​Fiasco on the Grand Cap - 1969 by Mike Stone is a part of a trio of humorous stories about the first Australian ascent of the East Face of the Grand Capucin in Chamonix, France. This story tells the tale of the first attempted Australian ascent of Grand Capucin by Mike Stone and Ian Guild in 1969 (who ended up retreating). The first Australian ascent followed in 1971 by Howard Bevan and Keith Bell.

Common Climber shares stories two and three with Night Cap - The Plan by Howard Bevan and A Grand Nightcap by Keith Bell. Check out all three to get the full entertaining experience!

Common Climber is fortunate to be able to re-publish Mike's original story that was featured in Thrutch magazine in 1971 (Vol 5 - No 9, January/February 1971, Pages 13 - 14). The story has been slightly edited from its original version.

​Mike Stone passed in 2019. In honor of Mike's contributions to the climbing world, Keith Bell provides a tribute. 

The season had just arrived at Chamonix, and so had Ian Guild and I.

​The weather was hot and flies around the squalid camp site darkened the sky, but as they also prevented sunburn they were generally considered a good thing. Judicious enquiries from other parties revealed that just about everything worth doing was out of condition except, maybe, the East face of the Grand Capucin.

The guide book told us that this had been a Bonnati epic-1500 feet of vertical granite high on the southern slopes of Mt. Blanc. Just like the Dolomites we thought.

However we were cautious. We took full bivouac gear, ice axes, spare pegs, chuffer*, food for two days, etc. etc., assuring ourselves that we would be ready to triumph over the ever ready Mt. Blanc sudden storm. Then late one afternoon we trudged up to the teleferique and arrived in due course at the Aiguille du Midi.

The Grand Capucin, a 1500-foot (365 meter) tower with multiple climbs, none easier than a 5.10a US/18 AU/5c FR. The top of the tower sits at 3,838 meters (12,592 feet) (Photo Credit: Wikipedia)

​​​*Aussie-isms - Chuffer
A small primus stove in a blue tin box similar to the in the adjacent photo. A grade of petrol was used and it was primed by hand warmth. This caused the fuel to gather in a bowl below the burner where it could be ignited. The stove made a choof, choof sound when it was lit and had reached optimum heat.

Example of a "chuffer" (Photo courtesty of the Scottish Mountain Heritage Collection)

We looked out across the Vallé Blanch, across which our route lay, and started to trudge off. Then I remembered. "Hey," I said. "Wasn't Lachanal killed skiing in the Valé Blanch." The Guild features were sicklied over with the pale cast of thought for several moments, then finally came the dreaded "yes." Onlookers were then given the treat of seeing two grown men doing a full scale mime of what two grown men would probably look like in a mine field under full battle conditions.

Eventually we got roped up and set off again. The beaten track was about four feet wide and travelled by hundreds every day, but we persisted. Now I usually walk a trifle more briskly than lan, and this meant that when I was in the lead he looked like a water skier some 150' back, or if he was leading, I looked like I was trying to commit an abominable and dastardly crime.

Ultimately we got to the foot of the pinnacle and looked up. You could just see patches of rock through the people. We counted ten parties just starting to bivouac for the night on various ledges up the face, and nearly tossed it in on the spot. However, by a majority of three to one, I outvoted lan and we went up the gully to the left for a couple of hundred feet and then traversed onto the rock.

The guide said that good bivouac ledges lay further up and right, so off we went. Of course we missed it by miles and lan went across a fiery slab muttering something about ledges being" wide and sloping, and then disappeared around a corner. I wasn't worried, I had great faith in lan. Also I had a good belay. A moment later lan reappeared, whistling around the corner at the end of a substantial pendule. "I was doing this balance bit" he explained, "and it was either on or off, and anyway I couldn't have reversed it." However, he had seen the required ledges and we soon dropped down to them.

The recommended cave was occupied by two Germans so we stopped short on a good ledge and spread ourselves for a leisurely meal. Then into bivi gear and settle down for the long wait.

Two Germans suddenly appeared round the corner and settled themselves on a neighbouring ledge. They had a jumper* and cajoule* each and a packet of sandwiches. The weather, they explained, was good, the climb was over in less than a day and they liked sandwiches. Still we weren't worried. Well, not very anyway.

​At four in the morning two pairs of Germans marched across our ledge on route to battle and glory, leaving us just starting cooking breakfast. About one cup of tea later, we heard French voices getting nearer up the gully, and suddenly we realised that we were going to lose even more places in the queue unless we got moving. 

​*Aussie-isms - Jumper
​This could well be a kangaroo or even a person who decides to end it all by jumping off a building or cliff. But, in this context it is a long sleeved, usually wool, piece of clothing that is worn over a shirt or the upper body to keep warm (aka. a sweater or pullover.)

*Aussie-isms - Cajoule
​A lightweight, hooded, thigh-length waterproof and windproof jacket. They were using this combination of clothing to keep warm during the night or for inclement weather.

So, I grabbed everything in sight, threw whatever it was into my sack, looped the ropes around me and jumped onto the grade six traverse that was to start the day. Just then the French leader appeared to see lan with a mug of tea in one hand and a slice of bread in the other belaying me as I slipped and slid across the traverse with my trousers falling down.
​
The French party of four (including one woman) then grouped to watch how the Australians climb. Judging by the string of "mon Dieus" and "Sacre bleus," they got their money's worth.

I then belayed in the cave, trying not to stand in the little monument left by the last inhabitant. Ian eventually got packed up and his boots on and joined me. Then we moved round the corner and into the queue.

We waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour, then we were off. lan led off up a steepish pitch which had a few etrier (aid-climbing) moves but was mainly free, and then I led through to another good ledge, where we waited for a further half an hour or so. The next pitch started off as a tight chimney and lan stepped up off the ledge, clipped into a peg, and promptly fell off. My belaying being pretty crash hot, I left him suspended some four inches above the ledge. After a few brisk verbals, I lowered him down and had a go myself. By this stage faces were looking up and down at us from all over the place. I had to get up at all costs!

About five minutes and feet later I was completely wedged with hands and feet flapping. This led to the formulation of Stone's law. "One body plus one large pack form a perfect wedge in a chimney 15 inches wide." After several desperations and thoughts of becoming just another manky old wedge on the route, I got on top of a pinnacle and paused for a while. From then on the pegs were much more widely spaced and therefore harder work. The 30 lb. packs were beginning to feel ridiculous as the heat built up.

The Grand Cap stands at the head of a huge saucer of snow fields and from 5 a.m. to 2 p.m. the sun is gathered, multiplied, and reflected onto the East face. There is no shadow; no respite at all. And on this day there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

​Ian eased himself up to me and we waited for a while for the next ledge to clear. After a while lan led off on a 30' traverse and then up to the first Bonatti bivouac. I led through a purely artificial pitch*, and when about 40 feet up, said to lan "How much rope left?"

Author Mike Stone summiting the Grande Jorasses on the Walker Spur later in 1969. His equipment and attire would have been replicated on his earlier Grand Capucin attempt. (Photo Credit: John Fantini)

"About 50 feet," he replied.

Not missing a beat I belayed on the spot, and brought him up. I was in a hanging belay and as lan led through. I was probably thinking of cool things. A rather terse "watch it" brought me back to the realms of the present. A few minutes passed when, without warning, the rope whipped out and lan plummated down past an overhang.

Terse language from nearby observers followed along the lines of, "I say old chap, how did you happen to let out 20 feet of rope for a 2 foot fall" and "Goodness gracious my dear fellow, if you will persist in detaching yourself from mother rock without any warning, then. . ." etc. The upshot was a general rout.

​We unanimously decided to retreat. We'd had enough. "And anyway" we said looking at a clear blue sky "there's bad weather coming."
​
However, at the end of the first 150-foot abseil, I realised that this was easier said than done. When I was 140-feet down, I was 10-feet out from the rock, there was no knot in the end of the rope and I had no prussikers.

*Aussie-isms - Well, actually a British-ism - Artificial Pitch The pitch was climbed completely on aid. "Artificial" is the original British term. John Ewbank (Australia) supplanted it in his grading system with mechanical; hence the 18M3 given to some of Mike's routes in the Tribute. Mike lived and climbed in England from 1967 until he returned home in 1969. 

*Aussie-isms - General Rout
Normally a rout is when a badly defeated enemy is scattered and forced to retreat in chaos. Here, this is a self-imposed retreat: an admission of defeat.

Fortunately, on a ledge close by stood a couple of Frenchmen. A polite "Bon jour, messeurs" from me met with no response. They didn't even look up. Then I realised that, obviously, something else was required. "Grab hold of this you dumb bastards!" I screamed flicking the end of the rope towards them. Eventually it percolated through and I was guided onto the ledge.

Ian quickly followed me down and when about ten feet above the ledge, one of his etrier cords that was attached to his waist loop went through the descendeur. No matter how he tried he just couldn't move. The French watched this unexpected diversion with interest. I don't blame them really. It's not every day that you can sit on a ledge 800-feet up a cliff and watch a man, obviously fuming, yo-yoing up and down totally unable to move.

After the laughter had died down, lan called for a knife. The Frenchman, obviously ready for anything at this stage, produced a pocket knife and handed it to me. I casually tossed it up to lan who caught it beautifully on one of the wilder gyrations, he then took a savage slash at the rope, cutting the jammed cord and only giving minor lacerations to the Perlons.

This of course suddenly released him. Fortunately I had managed to get the ends of the rope and he landed gracefully on the ledge, handing the knife back to the French blokes, who for some reason or other had gone pale and started sweating.

We were now back at the end of the traverse. Below were several hundred feet of featureless granite slabs, so we had to head back across the traverse. It dawned on us at this stage that our companions from across the channel were also retreating. But instead of abseiling across the traverse they were prussicking on slings. This is where the waiting game really began.

We sat there for two hours waiting for the way to clear, but eventually our rope was carried across for us, and we abseilled across and then a further 5 long abseils punctuated by exceptional waits saw us to the schrund. It had taken us almost as long to get down as it had to get up. It was 5 p.m.

As a result of our slow trip down, we missed the last of Teleferique back to Chamonix and had another bivouac at the Col du Midi. Then the long slog to the teleferique and the swift trip to Chamonix. I have a feeling we were labelled as the ones who didn't get up the East Face of the Grand Cap.

​lan couldn't stand the disgrace, and headed off for London. I, having no shame, stayed on in Chamonix for a while. But I'm sure lan, if he was here, would join with me in raising the odd glass or three to Mr. Hardy and the crew of Gretel II*.

*Aussie-isms - The Gretel II (John Hardy, skipper)  was an Australian 12-metre yacht that competed unsuccessfully for the 1970 America's cup. It earned the right to compete by defeating a French yacht (France) 4-0 in the challenger selection series.