Past Imperfect 5 - Wilder Freiger

On a clear dawn in late July 1984 we ambled over the glacial moraine that leads to the slopes of the Wilder Freiger mountain; at 3400 metres it is one of the highest peaks in the Stubai Alps. By mountaineering standards the route is easy, only a few hours climb from the Nurnbeger Hutte where we had stayed the previous night.

Everything about that morning was perfect; I was happy, confident, the trails of mist lifted as the sun warmed our suspended valley. We reached the mountain proper in about an hour, ascending the lower slopes on a well graded path and cresting the ridge by mid morning. I remember stripping to my shirt and gulping water from the flask, the cirque of peaks sparkling. There were climbers descending already, some had come from the Italian side; others were passing us on the ridge, grüs gott they said, berg heil.

The summit was only 500 meters above us, a fine rock ridge followed by a snow slope that wouldn't need a rope. A couple we'd met the night before had caught us up and suggested climbing together. You go ahead I said, we'll follow shortly.  And as they passed, I noticed a cloud gathering at the summit of the Daunkogel to the West. It was nothing to worry about, a ball of cotton; we hitched our sacks for the final push.

And in that instant of standing up, I committed to turning back. Twenty five years later I still can't explain why; except for the alarm that clanged inside me: that cloud, beware of that cloud, it rang.

Rebecca wanted to go on; she was my girlfriend at the time and later my wife. We'd have an easy day I consoled her, read books and lounge on the terrace at the hut. She deferred to me but couldn't understand why I was heading down. As we did, so more climbers passed us, grüs gott they said, berg heil. 

An hour later we reached the Nurnberger Hutte as the first snow fell. We sat in the bar and the clouds enveloped the last view of the mountains, thunder rolled in from moraine. As the storm took hold a stream of bedraggled climbers knocked the door, beds were made on floors and the hut guardian checked his list of expected guests. The atmosphere was tense; we were happy to be safe but there was a darkness too.

Two climbers died that day, somewhere on the Italian side, descending in the storm. I don't know more than that. Perhaps they were lost the ridge, or struck by lightning; the snow might have given way - it is possible they were poorly equipped. And possible too that it was none of these things - sometimes there is no logic to it.

The mountaineer, W H Murray wrote, The moment one definitely commits oneself then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents... that no man could have dreamt would come his way.

I agree with that, and could write of countless examples, some of them the toughest decisions of my life. Twenty years ago I separated from Rebecca - possibly the saddest, and arguably the most selfish, commitment I have ever made. And yet it led to greater joy, eventually on both sides, I hope.

But I have learned too that sometimes the power of committing can work in reverse. Sometimes it is not the going ahead that brings the providence but the holding back. There are many times I have walked around easy rapids, halted though the way is clear, said no in the face of overwhelming reasons for yes - and I have seldom regretted it. Two years ago Jane and I set off  across a similar stretch of the Stubai; we returned after less than a mile when I sensed that same warning. Again, the clouds rolled in.

Always, at these times, I've listened to my inner alarm. I have come to trust its sounding; and to recognise the difference between the tinkling bells of adrenaline fuelled uncertainty, and the overwhelming, inexplicable clanging that has kept me safe when logic says nothing should go wrong.

They say that mountaineers climb for the view from the bottom as much as the top. It is a reference to what the hills teach us and the memories they hold. I have not quite climbed the Wilder Freiger, but it has taught  and given me more than most. When I last saw it two years ago I silently gave thanks. One day I will finish the job - perhaps.

Alarm clocks and the best laid plans...

I tend to be quite good with alarm clocks; Jane sleeps through them, but once awake I’m usually up and ready for the off. Helpful when you have an early plane to catch from Gatwick, and as it transpired, even more important as our holiday progressed.

We arrived in Neustift with the usual uber efficiency that is Austria. Less than thirty minutes from Innsbruck airport we were sitting outside our hotel with drink in hand. The Sportspension Elisabeth is lovely, only 30 Euros a night for a gorgeous room with a balcony, a huge breakfast and helpful, friendly staff. I sat on our balcony noting the clear sky over the Elferspitze and mentally plotting our walk the next day. Perhaps I should have looked to the south, and the gathering clouds over the Stubai.

As it turned out the first day’s walk was fine - long, but there was no rain on the steady ascent to the Innsbrucker hut at 2400 meters. Now when I say hut, I should point out that Austrian huts are more like simple hotels: private rooms, showers, a bar and sun terrace - and usually a great crowd of walkers and mountaineers to meet and make friends. Our room was plain but immaculately clean and we went to enjoy a well earned beer.

As we sat in the bar, some walkers coming from the opposite direction started to arrive. They had walked from the Bremer hut, a 9 kilometer traverse over rough ground but nothing too serious and our planned route for the next day. As it was, many of them had taken ten hours to complete this short distance; they were wide eyed and clearly pleased to reach the hut. ‘Lots of snow,’ they kept saying, ‘Too much snow’.

A storm broke that evening and we were joined in our immaculate but simple room by two German lads who grabbed the top bunks. There is a rule that huts never turn people away, and as the hut began to fill up with stragglers and benighted guests, concerns about privacy gave way to finding any spare beds going. Jane wasn’t too pleased at the prospect of sharing, but hey, it was only one night - let’s have another beer.

Next morning, a few diehards were preparing for the traverse but I knew it wasn’t for us; the sensible thing was to retrace our route of yesterday and sit out the storm in the hotel. Except as we were leaving the Hut Guardian pointed out there was another option; we could make a diversion, descend to a different valley and reascend to the Bremer Hut by a snow free route. I shouldn’t have listened...

The Hut Guardian was right, it was a safe route; what he hadn’t fully explained was that it meant a decent of nearly 5000 feet, followed a five mile walk along the valley floor as warm up to a further 5000 ft of ascent. It also pissed down all day - Jane lost three toe nails.

The path was well marked but as the snow gathered, route finding became a little fraught. We eventually found the hut by navigating towards the porch light that glimmered through the mist and snow. ‘This is the worst July on record,’ the Hut Guardian told me as I signed in. He also told me that there were no rooms, only the matratzenlager - a sort of communal bunk bed arrangement which we could share with twelve German climbers. Jane was too tired to care; more beer followed.

The forecast said the storm would clear in the morning, and as it was only a shortish hop to the next hut I thought we’d manage if we got going early. For some reason my watch alarm didn’t go off, but with with all the comings and goings (and other noises) in the dormitory, we were up and ready to leave by seven thirty. We signed the book and set off across the moraine under a clear if slightly greying sky.

And then a strange thing happened, something that I’ve experienced only a few times in my life - a sort of 'inner alarm clock' went off with a very loud clang!

Suddenly, and for no logical reason, I knew I’d made the wrong decision. Everything was as I’d planned - sure there was snow, but we had time enough to take a look and come back if necessary; we knew too that people had come this way yesterday without difficulty and they were no better equipped or experienced than us. So why turn back? I’m a logical person; I don’t generally relent to ‘feelings’, I know a lot too about controlling adrenaline and rationalising our fears - even Jane wanted to go on. Except with every forward step that inner clanging became louder and louder. Until eventually I said, ‘That’s it, we’re heading back.’

It was slightly embarrassing to return to the hut in less than thirty minutes, this time to sign in again and say we were returning to the valley. And yet I somehow knew this was the right decision. Jane kept asking, ‘You’re not doing this for me are you? I’m sorry I’m so unfit.’ I reassured her that this was not the case - it was me who wanted to go back, even though I couldn’t quite explain why.

I said I’d heard that inner alarm a few times before. The first time had been twenty-seven years previous, in the same range of mountains, heading for the very same hut. I was climbing the Wildefrieger mountain, a high snow peak in the Stubai. It was nothing too technical, and I’d completed most of the climb when I spotted some clouds gathering over the summit. I knew something was wrong - couldn’t explain why, it just was - and I insisted on returning, at times running down the mountain, other climbers still plodding upward as I descended with my partner. Two hours later a colossal storm broke and I sat in the Nurnberger Hut counting the lightening strikes and wondering what it was that had urged me to return when nobody else had sensed the danger. Two people died on the mountain that day.

Over the years I learned to respond to my ‘inner alarm’, at times turning away from challenges that seemed well within my ability. I once walked round an innocuous looking rapid in Yorkshire and then watched in horror as my friend lost his a paddle and was caught in a recirculating wave. His body floated down the rapid, limp and unconscious; had I not been on the bank I would not have got to him in time. He spewed up a lot of river, but survived. There have been other examples, though few so dramatic.

In the usual efficient way of Austria we were back at our hotel within a few hours of reaching the valley. A bus, a train and another bus, and by mid afternoon we were sitting on the terrace as the sun broke through the storm clouds and the peaks appeared, glistening with fresh snow. Had Jane and I continued on our route we would certainly have been caught in a storm, and though in all probability we would have made it safely to the hut I was entirely comfortable with the decision to descend. There is no fun in being scarred witless and I’m too old, with too many good reasons to avoid unnecessary risks.

The remainder of our trip was tame by comparison. We took a rest day (the hotel owner kindly washed our kit) then headed back to the hills, this time to a valley at a lower altitude with less snow. It was a delightful walk but on arriving our hut was again beset by bad weather - our plans to go to the glacier were shelved. As we sat in the bar I remembered the first guidebook to the Alps I’d read; it kept repeating that the mountains will always be there, and that most deaths occurred when people forgot that.

On our last morning I was content to stroll down the valley; it poured for the full ten miles but I didn’t care. The mountains were lost in mist and the rainwater trickled into my mouth as I looked to the clouds. It never tasted so good.

Hut hopping in Austria

I'm off to Austria with Jane for a week, on a walking tour in the Stubai Alps. We'll be staying in the chain of alpine huts that form what is known as the 'rucksack route'. If the weather is good we hope to complete a horseshoe circuit of the Stubai valley, staying above 8000 feet throughout.

I think that staying in a mountain 'hutte' is the best way to experience the Alps. The Austrian huts are more akin to simple inns, unlike the climbers' huts in France, which tend to be above the snowline and packed full of mountaineers. Austrian huts are relaxed - they have simple but clean bedrooms, a bar and restaurant, usually a terrace to sit and admire the view - and all for only a few euros.

It's easy to go hut hopping if you know how and I'll let you in on the tips and secrets when I get back. But for now, I've got to pack, catch the flight and walk up to our first hut which shelters below the Habicht mountain. This time tomorrow I should be looking down on the valley, glass of wine in hand, and dreaming of the mountains we will climb.

No Internet access I'm afraid - so this is all you'll hear from me in a while.

Think of me here...