Seven Climbs: Finding the finest climb on each continent

By Charles Sherwood and Andy Kirkpatrick

'Even the most casual reader among you will by now have worked out that the whole thing is little more than a delightful ruse for having a very good time.'
Experienced climber Charles Sherwood is on a quest to find the best climb on each continent. He eschews the traditional Seven Summits, where height alone is the determining factor, and instead considers mountaineering challenge, natural beauty and historical context, aiming to capture the diverse character of each continent and the sheer variety of climbing in all its forms.
The author's ambitious odyssey takes him to the Alps, the Himalaya, Yosemite, the Andes, Kenya, New Zealand and South Georgia. His goal is neither to seek glory nor to complete a box-ticking exercise, but simply to enjoy himself in the company of his fellow climbers, including Mark Seaton, Andy Kirkpatrick and Stephen Venables, and to appreciate the splendour of his surroundings. On classic routes like the North Face of the Eiger and the Nose on El Capitan, it is hard not to be swept away by Sherwood's unfaltering enthusiasm.
Also featuring fascinating historical detail about each route, Seven Climbs is a compelling account of Sherwood's efforts to answer a much-debated question: which are the world's greatest climbs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vertebrate Digital
• Release date: May 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781912560868

Charles Sherwood

Charles Sherwood has combined a thirty-year career in the risk capital industry with a love of adventurous outdoor sports. His passion for climbing began at Cambridge, where he furtively scaled the university buildings; and subsequently grew to embrace traditional rock climbing in the UK and the Alps, aid climbing in Yosemite, ice climbing in the Andes, mixed climbing in the Himalaya and ski mountaineering all over the world. His adventures have taken in everything from the Old Man of Hoy and El Capitan to the North Face of the Eiger and a ski descent of Mont Blanc. He is an occasional paraglider (which is probably not a smart thing to be), a PADI Divemaster and a fully certified cave diver, although he has retired from that last activity owing to issues around life expectancy. Charles is grossly overeducated with master’s degrees from Cambridge, Harvard and LSE. He lives in London and the French Alps with an extraordinarily long-suffering wife and three troublesome children. Seven Climbs is his first book.

Book preview

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CONTENTS

THE CHALLENGE

1EUROPE

1938 ROUTE, NORTH FACE OF THE EIGER (SWITZERLAND)

2ASIA

SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF AMA DABLAM (NEPAL)

3NORTH AMERICA

THE NOSE, EL CAPITAN, YOSEMITE (USA)

4SOUTH AMERICA

SOUTH-WEST FACE OF ALPAMAYO, CORDILLERA BLANCA (PERU)

5AFRICA

TRAVERSE OF NELION AND BATIAN, MOUNT KENYA (KENYA)

6AUSTRALASIA/OCEANIA

LINDA GLACIER ROUTE, AORAKI/MOUNT COOK (NEW ZEALAND)

7ANTARCTICA

COAST-TO-COAST TRAVERSE OF THE SALVESEN RANGE, SOUTH GEORGIA (UK OVERSEAS TERRITORY)

NOT-SO-FINAL THOUGHTS

REFERENCES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PHOTOGRAPHS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

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1

THE CHALLENGE

The sun went down at precisely 8.05 p.m., leaving me with just the light of my headlamp. The rope snaked above me into the unknown as I teetered on the tips of my twin axes and the front points of my crampons. I was on the Second Ice Field of the Eigerwand or, to use its English name, the North Face of the Eiger. Climbing this route in the dark might have seemed foolhardy – most especially when lacking any great skill as a mountaineer – but things were OK. The ice was in good condition: soft enough to penetrate with a single swing of the axe, yet firm enough to bear a man’s weight. In short, perfect névé. And although the natural light had gone, the ice adequately reflected the beam from my headlamp, easing progress.

Then everything became un-OK. The Second Ice Field is prone to icefall and rockfall, and just then it started to fall apart. There was a flurry above and a large chunk of ice and rock broke free and fell through the dark on to my head. I could do nothing but cling to my tenuous position, resisting the temptation to look up as the debris hurtled over me. One piece gashed my nose. Rather more concerning, another shattered my headlamp. I was now in true darkness.

Such a situation tends to prompt two big questions (intermingled with suitable expletives): what am I doing here? And what am I going to do now? Both occurred in rapid succession, including the expletives. However, I remained essentially calm. The alternative did not appear promising.

The first priority was to try to rescue the headlamp, since I had no spare. Fortunately, the ice was so steep, and my body so pressed against 2 it, that the broken pieces, rather than disappearing into the void below, had wedged themselves between my chest and the slope. I collected all those I could find and tucked them into a pocket. Trying to reassemble them there and then was out of the question, but at least there was the hope of getting the headlamp working again later.

Second, I dug out my small radio and contacted Mark, my partner and guide, who I very much hoped was securely belayed somewhere above me (although we hadn’t seen many secure belays thus far). I explained the situation, then up I went. Technical climbing in the pitch dark can be challenging, especially when it’s on the North Face of the Eiger, but at least ice is better than rock. It’s more uniform. In such circumstances, the best strategy follows the proverb about how to eat an elephant: one bite at a time. Just keep making steady progress. I did, feeling my way with each placement. Always three points of contact, moving just one limb at a time. It felt a long and lonely climb, but eventually Mark and I were reunited. And – serendipitously – the headlamp was repairable, and light was restored. It took us four days to scale that face and get down the other side. But rather than being the end of a journey, it proved to be the beginning of one. An idea had taken root.

Two decades earlier a pair of American businessmen, Dick Bass and Frank Wells, had set themselves the task of climbing the highest summit on each of the seven continents. It was an inspiring project and one recorded in their enthralling book, Seven Summits. Many others since have taken up the challenge. There is even a commercial organisation of the same name dedicated to helping climbers achieve this goal. Such is the popularity of the Seven Summits that these seven ‘easiest’ routes to the top of each continent are now among the busiest climbing venues in the world. They offer many things, but wilderness is no longer one of them. The encampment at the bottom of Everest and the infamous queues on the mountain’s summit ridge are just the best-known illustrations of what has happened. 3

By contrast, a notable feature of our climb on the North Face was the solitude. In those four days, we had not seen a single other person. The mountain has a mystique unrivalled in Europe, because of its aesthetics and its history – the drama played out on its dark, forbidding face. And yet, its technical difficulty means that it is still climbed infrequently compared with the popular routes on other high-profile Alpine peaks such as Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn.

That got me thinking. Could I find similar challenges elsewhere? ‘Seven Summits’ that represented not the highest, but the finest of mountaineering objectives on each of the seven continents – in short, the best seven climbs in the world? Such a selection would need to reflect mountaineering challenge, natural beauty and historical context; and to capture something of both the diverse character of each continent and the sheer variety of climbing in all its forms. The choice would of course be highly subjective and hugely contentious. But all the better for that. After all, independently spirited mountaineers enjoy little more than a hearty argument.

And so began a personal quest …

4

North Face of the Eiger.

5

1

EUROPE

1938 ROUTE, NORTH FACE OF THE EIGER (SWITZERLAND)

Climbing for me really began at university. After a faltering start, my academic performance had improved considerably – a function of studiousness rather than any real talent – and I found myself with a scholarship to Cambridge University. Cambridge is in the Fens, famous for being flat, wet and windy. There is nothing to climb. Well, not quite nothing.

These days, I’m told, Cambridge is a demanding institution. But back in the late 1970s it was almost impossible to fail. There was only one thing you could do that meant automatic expulsion, and that was climbing on the college buildings. This of course made the idea irresistible. A lifetime’s friendship was created as I teamed up with a fellow fresher, Bill Medlicott, who had not only undertaken an entire week’s introductory climbing course in North Wales but was also the proud owner of a rope. In our inaugural term, we put up a bold first ascent of the South-West Ridge of Sidney Sussex Chapel – at least, it was bold if you’d barely climbed before. I recall standing on the chapel roof, about to abseil down the rope now dangling into the courtyard below, when a college porter strode by. I thought, ‘If he looks up, that’s it. We won’t have made even one term.’ Mercifully he didn’t. 6

Other antics followed. A papier-mâché Easter rabbit found its way up to the college bell tower, and a park bench up on to the rear gate of King’s. All this high-spirited fun came to a climax when a plan was hatched to put our sixteenth-century college up for sale. We duly gathered from around town all the estate agents’ For Sale signs we could find. These – hereinafter known as ‘the stolen property’ – were suitably adapted and, during the night, hung out on the college walls. A harmless prank, of course … but not in the eyes of Police Constable Ron Pearce. This fearless bastion of law and order cornered various student members on a narrow staircase and called for backup. Bill was one of those packed into a Black Maria and taken away to spend the night at Her Majesty’s pleasure in one of the local cells. Fortunately, he was able to secure a timely release in the morning on the entirely truthful grounds that, as a theology student, he was also sacristan of the college chapel (the same one we had previously climbed) and needed to prepare for Holy Communion. His prompt release was particularly welcome, because that day he was receiving a visit from his parents, his father being the then president of the Kent Law Society. Happily, the president took these developments in his judicial stride.

Meanwhile, our focus had shifted to real rock, and excursions to the Peak District, North Wales and the Lakes. As a kid who had spent most of his summers on bucket-and-spade holidays abroad, my eyes were opened for the first time to the beauty of my own country. The climbing was self-taught, Bill and I guiding each other as we alternated places at the ‘sharp end’ of the rope. It was a good early test of nerve, because while cams (modern devices to protect against a fall) had been invented, we could afford only one prototype between us. Our main protection was still the legendary ‘chock’ or ‘nut’, the MOAC Original: very effective when suitable cracks in the rock were available, but no use at all when they weren’t.

Then life got serious. I took up a high-pressure job and thought myself very important. I decamped to the USA for a couple of years to do an 7 MBA and returned to an even higher-pressure job, persuaded that I was now even more important. Bill and I married (different women, not each other) and children followed. We continued to climb, but it was distinctly sporadic. We weren’t exactly at the cutting edge, or any other kind of edge. Indeed, at the crag, fellow climbers would sometimes gaze at us and our dated gear as though we were exhibits in a quaint folk museum. But we did keep going in one fashion or another.

In the summer of 1992, my wife Rosemary and I had just taken on a new home and were expecting our second child. I thought this would be the ideal moment for my first climbing trip to the Alps. Needless to say, Rosemary was ‘delighted’. I took on a French guide, Bruno Richard, with whom I had previously skied. He was known among my friends as Mad Bruno, but for home consumption I rebranded him Bruno the Wary. Rosemary was not fooled. Nonetheless, Bruno and I headed for Zermatt in the Valais. In a single week, we climbed the Breithorn and Castor, traversed the Liskamm and the Monte Rosa, and finished up with the Matterhorn and the Dom. This packed itinerary was made possible by extraordinarily good weather. I came away thinking this was what climbing in the Alps was always like. Many dark days since, cowering from rain and wind in Chamonix, have corrected all such delusions.

The following spring, Bruno introduced me to ski touring. Gentle introductions were not Bruno’s big thing; nor was acclimatisation. He felt that a great way to have a first go at ski touring would be to climb Mont Blanc on skis. So, having flown in from London the day before, I joined him for the long skin up to the Grands Mulets Hut. From there we ascended at 2 a.m. the following day, our touring skis on our backs, to reach the highest summit in the Alps. With the world now beneath us, we stepped again into those skis and for the first time I used them in downhill mode, straight off the top. We descended the North Face – which sounds rather daring, but it’s actually the mountain’s gentlest side. Gentle or not, by the time I reached the mid-station of the Aiguille du Midi cable car 8 I was hyperventilating so badly that my fellow passengers clearly thought I was about to die – and I wasn’t sure they were mistaken.

Within a few weeks, Bruno was in hospital, having fallen through a snow bridge into a crevasse. He had been an inspiring guide and had my true sympathy, but I did feel there was a message here and, with thoughts of my continued survival high in my mind, I reluctantly drew a close to our climbing partnership.

With each ending there is a new beginning. I was introduced by an older and wiser friend to a new guide, an Englishman a few years younger than I was, who had moved with his fiancée to Chamonix. Mark Seaton has lived there ever since, and with Jane has brought up three daughters, all extraordinarily good skiers. His parental duties inspired his other profession, that of children’s author. He created Mark the Mountain Guide.

Mark was a young guide with considerable climbing ambition. But that ambition included becoming an old guide. A Mancunian who had done much of his mountaineering in Scotland, he bore that sense of caution that came from repeated exposure to the unpredictable conditions in the UK’s ‘frozen north’. I sometimes moaned that he could interpret almost any weather forecast as bad. A degree of caution, though, seemed a sensible counterbalance to my own tendency to ‘go for it, come what may’. And out of our climbing partnership was to be forged something deeper still: a lifelong friendship.

Mark brought with him a new concept: the route. The focus of my very limited alpine climbing to this point had been getting to the top of things – the bigger the better, but always by the easiest route. Mark had this idea that you could make things more interesting (Rosemary would say ‘even more pointless’) if you chose a harder route to the top. New itineraries now emerged such as the North Face of the Tour Ronde, the Forbes Arête on the Chardonnet, the Traverse of the Grands Charmoz and Grépon, the Biancograt on Piz Bernina, the North-East Face of Piz 9 Badile, and the Frendo Spur and Rébuffat routes, both on the Aiguille du Midi. Getting to the top by the route of least resistance was now saved largely for ski touring: snowy peaks such as the Dômes de Miage in France, the Gran Paradiso in Italy and the Nordend on the Swiss Monte Rosa, the latter undertaken as a finale to the popular Haute Route between Chamonix and Zermatt. There were adventures and happy memories to go with them all, but as we did these many varied climbs, we thought always of just one. Mark and I shared a gnawing obsession: to climb the North Face of the Eiger.

Quite why we were so obsessed with the Eiger’s North Face, I do not know. Mark had attempted it many times – always with other guides – and failed on each occasion. But, as a reason for trying again, that’s about as rational as banging your head against a wall. As an ex-history student, I was fascinated by the tortured narrative of the first climbs on the Face – the initial setbacks and ultimate success in the years running up to the Second World War. However, reading a library full of books about it was one thing, climbing it was another. Nor were we drawn by its appearance. The Face cannot really be described as beautiful. It does not smile. Sometimes it just broods; generally, it scowls. It is threatening, not welcoming. So why? Why were we so obsessed? There is an aura. That is all I can say.

My first trip to the Bernese Oberland, home of the Eiger, was in 1996. The mountain railway, the Jungfraubahn, whisked Mark and me up high on to the snowy plateau, allowing relatively easy ascents of the Mönch and the Jungfrau. We were determined, though, to do the Eiger properly, rather than simply wander up its comparatively easy West Flank. We waited for a strong weather forecast and ascended the famous Mittellegi Ridge, with its precipitous views on the right down the North Face. The gnawing obsession only gnawed harder.

It wasn’t until 2005 that I stepped for the first time on to the North Face itself. It was only a reconnaissance. Mark had been on the lower face many times before, but he wanted to remind himself of the part of the route that we would need to complete in the early hours before dawn – that is, in the dark. 10

11 We climbed to the top of the Difficult Crack, which proved to be just that. This is the first real challenge on the Face and its name elegantly understates the grunting, shuffling indignities required to overcome it. Mark led the way up and over this obstacle without his pack, leaving me to follow with the baggage. Inelegant as we were, we made it in reasonable form. But without crampons or other equipment, we could go no further. We turned back, abseiling down the route we’d come up. Sadly, plans to mount a full assault two days later were left in shreds by that great shredder of all alpine ambition, the weather. It snowed, and I returned to work.

We were back, though, in October of the following year with a vengeance and a strong weather forecast. This time we were fully equipped, loaded with heavy packs. Once more we struggled up the Difficult Crack, me again in the role of laden mule. Things looked good. And then it started to snow. And it didn’t stop. This