​​In 1970 I was the lone Australian climber in Chamonix. Not into soloing, I was told that the Bar Nationale in town was the place to go to find suitable climbing partners. However, I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. Hopeless at darts and table soccer, the only thing left was drinking alone, nursing a half full glass, and avoiding Maurice, the irascible publican.
 
It seemed being an Australian coming from a reputably flat, dry, featureless country without any apparent climbing history did not seem to attract many good and reliable climbing partners in Chamonix. Unfortunately, Mountain magazine had also just printed an article by John Ewbank describing his climb on the Totem Pole in Tasmania. This set the yardstick by which I would be judged. 
 
“Have you climbed the Totem Pole?" prospective climbing partners would ask. 
 
“No.” The next moment I was speaking to somebody’s back. It did not seem to matter that the Totem Pole was over 1,000 kilometres south of Sydney with its own particular access problems. 
 
My tent was set up in Snell’s Field, about two kilometres up the valley from Chamonix and within sight of the small village of La Praz. It was located just before the bridge that crossed the Arveyon River, which flowed out of the snout of the Mer de Glace. Snell, the owner of a local climbing equipment shop, kindly allowed British and other climbers like myself to camp there gratis. My neighbours were twins, Alan and Adrian Burgess - experienced Brit alpine climbers - and they were very helpful in many respects.
 
The first thing I needed to attend to after shelter was something to eat. The twins pointed me towards the local supermarket. I eventually found it and one of the things that I searched the shelves for was oats or porridge. At the time, back home, this was the staple breakfast cereal - a product of our British, and maybe convict, heritage, I guess. But after combing the shelves several times, I could not find it anywhere.
 
Eventually I saw the manager and went up and asked him where I could find this particular item. He took a pace back then looked at me in absolute derision and disdain declaring: “Only Englishmen and horses eat oats!!!” He then stomped off.
 
I considered myself well and truly told and made my way to the fridge for some yoghurt and cheese followed by a baguette. It seemed like I also had a target indelibly printed on me, which was distinctly English. There did not seem to be much love lost between the English and the French in Chamonix.
 
Drinking alone, camping alone, rain pelting down; my luck suddenly changed, sort of. The Burgess twins had a mate turn up who was also looking for somebody to climb with. I was introduced to "Binks." Intrigued, I had to ask: “What’s your real name?” Silly question. “Binks” was the quick reply. 

So, I set out on my first climb with Binks, a Brit climber of unknown quality and a questionable name. Our chosen destination was the East Mer de Glace Face of the Grepon – a long but easier Chamonix classic.

​Our aim was to climb to a tiny refuge on the Tour Rouge pedestal, bivouac there, and then complete the climb the next day. All went well. Binks was a solid climber. Superb Chamonix granite grooves led up to our small low-slung shelter situated on a narrow shoulder to the right of the main route. On reaching it we found it occupied by three Japanese climbers. However, their English was good, and they didn’t mind sharing the cramped, but comfortable quarters. They told us that they had travelled to Chamonix via the Trans-Siberian Railway. ​

The morning was a hive of activity as we all ate, packed and contemplated the route ahead. The dreaded Knubel Crack lay some seven hundred metres ahead of us, the last bastion to be breached before attaining the summit and its protective Madonna.

The Japanese indicated that they were going to solo back along the traverse line to rejoin the main route, and then rope up. I was puzzled by this decision but put it down to peculiar cultural practices. Maybe, it was just a simple ploy to grab the lead on the route?

The Chamonix Aiguilles from the Aiguille du Moine - the sun rising on Mont Blanc in the left background. The Aiguille du Grepon is the square topped peak second from the right. The Mer de Glace face can be clearly seen. (Photo Credit: Keith Bell)

Somewhat sensibly, we were going to rope up on the refuge ledge given the heady combination of height gained, pack weight, and big alpine boots. From the ledge there was about a three-metre climb down to the traverse line. The first Japanese climber started down with a heavily laden pack. He slipped but landed upright on the small ledge defining the start of the traverse. He teetered, momentarily, but his heavy pack continued to drag him backwards. To my astonishment, he went cartwheeling into space. We all stood there in silence – mesmerised. ​

It took several minutes for us to realize what this meant and regain our composure. A rescue - or more likely recovery - was required, and we thought "alpine ethics" dictated that Binks and I should take part. The other Japanese climbers set up abseils and we went down with them. Their companion had fallen into the bergshrund and was out of sight. Once on the snow, they set up an ice axe belay and one of them descended into the bowels of the slot. A voice called out from below – “he dead.” 

 The Japanese team remained on the snow at the base of the climb while Binks and I trudged back down the snowfield to the nearby Envers Hut. We informed the warden what had happened, and he relayed the information onto the helicopter rescue service. 
 
The warden then made us a cup of welcoming tea.
 
As I slowly sipped it, my mind strived to take stock of the situation; a strange amalgam of sorrow, disappointment, anger and even regret resonated in my mind. The death of a fellow climber weighed heavily, but so did having to abort when we were positioned in stunning weather to go on and complete this classic long climb. Did we really need to come down? Why not keep on climbing? To a certain extent my mind had been wrestling with this conundrum since the incident right up to the present day. Thankfully, resolution has always been achieved by believing that we made the right decision  

The walk back down the Mer de Glace to Montenvers - the building visible above the left end of the glacier. "... not a word needed to be said. We began the long trudge back to Montenvers then down to our campsite in the valley." (Photo Credit: Keith Bell)

​About forty-minutes later we heard the sound of a chopper and then watched it head for and land where we had left the Japanese group at the base of the climb. About ten minutes later the chopper flew off leaving an empty expanse of snow. Binks and I looked at each other; not a word needed to be said. We began the long trudge back to Montenvers then down to our campsite in the valley. 
 
Not to be dissuaded by this tragedy, Binks and I teamed up again. This time we decided to head for the classic one-day route; the South Face of the Aiguille du Midi, first climbed by Gaston Rebuffet and Maurice Baquet in July 1956.

We caught an early "phrique" (telepherique), plodded across the razor-sharp icy ridge from the Midi Station atop the Frendo Spur, dropped down right into the Vallee Blanche, then trudged across the snow to the start of climb. We arrived around 6 a.m. to be presented with a worrisome sight. It was not the famous S-crack that hovered menacingly above that worried us, but the hordes of German alpine troops that festooned the route. What’s more, there were others in "foxholes" at the base of the cliff waiting to climb.
 
We sat down on the snow and waited, and waited, and then waited some more.

Determined, we were not going to allow something else to spoil our climb - particularly given that the return fare to the top of the Midi purchased a lot of yoghurt, baguettes, cheese, and vin "rough" from my favourite supermarket.
 
Unbelievably, a bit after midday, one of the Germans above started playing of all things, a piano accordion. Given the hours that had elapsed combined with cold feet and backside from sitting on the snow, my patience at this stage was somewhat strained. I shouted up “If you don’t stop playing and start climbing, I’ll shove that bloody thing up where the sun doesn’t shine!!!” Suddenly, silence reigned again across the Vallee Blanche, it seems my invocation had been instrumental in achieving this at least.

The Chamonix face of the Augille Du Midi showing the telepherique cables with its cabin on the bottom left. The 'rocket-shaped' lightning rod can be seen on the summit - top right hand corner. (Photo Credit: By Tryfon Kar - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=23051091)

Looking up the South face of the Midi from the bottom. "It was not the famous S-crack that hovered menacingly above that worried us, but the hordes of German alpine troops that festooned the route." (Photo Credit: Keith Bell)

Around 1:30 p.m. Binks and I finally began to climb. The S crack was clear by this time, but when I reached the ledges above, they were packed with German troops. With some quick thinking, Binks and I cooked up a strategy to break through the log jam above. I would lead with minimal protection and move past the occupied ledges to belay in the crack or groove above. This would effectively block the route and give us the lead on the next section. I would then bring Binks up to the ledge to belay with the Germans. The tactic could then be repeated.
 
It worked wonders and we were making remarkable progress passing the hordes of reluctant soldiers and moving quickly up the route.
 
At last, a rightward sloping groove led to a shoulder, which seemed to be the end of the climb. As I was nearing it’s end, a jackbooted German officer with a luger in hand stepped across in front of me barring the way. Well, he was an officer at least and he uttered a rather firm and guttural “Nein!!!” Stymied above, I glanced across at the wall on my right, it was steep and unprotected, but I reckoned it would go. Anyway, my blood was up. "Bugger you!" I thought and launched across and up the wall. The officers mouth gaped as I gained the shoulder, belayed, and brought Binks up.
 
It got messy again. 
 
A short abseil was required into a couloir, the couloir then led up to the main gallery of the Midi station. However, the system that the Germans had set up to protect it was slow and laborious and I was again caught behind yet another platoon. At the bottom I organized the ropes so that the Germans could move quickly and efficiently. 
 
Suddenly, Captain "Nein!" appeared on the skyline and abruptly ordered his men to resume their former complicated and time-consuming system. By this time, I was really pissed off and just climbed on up the couloir until I reached rock. 
 
Just above was an off-take tunnel from the Midi station. It was large, sheltered and expended warm air. I tied off the rope for Binks, as he had decided to foster Anglo-German relations below - perhaps he had spent too much time with them in the trenches?
 
The tunnel was very welcoming; I took out some food and water to make up for the deficit of the day. Outside the light was fading fast and now a storm was threatening. Soon it was dark, snow started to fall and the rising wind began whipping it into stinging flurries. Down below there was a kaleidoscope of flashing torches and occasionally, above the wind, people could be heard shouting. It looked like mayhem - and it was. Seemingly hours later a stream of tired, disheveled Germans began moving past my warm bunker up into the galleries of the Midi. Towards the end, Binks was finally one of their number.

The Aiguille du Midi, a citadel in the clouds. "One could almost perish just walking across the small, darkened bridge that connected two of its summit pinnacles." The South Face drops away to the right of the main tower behind the shoulder. (Photo Credit: Martin Janner, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

We were trapped for the night at the top of the Midi, quartered in some dormitories set aside for workers. The storm intensified with thunder, lightning, howling wind and heavy snow. One could almost perish just walking across the small, darkened bridge that connected two summit pinnacles of the Midi. Periodically, there was a thick stream of blue sparks flashing along the wires attached to the ceilings of the gloomy galleries followed by an instantaneous and mighty BAROOM as lightning struck the rocket-shaped lightning rod on top of the Midi. It was a fascinating place to be in such conditions.
 
By early morning, the thunderstorms had dissipated but at first light heavy snow, accompanied by a violent wind, still whipped around our alpine citadel. The powers-that-be had decided to run one phrique for the day to get rid on their resident "guests." At the appointed hour we all packed into the cabin.

As it moved from the station to begin its steep and airy descent, the phrique was grabbed by the wind and tossed violently in every direction. From above, the ice and snow that had built up overnight on the cables fell in heavy lumps to smash against the top of the cabin with loud metallic bangs. I had visions of us all descending the nearby Frendo Spur in our metal carapace.
 
But as we approached the safety of the middle station and the cable car levelled out, my reverie drifted to what we could climb next. Would it too be thwarted by that other World War II axis power? Perhaps a line of Italians bearing copious supplies of chianti, brioche, cheese all to be served on a red and white tablecloth on convenient ledges? The South Ridge of the Moine was climbed by Binks and myself in splendid isolation on a sparkling Chamonix day. Thankfully the axis had turned, we had served our Chamonix Initiation.

"The South Ridge of the Moine was climbed by Binks and I in splendid isolation on a sparkling Chamonix day." The Aiguille du Moine is the pyramidal peak just right of centre - its South Ridge is the obvious one forming its right shoulder. The Aiguille Verte and Petit Dru are the peaks to its left in that order with the Mer de Glace forming the bottom of the frame. Photo Credit: Keith Bell