...a check with the time informs it's still only 3.00pm.
Plan A was to reach Death Bivi on day one, with a Plan B aiming for the Brittle Ledge’s if we went well.
We now contemplate a possible Plan C. We’ve got a few hours of daylight left, which if we get the hammer down, should be enough to reach the Corti Bivi.
From this point on, I’m into unknown territory, though thankfully my partner knows it well. It’s both out third time on the face, but unlike my epic failures, he’s romped up it twice before.
The Brittle Crack is awkward and insecure, a shattered, tottering fissure held onto the face by stubbornness. Then it’s the swing out onto the Traverse of the Gods.
Jesus it’s exposed!
I risk a quick glance down into the abyss below, the whole face falling away into nothing but rushing air. The climbing is steady, but that void below pulls at my heels and psyche, until we finally reach the eponymous title of the book that haunted my teenage years.
What a place!
For the first time, no longer blinkered and weighed down by the ghosts of my previous failures, I can appreciate the magnificent and spectacular architecture of this huge face. It really is utterly jaw dropping in its scale and savage beauty.
A few ropes lengths up a benign and straightforward Spider, and we’re below the huge headwall of the Exit Cracks.
I suddenly feel very insignificant, a pointless speck of ego and mortality.
A deceptively hard gully pitch leads to the Quartz Crack. It looks horrendous, but thankfully, the weapons grade youngster on the sharp end is made of the stuff that I’m not, and gives an ice cool and masterful display of climbing brilliance which takes my breath away, as he dances up with footwork that would make even Michael Flatley turn green.
I follow in a style best described as a stunned pig in an abattoir – especially at the swing out left at the top of the pitch.
As dusk starts to lower its veil down the face, we traverse across to the eagles perch of the Corti bivi.
It takes almost an hour of combined effort to chop and clear enough snow and ice from the ledge to make it reasonably comfortable.
As we busy ourselves with the domestic chores of the bivi, my young partner smiles at me – “not bad for an old man” – he grins. He’s half my age, yet we both know who’s the sorcerer and who’s the apprentice. I am here on this small ledge, perched on the edge of nowhere because of him, not me.
I am exhausted and cold, yet my spirit soars up into the twighlight.
As the stove chatters away to the brew, I slip into my sleeping bag and gaze down from my small lofty perch to the twinkling lights of Klein Scheidegg and Grindelwald far below. A wave of unexpected contentment sweeps over me. No matter what happens, the hard and dangerous stuff is below.
I’ve been saving a particularly fine Cuban cigar, and a hip flask of vintage Armagnac brandy for the summit, but this moment seems more appropriate.
As I sit digesting the wonderful pasta and meatballs laced with enough garlic to scare off a platoon of vampires, and cooked as only an Italian can cook, sipping on a piping hot brew infused with that wonderful orange brandy, I light the cigar. God it tastes so, so good. It is one of those memories to cherish, to lock away in that special place reserved for the final run through the reels of life, before passing off the mortal coil.
The night air is cold, and the wind is starting to blow up and across the face, yet I still drift into a contented sleep.
Dawn is already breaking when we stumble from our pits and get the crucial morning brew on. A rushed breakfast of dates and apricots washed down with ferociously strong coffee, and it’s time to say goodbye to this infamous little ledge.
Down and left slightly, via a fixed rope, and the remainder of the Exit Cracks loom ominously above. The next three pitches are still hard, and poorly protected, before slowly giving way to about four relatively easier but still serious and fragile pitches. Everything slopes and leans the wrong way, out of balance, and the climbing feels very insecure and sketchy. The gear is noticeable by its absence. Time passes in slow motion, a grinding stuttering series of freeze frames, as the cold cuts through and goes from very uncomfortable to achingly painful.
Then, suddenly, I’m pulling out from void and gravity of below. Pulling out from the demons that have shadowed my life. Pulling out from those terrible retreats that held me prisoner in my head for far too long. Pulling out from the history and folklore. Pulling out from the ghosts. Pulling out of the shadows, and into the light, in more ways than one.
A short while later, I finally get to experience ‘the’ moment, as I haul myself into the biting wind howling across the Mitteligi Ridge. I’ve done it! I’ve finally climbed the 38’ route on the Eiger.
On the summit, we definitely go so far as to hug each other. I feel both elated and relieved. I grab hold of my glorious young partner who has made this moment possible, and kiss him on the top of his head. If he was a Brit, we could be looking at a slap, but to an Italian it is a perfectly natural display of friendship. He smiles broadly and happily at me, and I am overcome with emotion. I can feel the tears of joy freezing on my face in the fierce icy wind, until he reaches with his thumbs and wipes them away.
“Not bad for an old man” he grins “Not bad at all.”
We bound down the West Flank as fast as we can, desperate to try and generate some warmth into our frozen bones. A third of the way down, I make a solitary detour over to the edge overlooking the North Face.
I spend a few minutes looking across at this huge face that has been such an irrational part of my life. Yet I no longer feel any animosity to this brooding, menacing and brutally majestic face. This is, surprisingly, not a ‘F*ck You’ moment.
I haven’t slain the Eiger demons, because the Eiger doesn’t have any demons. What I have done, is slain the demons in my head.
Getting closure was always a big part of this climb for me, but in the process of getting that closure, I’ve also discovered, that when you strip away the psychology, macabre history and emotional baggage, in good winter conditions with stable weather, the 38’ route is a rather wonderful and magnificent climb. Any interaction with this face tends to stay in the memory bank far longer and with far more impact than most other routes. And that, whether the experience is bad or good, is a sign of greatness.
Having finally succeeded in climbing it, I am even more in awe and humbled by it, and my respect for those early pioneers of the 30’s is greater than ever.
I turn away, and head down to the safety and security of the world below.
By 6.00pm we’re back in the comfort of the Scheidegg Hotel, and I’m back where life really matters - in the warmth of Mrs G’s arms.
Through the windows, I look up at the silhouette of that huge face framing the night sky, and smile to myself.
Not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.