to come off. Fortunately, however, some frantic scrabbling revealed an in-situ peg and I was able to clip in and recover. I felt physically sick with fear. Brendan led through in failing light and found a good belay but nowhere to bivvy. He abseiled back down and we resigned ourselves to spending the night dangling from the ropes in the avalanche swept chimney. Thrashing his way into his pit, Brendan dropped his head torch. His carelessness irritated me; my headtorch had long since failed and we were left in total darkness. Brendan redeemed himself by battling heroically against the spindrift to produce brews while hanging inside his bivvy bag. All my down gear was frozen and useless. I longed for the morning, wrapped up in my own world of misery, tormented by the discomfort of my harness.

This was the most unpleasant night I have ever spent in the mountains. Despite exhaustion it was almost impossible to sleep. The only consolation was that the occasional star was visible through breaks in the cloud and I prayed for good weather in the morning. We started the laborious job of gearing up well before dawn. I was haunted by stories of people dropping gear in such situations and was terrified at the prospect of losing a boot or a crampon. Everything had to be clipped in and, fumbling with numb hands, nothing could be rushed. A mercifully clear dawn found us prussiking stiffly back up the ropes.

We were now on steep, open ground resembling a snowy roof of loose slates. Everything seemed to slope the wrong way. Once again the weather closed in and the climbing continued to be extremely precarious. Patches of rotten ice crumbled like wet sugar, belays were at best tied off tools. The final wall provided me with the most terrifying lead of the climb – the only literally trouser-filling pitch I have ever led.

I kept dozing off at the belays; it required an immense effort to keep up the concentration. As I led through onto the summit icefield Robert mentioned that he had been crapping himself on the pitch below – at the time I took him to be speaking metaphorically.

I was shattered. I found myself falling asleep on lead up the brittle ice. Smashing in a snarg, I let Brendan take over. It was then I noticed that several of my fingertips were frozen hard and white. Progress was painfully slow – it was 3pm by the time we emerged into the blizzard on the summit ridge. The summit itself was merely a landmark on the path back from our self-imposed hell. None of the euphoria that I had experienced in the past; the obligatory summit photograph, a bearing on the west ridge and we set off in a desperate bid to get off the mountain before dark. To ease the notorious route-finding difficulties, our final gamble was to trend left onto open snow slopes. There was an obvious avalanche risk, but speed of descent was assured one way or the other.

Robert's experience was paying dividends. He located the abseil posts in the maelstrom and before long we were down the steepest part of the descent. I found myself crying with relief. The Eigergletscher station was visible through occasional gaps in the cloud; safety seemed within reach. We unroped to increase speed. Robert took the opportunity to scrape out his long-johns with the proverbial postcard showing a dotted line up the face. Ten minutes later I lost my footing and very quickly started cart-wheeling down the mountain, totally out of control. I knew I needed an ice-axe brake, but was completely unable to orientate myself. There was no time for fear, just a calm resignation to my fate. I eventually came to rest in a patch of soft snow some five hundred feet below. Although rather shaken, I was miraculously unhurt. Before I had time to recover I was being avalanched lower down on the same slope. It was a relatively small powder affair, but I found myself swimming to stay on top. This really shook me up. It was apparent the whole slope was unstable, but we had no choice but to continue. My self-confidence had been seriously undermined; never before had I felt so frightened in the mountains. I followed Robert's tracks by instinct rather than conviction. I was angry at Robert for rushing on ahead but knew that there was nothing he could do to help.

At last the angle eased off. I descended the bottomless powder by riding a mini-avalanche which deposited me near the only other climbers we saw on the whole trip – Brits of course! They had witnessed the drama from far below and handed us mugs of hot tea as we arrived. Thanks Dennis and Yvonne; we shall be eternally grateful.

Several days later we came back down to earth, immensely happy but also very conscious of our good fortune. Robert, however, was still in a state of shock having been out-classed by a portly middle-aged skier on the train down to Grindelwald at his favourite sport – bullshitting.

This highly accomplished artiste appeared to be totally undaunted as we pointed out the window to avalanches the width of the Second Icefield sweeping off the north face. He proceeded to recount tales of various skiing epics he had endured on recent package holidays, such as when his wife had twisted her ankle and been forced to take shelter in a barn. We were too tired to rally.

The day after we got off the face there was a huge dump of snow right down to the valley. The consequences if we had been caught out in this are not worth dwelling upon. I had suffered a little frostbite but this would serve as an excuse on the crags for many months afterwards. We had been closer to the edge than I would have wished for, but we had done the greatest route in Europe – those who disparage the quality and seriousness of the face almost invariably have not climbed it – and I am sure we would have felt strangely cheated if we had not had to fight for it.

They say that climbing the North Face of the Eiger can change your life and, to an extent, I agree. Little things like stacking Robert's car on the way home just didn't seem important.