Eiger Direct: The epic battle on the North Face

Contents

Introduction to the New Edition

Note on the Text

Acknowledgments

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Technical Description of Route

Glossary of Climbing Terms

Glossary of Skiing Terms

Photographs

About the Authors

Introduction to the New Edition

Can it really be fifty-three years? That was my first thought as I contemplated writing an introduction to a new edition of Eiger Direct, the book I wrote with Dougal Haston about the dramatic events on the North Face of the Eiger in February and March 1966. Some of my memories are etched as clearly as the face itself when it soared against a scintillating blue sky. Others are blurred and faded, again like the face when – as far more often – it was obscured by the storms which savaged the climbers during their epic battle to reach the summit via a new direct route.

Looking back from the perspective of a lifetime, it is striking to consider how naïve we must appear. Aged twenty-three when the climb started, I was in my second year working as a journalist and also undertaking my first full reporting assignment, as I had been employed at the Daily Telegraph weekend magazine as a feature writer. I had grabbed the assignment when I learned that the Telegraph was backing the British–American team led by John Harlin and needed a reporter at Kleine Scheidegg. Those were the days when you wrote your reports on a manual typewriter and dictated them to the Telegraph’s Fleet Street office by phone – and there was just one phone available at the Kleine Scheidegg hotel, to be found in a cabin in the entrance hall. I would monopolise it for up to half an hour at a time – and then, if possible, occupy it for a further few minutes to talk to my long-suffering wife Leni, at home in south London with our two young children.

Previously I had been reluctant to write about mountaineering, as I was only too aware of how journalists were regarded in the mountaineering world on account of their propensity to sensationalise everything and make endless mistakes. But this opportunity was too good to pass up. It became even more alluring after I had arrived at Kleine Scheidegg and learned that a rival German team was equally intent on making the first direct ascent of the North Face – thus adding the element of a race to the attempt.

Were the climbers themselves naïve? It seems a curious term to apply to those two bands of climbers. The British–American team had the superstars: Harlin, Haston, the Colorado rock expert Layton Kor – and Chris Bonington, at an early stage in his drive to make a living from his passion for climbing, and enlisted by the Telegraph as the team photographer, although his role was soon to merge with that of full-on team member. The Germans were, so far as we were concerned, unknowns from the Swabia region of southern Germany. But they came with a self-confidence that we misread at first, unaware as we were of their technical abilities and their fraternal loyalties.

The climbers’ struggles were truly heroic: a pitting of their energies against one of the most formidable challenges in mountaineering. The two teams had radically different tactics which converged as the days – and weeks – passed. Yet naïvety could be an appropriate term when considering the two teams’ equipment, which now seems hopelessly outmoded: breathable outer clothing had not been invented, winter climbing tools were heavy and primitive, cooking equipment hardly ever worked. These failings were to culminate in the devastating technical mistake which altered the dynamics and the narrative three days before five climbers – four Germans plus Haston – reached the summit in the midst of the most ferocious storm of the whole winter.

So it was that Haston, Bonington, Kor and I returned to Britain after the climb, Bonington and Haston spending long, tedious hours in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber that was considered the most effective therapy for their frostbite (but is now no longer used). That was when we devised this book, where I was to be the principal writer while Haston provided his graphic contributions on handwritten pages which I merged into the manuscript. Bonington, of course, provided the bulk of the photographs, which so vividly captured the dramas on the face: the skill and nerve of the climbers and the extraordinary Wagnerian ending. I wrote quickly, delivering the manuscript to the original publishers, Collins, in about four weeks. The book appeared in the autumn of 1966, followed by overseas editions with a range of titles in the US, France and Japan. It was well reviewed, winning praise for its descriptive qualities, its narrative suspense, and its control of the complex and interlocking events on the face.

There matters rested for almost fifty years. Haston died in a Swiss avalanche in 1977, Kor of cancer in 2013. As the fiftieth anniversary approached, I had an urge to tell the story again. This time I would provide the full backstory of the ascent and the climbers, crucially giving far more space and credit to the eight German climbers (three of whom had since died) who were participants, first as rivals, then as partners, in the ascent. That story, co-authored with Leni, was published as Extreme Eiger in 2016. We acquired a precious new friendship, with the family of Peter Haag, the German team co-leader who had died of cancer in 1981.

Even afterwards, however, people would tell me how much they had enjoyed the original tale – and how Eiger Direct was all but impossible to obtain, as it had been decades out of print. I read it again, and wondered whether the writing could be considered naïve. In some ways, perhaps, but it has qualities of freshness and immediacy that left me immodestly impressed. It also has the key elements that made the ascent so remarkable: the attempt that became a race, the contest that became an alliance, the tragedy that preceded the triumph. I felt that the mix of reportage and narrative would still appeal, both to those of that era, and to those coming to the story anew. When I discussed the idea of republishing it with Jon Barton, he responded with satisfying alacrity, judging it worthy of inclusion in any back catalogue of classic mountaineering texts. Jon’s record as head of the UK’s foremost mountaineering publisher speaks for itself.

Apart from a very few minor factual corrections, the text stands as it did in 1966. It thus contains Harlin’s exaggerations about his previous sporting activities which I – naïvely – did not question at the time, but which are revisited in Extreme Eiger. I felt that it would be improper to subject the text to major revision, so that it remains as a record of a contemporary perspective on an epochal ascent.

So here it is. As always, dear reader, you must be the final judge.

Peter Gillman

August 2019

Note on the Text

When Dougal Haston came down from the summit on 26 March 1966 we decided to write a book together. He was obviously the main source for what had happened on the mountain, whereas I knew what had happened at Kleine Scheidegg, where I had been working the radio link between the climbers and the base. As we recorded these conversations on tape, we have been able to recount them with complete accuracy. Because of the technical problems involved in a first-person account by two people, we have written this book in the third person, with the exception of Dougal’s account of the summit push, where we felt the first person was more appropriate.

For the benefit of non-climbers we have provided a glossary of technical terms.

Peter Gillman

June 1966

Acknowledgments

We should like to thank the many people who helped us during the climb and when we wrote the book. The Weekend and Sunday Telegraphs provided the all-important financial backing for the climb. Various equipment manufacturers, all of whom we mention in the text, were generous to us. Many of the people living and working at Kleine Scheidegg showed us kindness and sympathy. Marilyn Harlin and John Harlin’s parents gave us details of John’s life, and Marilyn Harlin kindly allowed us to quote from John’s writings. The members of our team told us their stories of the climb. Leni Gillman and Clare Wignall helped us with the manuscript.

We should also like to thank the members of the German team for the friendship they showed us during our shared experiences on and below the Eiger.

Dougal Haston and Peter Gillman

June 1966

– CHAPTER I –

The North Wall of the Eiger is the greatest face in the Alps. Like a giant, gaunt tooth it rises a sheer 6,000 feet from the meadows of Alpiglen. At its base it is a mile wide. It is in the front rank of the peaks of the Bernese Oberland, and the huge amphitheatre that forms its upper part attracts the first storm clouds to arrive in the area.

The lowest part of the Face, comprising one-third of the total, is more easily angled than the rest. Then comes a steeper series of tiers of ice broken by rock steps. The Face then steepens even further to the point where almost no ice adheres to it, except for the icefield in the centre of the upper part called the Spider. Radiating from the Spider are snow-filled cracks that form its web.

The Eiger’s summit was first reached by an Irishman, Charles Barrington, in 1858. He chose it in preference to the Matterhorn – also unclimbed at the time – because it was nearer to where he was staying. He followed the ridge between the North Face and the West Flank. The Mittelegi Ridge, which runs up almost from Grindelwald and arrives at the summit from the east, was first climbed by a Japanese, Yuko Maki, with three Grindelwald guides in 1921. In 1932 the Swiss climber Dr Hans Lauper, in a party of four, climbed the North-East Face, a fine classical route. Traditional alpinists now considered the problem of the North Face solved. To them, there was no question of venturing on to the vast wilderness of rock and ice to the right of Dr Lauper’s line.

But there was a new generation of climbers, out of harmony with classical alpinism. In 1935 two climbers attempted the North Face proper. They were Max Sedlmayer and Karl Mehringer and they came from Munich, home of the new thinking. In three days they reached the top of the vast Second Icefield, about half-way up the Face. Then a shattering storm hit the Face. Sedlmayer and Mehringer took two more days to reach the top of the Flatiron, a huge rock buttress that ends above the Second Icefield, and there they died. The place became known as the Death Bivouac.

At once the two Germans were violently attacked. The Swiss journal Sport wrote: ‘It is a deeply to be regretted result that the survivors of modern Eastern Alps’ technique should now inflict this evil demonstration on Swiss peaks. If they had reached the top it would have been merely a degradation inflicted on one of our great peaks, with the honoured traditions of mountaineering perverted into monkey tricks.’

Colonel E. L. Strutt, President of the British Alpine Club, reprinted the article in the Alpine Journal, of which he was the editor. He added the footnote: ‘With which sentiments, while expressing sympathy for the relatives of the young climbers, every British mountaineer will concur.’

In 1936 four more climbers from the Eastern Alps, Edi Rainer and Willy Angerer, both Austrians, and Anderl Hinterstoisser and Toni Kurz, Bavarians, made an attempt, joining forces when the two parties met low down on the Face. The climb ended in the worst accident in the history of the Eiger. In two days they had reached the Death Bivouac but then started to retreat, probably because of an injury to Angerer. During the descent the Face was again hit by a storm. Hinterstoisser had opened up the Face with an exceedingly difficult 150-foot traverse below the First Icefield, but when they attempted to reverse the traverse they found the rock impossibly iced up. They attempted to abseil¹ down and one of them fell. He swept another with him, and a third was strangled by the rope. Toni Kurz survived the fall and spent an agonising night in the open. He died of exhaustion the next day, after he had roped down to within ten feet of a rescue party of guides.

Colonel Strutt wrote about what he called ‘this insane deed’, saying that ‘modern German methods of what is misnamed mountaineering in that country are, but too often, thoroughly misused, and in every way destructive to the first principles of that pastime as known to every beginner throughout the remainder of Europe.’ He agreed with the words quoted in the Alpine Journal of one of the Alpine Club’s Swiss members, Dr Hug of Zürich: ‘The forcing of the Eigerwand [the North Face] is principally a matter of luck – at least 90% of the latter is required. Extreme forms of technical development, a fanatical disregard of death, staying power and bodily toughness are in this case details of mere secondary importance. The incalculable elements of fate, chance, etc. are so overwhelmingly important that this face climb belongs far more to a degenerate form of the Children’s Crusade of the Middle Ages.’ In his farewell address as retiring President of the Alpine Club in 1938 Colonel Strutt said: ‘The Eigerwand continues to be an obsession for the mentally deranged of almost every nation. He who first succeeds may rest assured that he has accomplished the most imbecile variant since mountaineering first began.’

The clash was between generations. The critics of the attempts were conservatives, resisting innovation and change, failing to understand the new mood of climbing. They saw a piton as something that defiled the rock it was banged into; ‘any man who put a piton in English rock would shoot a fox’ was representative of the classical British attitude. The new climbers were ‘scramblers’, ‘desperadoes’, ‘acrobats’. There was also a political tinge to the criticism: the German climbers were accused of attempting the North Face for the glory of the Fatherland.

Old men were criticising the young for trying to reach places they themselves had never dreamt of going to. They ignored the fundamental aspect of climbing: that it is each man’s personal choice; that the integrity of a climber’s methods are a matter for him alone.

In 1938 the North Face was climbed. Two Germans, Andreas Heckmair and Ludwig Vorg, and two Austrians, Fritz Kasparek and Heinrich Harrer, left Alpiglen in July as two separate ropes, and teamed up when they met on the Face. By the end of the second day they had reached a point near the top of the Ramp, the difficult gangway leading from the top of the Third Icefield to a point level with and to the left of the Spider. The next day they reached the Spider – and then the usual storm came up. The first men ever to reach the Spider quickly discovered that in storms it becomes one long avalanche chute. Several times they were almost hurled from their stances into the void. They bivouacked a third time in the Spider and the next day fought their way up the Exit Cracks and the Summit Icefield.

It was a stupendous achievement, for which the four men had needed to draw on their last reserves of mental and physical energy. They had climbed a face on which eight men had died; they had solved the immense problems of finding a route in that vast upper bowl in a savage storm. They were rewarded for it by fresh outbursts of criticism, even from inside Swiss mountaineering circles. They too were accused of being reckless, fame-seeking, fanatical. The critics still maintained that the Lauper route was the only true route on the Face; the new editor of the Alpine Journal, H.E.G. Tyndale, wrote that ‘the Eigerwand may be said to possess little or no mountaineering value’ – even though the new route made a classical attack on the Face, taking advantage of its weaknesses, following the line of least resistance.

The main objection to the route was still that there were too many objective dangers – hazards such as stonefalls and avalanches beyond a climber’s control. But on the Lauper route – called by H. E. G. Tyndale ‘the true route up the Eiger’s North Face’ – the objective dangers were even greater, for the sun strikes the North-east Face sooner in the day than the North Face proper, causing the rockfalls to start that much earlier. Two Austrians on the Lauper route in the summer of 1937 found ‘avalanches, showers of stones, rushing torrents’, with ‘every foot of the climb treacherous and slippery’.

The truth is that both routes are dangerous. But if the dangers are beyond a climber’s control, he must avoid them. He can avoid stonefalls by studying where and when they occur, and by staying away from the exposed areas at the dangerous times. The North Face of the Eiger was a problem that could be solved by the rigorous