The biography of Martin Boysen, one of the most influential British rock climbers in the 1960's and one of our leading mountaineers of his generation, has been published. An insider's account of British climbing's Golden Age, this biography details Boysen's love for nature and adventure. In the run-up to Kendal Mountain Festival later this month - where Boysen will be speaking - we have an exclusive excerpt from Hanging On, published by Vertebrate Publishing. 

Copyright © 2014 Martin Boysen/Vertebrate Publishing.

The Crocodile

After a gruelling but mercifully short training climb on the appropriately named Aiguille du Peigne, we set off to climb our first ‘proper route’ – the East Ridge of the Crocodile – involving a hut walk, glaciers and mixed climbing. I had a score to settle with the Crocodile, having failed on it during my first unhappy season. Then bad weather had forced us to stay at the Envers des Aiguilles Hut. This time we intended to camp, determined to eke out our limited supply of money.

We settled down comfortably enough by some boulders, cooked supper and drifted off into a restless sleep. The pre-dawn silence was shattered by the sound of crunching boots and torches flashing against the tent as parties left the hut. We realised we were late once more. This was a disadvantage of not using huts, but at least the sky was clear, the stars shining with startling brightness, and we could use the other party to guide our path up the glacier.

After a rapid breakfast we stowed away our sleeping bags and stove and hurried after the bobbing torches ahead. Dawn broke as we reached the start of the climb where a French party waited. We were impressed to recognise the burly, bald-headed figure of Lionel Terray with a lady – his client. He gazed at us with disapproval, recognising us immediately as English. He announced rather imperiously: ‘Please do not interfere with me on this climb.’ We stood back respectfully, watched with rapt attention as the great man thwacked at the ice and followed on only after they had got some distance ahead.

It was a dangerous place to hang around; the large accumulations of winter snow were being sloughed off in the morning sun. We had just reached the safety of a rock rib when an avalanche thundered down, narrowly missing our last man Mick who disappeared briefly in a cloud of pulverised ice before emerging covered in white frosting. ‘Nearly got me that time,’ he shouted shaking his fist in the direction of heaven. Crossing another hazardous couloir, Mick was again nearly wiped out and once more he tempted fate by admonishing the almighty. ‘For Christ’s sake, leave off Mick, his aim is getting better all the time,’ Clive said.

Above us was a rock tower, which constituted the route’s main difficulty. Terray was dragging himself up a steep wall at its base. I was sure he was off route and after adopting a suitably humble tone dared to point this out to him. He responded rather forcibly that he knew where he was going; he was a Guide and had done the route before, whereupon he set to with renewed vigour, hauled himself up on his arms, teetered a little and then scuttled back down. He was obviously a stubborn man but I saw a little doubt showing on his client’s face.

I was not prepared to wait so after signalling Clive we climbed easily up broken rocks to a dark chimney I recognised from my previous attempt. The others followed and then Terray began to rope down to join us. We were determined to acquit ourselves well and not cause any hold-ups and consequently charged up the chimney. An additional reason for speed was also making itself obvious. Angry grey clouds were boiling up for a storm. We were just about to leave the chimney when Terray shouted up and requested our help to haul up his sack. We were happy to oblige but shortly after our ice-axes started to hum with electricity and we realised the danger we were all in. We left several karabiners and all our etriers to help Terray’s escape and as we reached the summit, lightning struck nearby. It was a horrifying experience; a loud hiss, a simultaneous flash followed by a rock-shaking crash. We hurled an abseil rope down, descended helter-skelter and raced for our lives along a snow-ridge, with the rope left behind, until we were out of danger, sliding down snow slopes to the Requin Hut.

Having collected our sleeping bags, we left a message for Lionel Terray and set off in teeming rain down the grey polished ice of the Mer de Glace. We slithered helplessly, lost our way briefly and arrived below Montenvers in pitch darkness, very tired, very wet and utterly fed up. To compound the misery we missed the ladders leading off the glacier so for an hour searched and felt our way like blind men through the crevasses and boulders. I had just about given up but Clive persisted and at last a clang of metal announced his discovery. We plodded up them mechanically and then trudged down the rack railway to Chamonix, reaching the Biolet in the early hours of the morning.

A message arrived a day later from Lionel Terray, telling us to collect our equipment from the Guides’ Office. With it was a note expressing thanks for the help we had given – especially our abseil rope and etriers. Later we met by chance in Chamonix and he explained: ‘At first when I saw you I thought you were a typical English party – slow, always getting lost and poorly equipped. Later I could see you were good climbers.’ He also explained his own bad form; he had only recently recovered from an avalanche, which had killed his client and badly injured him. He also pronounced our storm to be the worst he had ever experienced. He was lucky to survive. It was clearly some storm.

Book tickets here for Boysen's talk at Kendal Mountain Festival 2014.