Climbing Mount Charity (continued)
Spanning the dogs high up in a corrie south of the ridge, just out of serac range, we cramponed up to a col. Above the ridge rose as a sharp snow arête punctuated by little outcrops of orange-brown granite for about 1,500ft. Keeping to the snow, kicking through a layer of soft to neve beneath, we soloed up it rapidly feeling very fit. In a sense we had been mountaineering all summer. Negotiating crevasses, icefalls, pressure systems or steep slopes with a sledge can be as taxing, mentally and physically, as a serious climb and crossing high cols we had experienced some thrilling moments scenically. But it was a joy to be actually climbing again.
The slope steepened. Some slab reverberated when I kicked it. Investigation revealed a gap between it and underlying ice and we roped up. The sun was scorching its way through glacier cream and lip-salve but my feet were numb in less than adequate footwear. Axe in one side, feet the other and disturbing drops on both, we continued along the arête till it levelled out just before a jutting square block of a cornice. Avoiding it by swinging a leg over the ridge crest and moving on to the north side, we traversed up and across a steep face, icy and very exposed. Bendy, leather ski boots are not ideal for steep cramponing and we had to bear in mind our descent by the same way; so we chopped comfortable steps for 300ft. Then the angle eased, the ice became snow and we were there.
Cautious inspection revealed that the summit was the confined but solid apex of three corniced ridges and we relaxed. Sitting on our sacks drinking in the space, the silence and the sunlight, we picked out far below the two specks that were the dogs. To the north were the massive rock walls of Mount Hope. In the west, the mountains of Alexander Island were clearly visible over a hundred miles away. Sixty miles south, we could trace the route we had taken through the South Eland Mountains, a beautiful cirque of 10,000ft peaks; and thirty miles beyond them, Mount Andrew Jackson, climbed by John Cunningham a few years ago, poked its head above the horizon. Somewhere to the east lay the Weddell Sea but the low cloud which is the bane of the east coast had, unnoticed, obscured the view and was rising insidiously towards us. The first wisps were already eddying playfully around the foot of the mountain. It was time to go.
The mist engulfed us as we sledged back to more level ground and we pitched camp in a white-out. When it next lifted, two weeks later, we were far away.
Rob Collister, Stonington GA, 1971