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The
British Andean Expedition's first ascent of the North Ridge
The history of Alpamayo is a subject which has been well
documented in other journals, but a few historical details might not be amiss here. Lying
in the Cordillera Blanca of Peru, Alpamayo appears at first sight during the approach from
the west along the Quebrada Alpamayo, ‘as all that can be expected of the perfect
ice-peak’. Thus it is written in the book, Cordillera Blanca (Peru) by Hans Kinzl and
Erwin Schneider, but it is probably true to say that the mountain obtained its unofficial
title of ‘the most beautiful mountain in the world’ from the view of its
south-west flank as seen from the nearby mass of Quitaraju (c. 6100 m.). From this angle,
Nevado Alpamayo (as it is more correctly known) appears as a perfect trapezoid of fluted
ice, incredibly steep and seemingly impregnable from all angles. Indeed it was not until
1957, more than twenty years after its ‘discovery’ by Erwin Schneider, that the
mountain was climbed; but more of that later.
For a mountain, of
such importance, and with so much to attract the mountaineer, it is somewhat surprising
that there is no height measurement which can be readily accepted. Schneider attributes to
Nevado Alpamayo the height of ‘about 19,800 ft.’ and, as he is the cartographer
of the region, one is prone to accept this. However, the Franco-Belgian expedition of 1951
give the height as 20,080 ft. Obviously one would like to think that this magical figure
of 20,000 ft. is the true height, but recent elevations taken by Leigh Ortenburger and
David Atherton seem to confirm Schneider’s measurements of 5950 m. (19,521 ft.). The
matter is still open to some small degree of doubt perhaps, but I
personally feel that
the height is a minor point when compared with the majesty and grace of the mountain.
The Cordillera
Blanca, with its twenty-nine summits at over 6000 m., forms but a small part of the Andes
chain, which lies down the whole of the west side of South America. The Blanca, as it is
affectionately known, must be distinguished from the lower and rocky Cordillera Negra, but
together they form what must be called the backbone of Peru, separating as they do the
other geographical features of the country, the coastal sand desert to the west and the
Amazon basin to the east. Since 1903, when an Englishman, C.R. Enoch, first crossed the
range by a pass of over 17,000 ft., mountaineers have been interested in the area. Pride
of place must be given, however, to the sustained expeditions of the large Austro-German
parties who explored the range in 1932, 1936, and 1939—40. Kinzl and Schneider were the prime movers on these
expeditions and it was during the second one that they first found and photographed
Alpamayo.
However, it was not
until twelve years later in 1948 that a Swiss expedition made the first attempt on its
defenses. Before starting their final assault, the Swiss had already christened it
‘the most beautiful mountain in the world’. Climbing by way of the heavily
corniced North ridge, the three climbers were within sight of its virgin summit when a
large cornice broke under them and they were carried down the precipitous North-west face.
By some amazing piece of good fortune, the three —by name Lauterburg, Schmid and
Sigrist — were neither buried nor injured by the 650 ft. fall and were able to make
an orderly retreat from the mountain. Alpamayo had repulsed its first suitor.
Benefiting from
information freely communicated by de Szepessy-Schaurek, who wrote an account of the
Swiss expedition in Alpinisme (No. 88, September, 1949), a Franco-Belgian
expedition set out in 1951. Led by Georges Kogan, and including such famous names as
Claude Kogan, Raymond and Nicole Leininger, Lenoir and Jongen, the expedition again
attacked the North ridge, dangerous as it was. They avoided the cornices wherever possible
by making detours on to the East wall and such was the difficulty of the climbing that
they only reached the massive cornice capping the end of the North ridge long after dark.
In their book, subsequently translated into English under the title The Ascent of
Alpamayo, they wrote ‘at last our dreams had come true and Alpamayo lay conquered
at our feet’. But events were to prove that this was not the true summit. In fact,
they were still some 250 ft. below, and a very long 600 ft. traverse of an extremely
difficult and dangerous ridge of cornices short of, the highest point.
That
they should have considered their conquest complete at that point is easy to believe. At
the time of their climb, the mountain did carry two distinct summits, although the drop
between them was only small. Having reached their summit after dark, and having discovered
that all around them the ground dropped away, few would not believe that they had
completed the ascent. However, the experts of the Swiss Foundation for Alpine Research in
Zurich were later to prove that the southernmost summit was the higher, and not the North
summit which they had reached. After a night spent in a bivouac below the summit, the
French had retreated in very bad weather and consequently had not seen the trick which the
mountain had played on them.
Learning
of the French party’s miscalculation, a German expedition led by Günter Hauser, and
comprising some of Germany’s strongest climbers eventually succeeded in climbing the
peak in 1957. Rejecting the previously held views regarding the North ridge, Hauser chose
to attack the unknown South ridge, which lay hidden from view on the far side of the
mountain. Although no less steep, nor less dangerous than the North ridge, this ridge had
the tremendous advantage of leading direct to the higher South summit, thus omitting the
long and dangerous traverse from the North top. In spite of miserable weather conditions
which drove the party back on several occasions, they eventually reached the summit, which
‘pierced the sky line like the prow of some great Viking ship’. Looking across
towards the north, Hauser commented in his book . . . ‘Directly below me was the
knife edge of the summit ridge leading down to the North ridge where the French and
Belgians had come up, though I could not see the actual point where they had stopped since
it was in dead ground behind the fall of the ridge. A good thing we had not tried to come
up that way; the icy ridge looked horribly dangerous.’
So the ascent of
Alpamayo was complete, but the twice-tried North ridge was still unconquered. And would
this not be an ideal peak on which to make a 16 mm cinéfilm? These were our objectives.
We had arrived in
Peru by somewhat diverse means. Four of us, Roy Smith, Terry Burnell, Dave Bathgate and
myself had traveled down through the States, to be greeted by Dennis Gray in Lima. He had
arrived with the equipment by sea, only one day earlier. Our sixth member, Ned Kelly, who
was to make such a wonderful job of the film, was already in America on business. He
arrived separately a few hours later. We were only to find out later the tragic
circumstances which were to keep Chris Bonington from joining us as planned.
Anyone with any
experience of expeditions to Peru will be fully aware of the meaning of
‘insuperable’ when applied to the customs. In spite of precautions taken prior
to our departure, it is no exaggeration to say that our equipment could still be there now
but for the tremendous help of our man in Lima, Colin Darbyshire, and great perseverance
on Dennis Gray’s part. On June 5 we were collected at the Hotel Claridge at three
o’clock in the morning and traveled northwards on the smoothly
tarmacked
Pan-American Highway, with the collectivo driver dozing at the wheel in spite of
our avid protests. After 130 miles of trying to sleep on a knife-edge of fear and worry,
we turned off on to the narrow bumpy track which led us upwards into the dry, arid
foothills of the Cordillera Negra. As dawn broke, we had left the dunes of the coastal
sand desert far behind and had reached the Conococha Pass at 14,000 ft. It is here that
the track breasts the ridge, having climbed from very near sea-level in about ten hours,
and begins its long downward trek into the beautiful Rio Santa valley below.
Far away in the
morning haze, we had our first view of the magnificent peaks of the Cordillera Blanca, a
glimmering, shining barrier of icy giants—the backbone of a continent.
A few hours later,
we had dropped down into the narrow confines of the valley and had drawn into the small
town of Huaraz—our base for the next few days. And what a base! To the west of the
town, we were cut off from the Pacific by the rugged rock peaks and pinnacles of the
Cordillera Negra, which rise to a height of 15,000 ft., some 5,000 ft. above the town. To
the east, the incredibly beautiful summits of the ‘White Mountains’ towered
above us for some 10,000 ft.
The town itself was
a vivid display of colour and life, contrasting as it did the way of life of the
incredibly poor Indios with the relative wealth of the inbred Spanish population. For a
town situated at 10,000 ft., whose only means of approach is via the ‘roads’
already described, Huaraz is very advanced and can boast the title of ‘the second
best lit city in Peru ‘—after Lima of course! However, its development is still
far from complete and the number of small boys running about with their small box full of
empty tins of polish and shining brushes, makes one wonder what schooling they will
eventually receive. We made great friends of several of these lads, and Terry soon had his
‘personal’ assistant shouting, ‘Shoe-shine?’ to every gringo in
sight.
While in
Huaraz we were very lucky to make the acquaintance of the brotherhood of Benedictine
monks, who now had as their seminary the old climbers’ hotel of Los Pinos. Far from
preaching Christianity to the somewhat ignorant peasants, the fathers lent their time to
helping the Indians grow bigger and better crops, to helping them with irrigation or with
the construction of some new track. During our stay, they were immensely good to us and in
fact gave us permission to climb on Alpamayo, as it was on their land that it lay.
After a short
acclimatisation period at Huaraz, we started out on June 8 leaving our friends Domingo
Giobbi and Carlo Mauri, who with Mauri’s cousin were to climb in the mountains to the
east of Huaraz) By a miracle, the lorry arrived on time and we were soon bouncing down the
tortuous, twisting road as it wound its way through the narrow confines of the Santa
valley. Sitting perched on top of the nine shipping crates which housed all our equipment
and food, we had an unforgettable view of our surroundings as we flashed under low wooden
bridges, several nearly decapitating us, and skidded round blind corners on the narrow
road, the width of a car. It was easy to visualise the results of a head-on crash, as the
number of crosses which decorated the road-sides provided clear evidence of the
Peruvians’ maniacal driving.
After a long, dry
six-hour journey, through the small towns of Yungay and Caras, we arrived at the Guardia
Civil post which marked the crossing to the Hacienda Colcas, our take-off point for the
heights. It was with dismay that we eased our aching frames off the truck, dusted
ourselves down, and surveyed the pathetic cable-way which was the only means of crossing
the swirling turbulence of the Rio Santa, some 50 ft. below.
What a blow! We had
been led to believe that a bridge existed but now we found that it had been swept away
many years before by a flood caused by an avalanche falling off the mountain, Ranrapalca,
far above Huaraz. The flood had swept down on the town, killing four thousand people in
its path, and had then roared on down the Rio Santa, breaking every bridge between Huaraz
and the coast, many miles away.
We now had to break
open the cases on the wrong side of the river, transport each item across the swaying
wooden platform slung below the thin cable, and load all the gear on to donkeys for the
five kilometres journey to the hacienda. Three days later, all was gathered at Colcas and
we had had our first experience of the stubbornness of the borros, and of the arrieros
for that matter. ‘Mañana, mañana…’ It was always
‘tomorrow’.
Even now, our
troubles were not over. In fact, they had not really begun. Owing to our large amount of
equipment and food, we estimated that we would require in excess of twenty mules for the
journey to Base Camp and had always believed that we would have no difficulty in finding
them at Colcas, once reputed to be the finest hacienda in Peru but now hopelessly
decrepit. Our efforts to get the gear up from the river crossing had, however, shown us
the error of our ways. Then we had been able to get only three donkeys at a time. How were
we now to get the large number we required? After
two days of fruitless bargaining, the solution was found in bribing ‘La Señora’
at the hacienda to find the donkeys for us. This gave her the necessary motivation and we
awoke on the morning of June 13 to find some fifteen of the beasts, together with four arrieros,
awaiting our departure for the mountain.
This was all very
well, but we had no intention of leaving until the following day. In any case, it would be
quite impossible to load all the equipment on to these donkeys, since on finishing the
re-packing of gear previously we had found that we had sixty donkey loads. Some of these
were heavy enough to constitute one load alone! As always in such cases, a compromise can
be found. In this case, it was to pay the donkey-men for their one day of inactivity, if
they would await the arrival of the remaining donkeys the following day. They accepted
this willingly and then dispersed to their jobs; happy to be paid for doing nothing.
The previous day,
Sunday June 12, Roy and Terry had left in advance of the main party to make a short
reconnaissance of the route in and to find a site for our Base Camp in the upper Alpamayo
valley. Accompanying them was an Austrian photographer, Fred Allert, who was on
commission from the Peruvian government to make a propaganda film of the expeditions
climbing in Peru in 1966. We had heard that there were thirty-one in all, double the
number of the previous year.
We followed two days
later with our long caravan of twenty-five donkeys, four arrieros and four
climbers. Within the first hundred yards of leaving the hacienda, a donkey had thrown its
load and the pattern for the next few days was already established.
That
night, we bivouacked some 6,000 ft. above the valley floor by the side of the meandering
path that led up and over a high 14,000 ft. col into the Alpamayo valley. Our progress
throughout that day was dictated by lack of water and Ned Kelly, Dave Bathgate and I had
forged on ahead of the donkeys, which were already finding difficulty in carrying their
loads. At six o’clock, just as darkness fell, Ned had come across a small stream, the
first for several thousands of feet. Realising now just how unfit and badly acclimatised
we were, we had staggered to the stream and gorged ourselves with water.
Meanwhile,
Dennis Gray was experiencing the first of a throat infection which was to dog him for
the whole expedition. Consequently, he had been forced to stay with the slower-moving
donkey team, which had been stopped by darkness some hundreds of feet below us. In the
absence of water and because of a badly swollen throat, he had been quite unable to eat
anything. As for the arrieros, they had been quite unconcerned.
Next morning, after
time spent chasing donkeys which had been allowed to roam in the night, it was not until
after ten o’clock that they had reached the point where the three of us had been
forced to bivouac in the freezing Andean night, without food or warmth. Taking advantage
of a donkey throwing its load, we dived upon one of the High-Altitude food boxes and
pilfered its contents.
That day was little
short of agony for us. So exhausted were we by the rigours of the previous day that we
were soon left behind by even the weakest donkey. Consequently, we were forced to bivouac
again by the side of the beautiful Cullicocha lakes. The day was not without its rewards,
however, as we had had our first view of these magnificent ice peaks of the Blanca at
close quarters. At the head of the lakes, the impressive mass of the Santa Cruz range
dominated all around with its sheer flutings and immense cornices. Of especial interest
was the twin-peaked Santa Cruz Norte (18,944 ft.), the highest unclimbed peak in the
Cordillera Blanca, which would require a very determined effort by a strong party if the
summit were to be gained.
From the lakes, we
reached the 14,000 ft. col with little trouble and descended the 3,000 ft. of zig-zags
into the deep trench of the Alpamayo valley. Here we met Fred Allert who had spent some
time filming around Alpamayo. With him when he left the next morning was our last mail to
get out for the next month. That evening, on June 17, we had had our first view of our
mountain as it cleft the evening sky, and we had established our Base Camp on the Swiss
site of 1948, almost at the foot of the North face of the massive Santa Cruz Grande
(20,537 ft.).
Above the camp, our route
lay up a long, tenuous scree-gully to a small col on the ridge which barred our approach
to the Alpamayo glacier. On Saturday, June 18, Smith and Gray reconnoitered the ice-fall
from this col at 16,800 ft., over 2,000 ft. above Base, and returned having fixed rope
over two sections to facilitate the carrying of loads over the col. The view from the col
was impressive, mile upon mile of glistening ice peaks; the route through the ice-fall
promising; but the West ridge of Alpamayo, which we had previously intended to climb, was
thought to be too dangerous to allow an attempt, especially in view of the filming of the
climb. That it was climbable was beyond doubt, but to spend time filming the upper section
where the ridge reared up to merge with the massive summit cornices appeared
impracticable.
Sunday evening saw
Terry Burnell and Dave Bathgate established in the Moraine Camp (Camp I) on the edge of
the glacier. For the next few days, while they attempted to find the route through the
ice-fall, Dennis, Roy, Ned and I stuck to the task of provisioning this camp and
establishing the basis for the next push on the mountain. On June 21 Roy Smith moved up
to Camp I, and the following day he and Bathgate, prospecting a new entry to the ice-fall,
reached the plateau at the foot of the West ridge in just three hours. The route through
the ice-fall was therefore open but was not without its dangers. In one place, the route
lay beneath an imposing ice-cliff from which immense icicles hung like so many swords of
Damocles. This was always a dangerous spot and in spite of the fixed ropes we placed
there, we would have stood little chance had one of the icicles fallen just as we were
passing across the delicate snow bridges at its foot. The fact that a crack had appeared
at the side of the cliff and was widening daily did not help matters either. This section
we called the ‘Cat-walk’ and I for one was always glad to be through it. Towards
the end of the expedition, this cliff did fall, burying our fixed ropes. Luckily no one
was underneath at the time. The resulting traverse, however, across huge ice-blocks
perched on the edge of a big crevasse, was precarious in the extreme.
The other dangerous
area was the ‘Sugar-bowl’, a huge ice-bowl formed by the collapse of a series of
séracs into a huge crevasse. This necessitated a very intricate route threading its way
delicately over several fragile snow bridges, crossing some deep crevasses. To cross the
bowl, we had to descend about 100 ft., before traversing the bridges and ascending a steep
slope for some 200 ft. to the plateau itself. This depression in the ice-fall was a
natural sun-trap, and the bridges daily became more dangerous throughout the expedition.
What had been a reasonably easy route at the start of the climb became a very dangerous
and precarious one as the bridges melted away later.
The same day as the
route through the ice-fall was found, Dennis, Ned and I arrived back at Base Camp after a
carry to Camp I and found that some Americans had moved into the valley near by. They were
led by Richard Goody, who we were surprised to find had been at Cambridge for a long time
before moving out to Harvard, where he is now a professor of meteorology. The other
members of the party were David Atherton, Donald Morton, and Richard Wylie. They were a
small, compact group and relied on the ‘quick-push’ type of assault which has
become prevalent amongst American parties during the last years. This depends entirely on
traveling light and is made possible by the fact that on most Andean peaks there is little
more than 6000 ft. of ascent from Base Camp to the summit. The Americans also make good
use of local porters, but we could not afford this luxury and had to do all the carrying
ourselves. It is perhaps a lesson to be learned that during three weeks in the valley,
they climbed one peak in excess of 20,000 ft. (Quitaraju, c. 6100 m.) and four
other summits including the first ascent of Tayapampa, 5750 m. (18,865 ft.). However, none
of these peaks presented them with difficulties comparable to those of Alpamayo and we
knew that the making of the film necessitated the slow build-up of the climb. Future
British parties, however, might find food for thought here.
On June 24 the
weather broke for the first time since our arrival in Peru. Usually we had awoken to
impeccably clear skies, but now we noticed the first wisps of cloud on the horizon. By the
time we reached the 16,800 ft. col above Base Camp, it was snowing hard and we were forced
to seek some shelter. Dropping our loads at the dump we had established by the glacier, we
hurried back to the col where we met Dave, Terry and Roy who had decided to come down to
Base in view of the threatening weather. We knew that conditions in the ice-fall for the
next few days would be such as to make the route too dangerous, and chose to use this time
making further carries to the glacier dump. However,
the weather soon improved and on the 27th we were all gathered at Camp I, ready to push
through the ice-fall and attack the slopes leading to the North col, some 2000 ft. above
us.
The next day,
Bathgate and Burnell left Camp I in the early hours of the coming dawn and reached the col
for the first time. In spite of the unknown nature of the route, they reached the 18,000
ft. col in just two and a half hours, having passed through the ice-fall by torchlight.
They were relieved to find that the slopes above the plateau were not difficult, and had
been able to crampon up them unroped. From the col, they had a clear view of the huge
cornices of the North ridge— ‘just like Everest from the South summit’,
Burnell told us later, but no doubt more difficult. They were both very enthusiastic about
the climb, but it was obvious that we would have to fix a lot of rope if we were to film
such a steep and dangerous place.
It was on this
ridge that the Swiss had almost come to grief back in 1948 and we knew that we would have
to take especial care. However, it was fairly obvious from what the lads told us that it
would be possible to keep to rock for the first few hundred feet and then to move out on
to the South-east face to avoid the cornices. This would provide some very steep and
exposed ice climbing, but would be safer than keeping to the ridge itself.
All was now ready
for the final push. During the days that followed, our advance party once again moved up
to the North col and began work on the ridge. While the ‘Comedians’ team’
made daily trips through the ice-fall, carrying all the equipment and food required for
the assault on the mountain, Roy, Dave and Terry were slowly roping the ridge, which was
proving decidedly stubborn. The climbing was quite difficult at that altitude, but the
weather was providing the main barrier. On two occasions deep snow at Camp II made
climbing very precarious and often the cold on the very exposed North ridge made progress
very slow and painful. The icy wind cut through even the superb duvet equipment and
ventile clothing we were wearing.
Six o’clock was
the usual time for our radio contact and we were able to keep in touch with proceedings on
the ridge, and also to plan for when we should all move up to occupy the col. Obviously,
there was little point in six men being at Camp II until all was ready for the summit
climb, so Kelly, Gray and I resigned ourselves to the inglorious but highly necessary task
of keeping the supply lines open. Time was also spent in filming sections of the ice-fall
and the slopes above the plateau.
On July 7 our daily
contact produced the encouraging news that the route had been pushed through to within 200
or 300 ft. (vertical height) of the summit. This was the top of the North ridge, the point
now thought to have been reached by the French party of 1951, but still a long and very
difficult traverse short of the summit mushroom. It is interesting to note that no
evidence of the French party’s assault was found above the rock sections in the lower
half of the ridge. Up to this point, ropes, pitons, a north-wall hammer, a piton hammer
and even a wool hat had been found, but above, on the snow itself, there was no evidence
of their climb at all. ‘It was debated at length amongst ourselves that this would
have been the place where fixed ropes would have almost been a necessity; perhaps not on
the ascent, but surely on the descent. To climb down those upper slopes of high-angle snow
and ice, at a time when the tropical sun had been at work, would have been very dangerous
indeed.
We could now prepare
for the final assault and the next day, July 8, we all moved up to the col, the camera
equipment having been taken the previous day.
The camp on the col
was situated in a small basin directly below the precipitous North ridge. Above, we were
overshadowed by the huge cornices, many of which curved out over 30 ft. of space
above the impressively fluted ice of the North-west face. To the west, we could look
almost straight down on to the tangled mass of crevasses and séracs in the ice-fall. It
was just possible to pick out the orange tents at Camp I, as they merged into the
background of glacier moraine grit. Further west, on the horizon, lay the triple peaks of
the Santa Cruz massif; the majestic Santa Cruz Grande; the diminutive Chico; and the
unconquered twin summits of Santa Cruz Norte. Even from here, we could see no break in its
defenses. To the north, the ridge continued in a jagged knife-edge of séracs and
gendarmes, rising every now and then into the steep dome of some unknown summit. We knew
that Goody’s party was in that region, attempting the first ascent of Tayapampa
(18,665 ft.) and we wished them luck.
Most impressive of
all, however, were the peaks of the Pucahirca range which lay hidden over the col to the
east. No words could describe the beauty of the scene which faced us as we topped the col
for the first time. Below our feet, the slope dropped away in one smooth sweep of ice and
rock, to merge into the vivid greenness of the two lakes, many thousands of feet below.
Above these, the steep walls of the Nevado Pucahirca rose in unrelenting steepness, snow
merging into rock, blending together in an unforgettable mosaic of colour as the triple
peaks cleft the clear blue sky like Britannia’s trident.
Next morning, we
were awake early in the freezing Andean dawn as Dave Bathgate and Roy Smith left for the
summit, supported by Burnell and Gray. Meanwhile, Ned Kelly and I filmed their progress
from a nearby peak. That day was one of the coldest I remember for a long time and it
was not long before both Ned and I were so cold that it was an effort to speak. Changing
the lenses on the cameras became an ordeal in itself; what it must have been like on the
ridge I shudder to think.
With the aid
of the rope fixed during the build up, they soon climbed the steep rock pitches and
featureless ice, several sections approaching the vertical in the upper reaches, and
reached the North summit at ten o clock. Technically the climbing was not difficult, but
was exposed in the extreme. After the initial traverse on to the face, the climb was
mostly on good granite for several hundreds of feet, until they were forced to move on to
the ice cornices of the ridge. From here, they climbed alternately on the snow and rock
outcrops until all above was ice. By traversing out on to the exposed face, the final huge
cornices were by-passed and the North summit reached. Here Bathgate took the lead and
after traversing for four rope-lengths over the dangerously poised ice gendarmes and
wind-blown cornices, he reached the summit at one o’clock.
The last 20 ft. to
the summit were perhaps the most difficult and precarious of the climb. Climbing out of
a crevasse where he had belayed, with a breath-taking view down the whole sweep of the
South-west face between his feet, Dave cut down a swaying cornice and broke through a rib
of soft snow on to the far side of the ridge. Here he was climbing directly above the
tremendously exposed reaches of the North-east face, such was the knife-edge of the summit
ridge. Balancing on crampon points above the 4,ooo-ft. drop of the face, he had cut round
another icy rib to gain entry into a wind-flute which he had climbed at an angle of over
eighty degrees to reach the pointed summit.
Cutting an
ice-bollard in the summit cone, he descended to allow Roy Smith to climb to the top, there
being insufficient room to fit them both safely.
July
10 was spent filming the rock sections in the lower half of the ridge, before abseiling
off the ridge for 300 ft. down the North-west face above the col camp. Then, on the
11th, first Terry and Dennis, followed by Dave (again) and myself reached the summit.
Meanwhile, Ned Kelly filmed from the slightly lower North summit being, to our great
regret, unable to make the last section on account of slight snow-blindness which had
resulted after removing his glasses to take a camera sighting.
Despite a
slight build up of cloud, the view was indescribable. |
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