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With both feet planted firmly on Cesare Maestri's infamous compressor, high on the final headwall of Cerro Torre, I gazed down with satisfaction. Neil and lain were rapidly approaching this unique belay as evening sun bathed the Fitzroy massif. Immediately behind us, our Slovenian friend Tanja was completing the first female ascent with her partner, Monika.
 Neil grinned. ''We're unstoppable now!'' Carefully seating the rope away from the sharp seam of the rusted petrol tank, he inched towards the platform. That was when his knee touched the icicle. With a sickening crack, an icy brieze block launched itself into space. A perfect score! The block destroyed Iain's helmet and veered off towards Monika. A second of silence. Iain hung unconscious until Monika�s screams began to slice the air.
Weeks of howling gales that tatter tents and probe the cracks in the ramshackle shanty huts of Rio Blanco and Camp Bridwell, that smear gobs of gleaming new snow onto the vicious granite spikes that stab the Patagonian icecap, that line every new lenscap cloud; they ended on the afternoon that our bus limped into the backpacker's mecca of El Chalten. After nearly two months of storms, assorted super-alpinists were hastily packing their bags ready to race up to their gear caches and onto the mountains.
It �s only a stroll to Camp Bridwell but for a couple of hundred pesos you can help the local economy by hiring a gaucho to packhorse the equipment in to base camp. We did the decent thing. Ambling up through aromatic pine woods and heaths and basking in a light breeze, we couldn�t believe our luck: Neil had survived a month of gales and storms on his previous visit and had held court for many nights at the Vaynol Arms recounting his experiences. Iain and I had agreed that just getting a photograph of Cerro Torre would represent success, but an hour into the approach and we were drowning in photos and digital images. Now it looked like we would have to try and climb the thing after all.
Camp Bridwell is a sturdy shed of pine and plastic in a stunted woodland fringe, surrounded by a gaggle of tents. Climbers� and trekkers� paths part just beyond the Rio Fitzroy that flows out from a glacial lake tucked in the moraine a few hundred metres uphill. After crossing a wooded spur the traveller faces an enormous wasteland of glaciers that stretches out in every direction. It�s quite easy to get lost in this vast wilderness of ice and melt streams, so the very next day, armed with a vague outline of the route to advanced base camp, we did just that.
We had been told to head up and across 3 glaciers, then the Norwegian bivy site is on your left after 4 hours. After hauling ourselves over a wire tyrolean and negotiating a series of diminishing concentric circles in the general direction of Cerro Torre, we arrived nearly seven hours later at a cluster of boulders set in fine gravel, rather like a Japanese garden. We didn�t really care about the Norweigen bivy any more � Sandy Hollow would be the Welsh bivy for our trip. We dumped our supplies and ropes and headed back to camp. Tomorrow we would collect our remaining gear and set off to attempt the climb. I started to wonder why we had bothered buying dozens of novels in Calafate: there didn't seem to be much reading time.
Another sunny dawn elbowed us out of the comfort of our tents and back up the glacier. We halved our previous time by the simple but effective strategy of walking in a straight line, so we used the evening to ferry ropes up to Norwegos. This turned out to be a collection of claustrophobic caves under boulders, surrounded by tents occupying anything resembling flat ground. Various luminaries such as Silvo Karo and Thomas Huber were laying out kit - it looked like a cross between a street market and the Kendal Film Festival. The distant shriek of the first team to top out since Christmas echoed as we scuttled back down to Sandy Hollow, where our only neighbour was a wolf-sized fox.
 A dawn start next morning soon brought us to a sun-baked bergshrund below an avalanching slope. Hundred of metres above us the Slovenian women were approaching the Col of Patience, while Silvo�s team was established high on their �sitting start� to the Compressor Route. Iain started to cross a snowbridge to attack the bergschrund, but when it collapsed we admitted that a midnight start was the way to go and bid a tactical retreat to Sandy Hollow. So far the mountain was winning easily without its usual weapons, but at least we had got some good daylight photos of the glacier.
A moonlit approach got us established high on the introductory slabs by the time that the sun hit the snow. Teetering above alarmingly precarious seracs we worked our way up towards a final rock barrier that spat us out along a narrow ramp onto the snow saddle. We planned to sleep in a snow cave that had been excavated by a Spanish team over the last few weeks. Unfortunately Silvo and Andrej stepped through the roof on their way back down from the summit, so that by midnight our cave was more like a wind-driven waterfall than a sanctuary. A bleary dawn brought battalions of lenticular clouds, blasts of wind and a pronounced drop in pressure. The Slovenian women were retreating from the base of the headwall, so we waited several hours until they seemed safe and then abseiled back down the line of our ascent, carefully pulling the ropes down past perched flakes and blocks. By the time we reached the glacier, one of our ropes had been mysteriously severed and the wind had vanished. Round two to Cerro Torre.
 Down at Norwegos, assorted super alpinists were packing gear. Thomas looked up from his satellite phone.
"aren't you climbing" he tutted, "my forecast is gute weather"
"We thought a storm was approaching" said Neil "this was the pattern last year".
But it sounded like an excuse.
"Tomorrow" announced Thomas, "I will climb the Compressor Route".
Round three to Thomas the uber Huber.
Still licking our wounds the next day, we were woken by the sound of flapping nylon. Before long the Camp Bridwell began to refill with climbers driven down from the glaciers: it would appear that the Austrian met office had made a mistake.
Blue skies returned the following morning, so rested and fed we were soon slogging back up to Norwegos. All the bivy sites were occupied by gear or tents so Neil and I squeezed under a boulder and Iain lay on the path until midnight. Four other teams had the same destination in mind; something of a record on Cerro Torre, where three is a crowd.
A midnight escape from our cave put us first in line, but prospecting an entry through the bergschrund cost valuable time. Since our retreat, the main serac wall had collapsed to leave a maze of debris and crevasses; this heat wave was cooking the mountains.
Up at the saddle we were not surprised to find the snow cave roof had collapsed, but the line of cord we had fixed for this contingency showed us where to dig. This lost us our lead, so we tucked in behind a friendly pair of South Africans. In third place, the Slovenian women had valiantly returned for another fight despite battered hands from their near success only days earlier.
The SE arete rears up immediately but is split by a series of cracks that give enjoyable jamming and laybacks at British E2. We took turns to lead blocks of pitches while the other two followed together, so our threesome was able to keep pace with the other teams.
Cesare Maestri suffered international condemnation for the style with which he subdued the magnificent SE Pillar of Cerro Torre in 1970. Ironically the climb was conceived as retaliation against a rising tide of disbelief in his first ascent claim of 1959, for which no corroborating evidence has ever been found despite the long anticipated discovery of the corpse of his partner, Toni Eggar. Maestri hauled an air compressor up to the penultimate belay on the headwall, using it to power bolt guns for placing many hundreds of expansion bolts.
 Far from heralding the dawn of a new era of super attrition, the Compressor Route was branded - particularly by the British press - as the murder of the impossible. Many of Maestri's critics had never even seen Cerro Torre, nor considered the effort involved in dragging such an enormous weight of equipment up the mountain, however the widespread condemnation that he received proved a timely test case for the technological advances that were to come. Battery powered drills are now so portable that their use for aid climbing would render success inevitable on any rockface.
Despite (or because of) the controversy surrounding Maestri's climbs, they have become the most popular routes on the mountain. The bolt-free 1959 line was finally repeated several months after our trip, whilst the Compressor Route has seen dozens of ascents to the top of the rock pillar. Very few climbers have reached the top of the snow mushroom, the mountain's final trump card. It is usually too steep and soft to climb - indeed in some histories Maestri's climb is recorded as a failed attempt because he did not continue up the snow.
We discovered that Maestri created the ultimate designer climb. The bolts are tiny but completely reliable. The aid climbing is straightforward but delightful, and the route finding is masterly; alternative boltless variations are inevitably threatened by the debris that regularly collapses from the summit mushrooms like barrages from castle defenders.
The Compressor Route is split midway by a rising traverse for some ninety metres across a blank wall. Despite the bolts this retains an air of commitment, as retreat from beyond requires aiding that is harder in reverse; you can almost hear the trap doors spring shut behind you. Perhaps it would be possible to continue up the pillar and traverse its crest, but Maestri's line is elegant and spectacular.
The traverse links the free climbing below to ice and mixed climbing spreading up from a huge chimney system. Dusk was fast approaching so we didn�t bother changing into crampons. Some slithery udging popped us out onto an ice choked ledge. This is where Iain and Neil showed their true colours by hacking the ledge free. The icy shroud was inches thick and the texture of concrete; I seemed to be doing more harm to the axe than the ice when I tried. The Slovenian women arrived in the dark and took the far end of the ledge. This was narrower, but with about 10 blows of an axe they had it clear; either they were much stronger than us or the ice hadn�t bonded to the rock.
 It was one of those nights when your legs dangle over the void: more of a wait than a rest. Iain brewed up potions throughout the vigil, and at last the horizon began to pale. We let the women go first but unfortunately they chose a slower variation and we were soon back in front. The route alternated between pure ice towers and bolt ladders, so we were able to speed towards the final headwall. A precarious traverse along the icy lip of a deep chasm brought us at last to an ice bridge gaining the summit tower.
The headwall is tackled by flaky wall climbing leading to the long bolt ladder that peters out 40 metres below the rock crown. There, Maestri strapped the incongruous hulk of his compressor, and chopped all the bolts above. Jim Bridwell repeated the pitch in 1978 by hand drilling spaced rivets and some copperheads. It�s now regarded as the technical crux of the climb, and an ironic reminder of the style of climbing that Maestri�s critics believe the whole climb deserved.
We really sprinted up the 200 metres bolt ladder. The bolts were quite spaced but seemed really reliable, so it was simply a case of yarding blindly towards the summit. I found myself enjoying the rhythm and savouring the outrageous exposure. I�ve rarely enjoyed a long climb so much. However, the milky sky was looking ambiguous and we hungered for the summit. Too many people had been forced back at the 11th hour.
Our African friends were just leaving the Compressor as I arrived. This rusting frame really must be one of the world�s weirdest belay stations. The fanbelt flapped idly in the breeze , and showers of ice crystals filled the air as I waited for my partners to arrive. Above, the bolts petered out in blank granite. I longed to put this final challenge behind us. And then time stood still.
Shortly before departure, I had replied to an email circular asking for opinions about people stepping over casualties on the way to Everest�s summit. I would like to think that I would stop to help, I replied. And now, just below the summit of one of the world�s most exclusive summits, we had inadvertently caused an accident. What would we do if the women needed to descend? It was too cruel; they had made such an effort to return after the weather had forced them back from near the summit less than a week ago.
Iain soon regained consciousness, but his shattered helmet told a grim story. In his fuddled state, he was finding Monika�s screams annoying! Neil was distraught. We agreed that he should descend to help the women and that if they decided to retreat, we would accompany them. I prayed that their desire for success would bring the women to the summit, but clearly our fate was now in their hands. Neil fixed a rope for Tanja, and she led on up, with Neil jumaring alongside. It was time to finish this thing.
 The final pitch demanded care passing a battered wire and finally a long reach past a faded sling, I ignored the temptation to grab it and free climbed beyond. We later learned that this sling snapped the next day and the resulting fall stripped one of Bridwell�s rivets. A cramped belay on the very brink of the wall left nothing but a freaky mantelshelf onto the snowy cap. A snow gully between mushrooms dropped down the west face but allowed a sneaky shuffle onto an easy ramp, emerging onto the crest of the highest mushroom. It's a very special place. The icecap stretched for ever to our south and whoops of joy filtered over to us as Leo Holding and Kevin Thaw summitted on Fitzroy. Thomas Huber yelled a greeting from one of the snowy fingers leading down to Torre Eggar.
I fought back tears of relief and elation. We had lost a lot of time at the compressor and the remaining daylight was a dwindling resource. I gave Monika some painkillers and took photos on both their cameras as they rested below the mushroom. They wanted to summit, and with only one bolt on the final hanging belay it seemed best to clear off.
The descent took for ever. Many of the abseils have to be tackled on a single rope to reduce the chances of snagging from certain to probable. Down at our carefully hacked ledge our African friends were happily ensconced, so it was a miserable night. We gave the women the remaining space when they arrived, and I spent the night standing.
In the chill dawn a team effort got us all across the bolt traverse, as we fixed ropes for the other teams and they later freed our ropes when they jammed. That evening we stumbled onto the steep glacier and staggered down towards Norwegos. Apart from a close encounter with a crevasse, it was all over. Later some people hinted that we could have helped the women more, but we felt vindicated. We had left them the independence that their first female ascent had deserved, but risked our success and comfort to ensure their safety. It had been a difficult call, but we felt good about doing the right thing. |
