Bernese Alps
Monch, Jungfrau & Eiger
Mountains are not fair or unfair, they are just dangerous.” — Reinhold Messner
Introduction
I never imagined I would make it to Switzerland this summer, especially as everything pointed to my staying at home. The way events unfolded – for my climbing partner Aurel Salașan and me alike – was oddly unexpected. Our original plan, dating back to 2009 when we’d returned from the Caucasus, had been to head for Peru. Even after our later ascent of Khan Tengri, Peru remained on the table and, if anything, the project had grown more complex. We longed for Peru, which is why we drafted what was perhaps the best sponsorship proposal we’d ever written. It was meant to be not merely an exploration of physical limits or the natural and cultural setting, but also a journey into the spiritual evolution of a people descended from the Inca Empire, so unlike us Europeans. The stories we hoped to bring back would have left a profound mark on our consciousness.
But it was not to be. At the end of May, from my warm Scottish flat, I learnt that our would-be main sponsor no longer had the funds for a two-month South American venture. Too late to find another backer, and in just a fortnight, the airfares had jumped from £1,100 to £1,300. We bade farewell to a potential Romanian first on Yerupajá’s west face, to Alpamayo – “the most beautiful mountain in the world”, some say – to Huascarán, to the Amazon jungle and its shamans, to Machu Picchu and the Inca capital, and to all the spontaneous tales waiting to unfold. I chose to read that setback differently: perhaps it was for the best, perhaps we weren’t quite ready, or perhaps the place itself was not yet calling us.
We did not, however, give up our passion – alpinism. After a few chats with my good friend Aurel, we decided on the Alps. Financially, the Alps were far more accessible than the Andes, and, as I like to say, we had “unfinished business” there. Decision made, the rest of the team – Sorin Rechitan and Pavel Țipei – readily agreed, and Alin Stana, an excellent rock-climber and alpinist with whom I’d summited the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc in 2008 (aged only 17), joined too.
The journey to Grindelwald
After days of gear-sorting, we left on Saturday, 6 August, Pavel kindly providing the car. The route through Hungary passed without drama (save a vignette mishap quickly solved). Near Vienna, we stopped at Shopping City Süd for food and final gear odds-and-ends, splitting into two pairs – Alin with Poly, Sorin with me, mirroring our mountain rope teams. Sorin and I emerged from SPAR with a trolley fit to feed two bears for twenty days; another lesson that one should never food-shop when hungry.
Back on the road and buoyed by the cheap Austrian prices (a far cry from Switzerland’s), we paused by Lake Chiemsee to watch Germans and Austrians enjoying their weekend, then drove into a torrential downpour en route to Innsbruck. By 11 p.m., we were pitching tents beneath an imposing limestone wall.
Next morning, after breakfasting and packing in driving rain, we crossed into Liechtenstein – the deluge easing – then Switzerland. The scenery was already breathtaking: mountains, lakes, waterfalls, and the vivid green of the forests. Not a piece of litter on the motorway verges, let alone by the lakes. The turquoise water looked pristine, untouched by industry.
We wound through Swiss tunnels and motorways, admiring the engineers’ ingenuity, to Interlaken – true to its name, nestled between Lakes Brienz and Thun. Soon, the snow-clad Bernese Alps appeared: far more snow than one would expect in August. Climbing hairpins into the valley leading to Grindelwald (1,034 m), we arrived about 5 p.m.
The resort’s prices – franc and euro almost one-for-one – were eye-watering, and some 80 per cent of the tourists seemed Asian, mainly Japanese and Korean. Yet the atmosphere, with surrounding peaks such as the Wetterhorn and the Eiger, reminded me of Chamonix: trekkers, paragliders, cyclists, alpinists of every age and hue filled the streets, a vibrant sporting energy you couldn’t ignore.
We camped at a designated site (CHF 37 for car, tent and two people). Short of funds, Alin decided to sleep under a tree outside the campsite; by morning, unsurprisingly, he was in Pavel’s tent.
Mönch – 4,107 m
The Jungfraubahn is a masterpiece: nine kilometres from Kleine Scheidegg to Jungfraujoch, seven of them tunnelled through the mountains, terminating at 3,454 m. Jungfraujoch houses a solar-powered research complex (max 3571 m, the Sphinx observatory) studying climate, geology, physics and more, and overlooks the Aletsch Glacier.
We alighted at Eismeer (3,159 m). Avalanches and serac collapses thundered outside. Fresh snow plastered the wall leading to the Mittellegi Hut, so we abandoned the Eiger for now and continued to Jungfraujoch, crossing the glacier to the Mönchsjoch Hut. We learnt three climbers had died on Mönch in just four days – sobering news.
Setting off about 4 p.m., we felt headachy but determined. Early slopes were easy, so we stayed unroped, then tied in for mixed rock and snow before an icy face up to the summit ridge – knife-edge, horribly exposed. Thankfully, the snow had refrozen by 7 p.m. We shook hands, took sponsor photos and savoured sunset colours that left us spellbound. Descending by head-torch, we bivouacked at the hut – the warden reluctantly allowing us inside.
Back in Romania, preparations ramped up in June. Training was going brilliantly and, for the third time in as many years, my sponsors and supporters said yes. I am proud and grateful to these wonderful people who believe in me and help turn my dreams into reality.
Our objectives were ambitious, and the weather was notoriously fickle. I kept an eye on the most reliable Alpine forecasts, and the news was grim. Heavy snowfall had blanketed the Alps for the past month. Friends from our club, then in Switzerland attempting Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn, reported deep snow even in car parks above 2,000 metres – unheard-of for late July. We therefore kept our departure date flexible. After all, we were going there to get things done, not to sit in a tent.
One Monday, cycling home from the gym after a weekend’s climbing in the Turda Gorge, my phone rang. It was Aurel. I heard words I never thought could come from him – he’s not the sort to have accidents, or so I believed:
“Curly boy, I’ve some shocking news… I’ve cut my fingers with a chainsaw.”
My heart raced.
“Aurel, are you at home? I’m coming over right now!”
On the way, a hundred thoughts flashed through my mind – how serious was it, were the fingers severed, how many? I arrived to learn the whole story. Working as an industrial climber, he’d been told to fell a tall poplar by the heating plant on a scorching day. In a moment’s inattention, the saw, held in one hand, struck two fingers of his left hand. Thankfully, they were not completely severed, so surgery to repair tendons and skin was possible. Seeing his physique, the surgeon asked if he did sports. “Alpinism,” Aurel replied. The doctor’s response was chilling: “I’m sorry for you.”
I can scarcely imagine how Aurel felt. Yet hope remained – he is strong, both physically and mentally, and with diligent rehabilitation, he should recover. The Alps, of course, were no longer on his cards, but the mountains would still be there next year; fingers, once lost, are gone forever.
We decided to push on with the Alpine project precisely for Aurel’s sake – to motivate him, to show we would not be beaten by bad luck. So the team – Sorin Rechitan, Alin Stana, Pavel Țipei and I – set off around 6 August for Grindelwald, Switzerland.
I was treading carefully through places steeped in tales of courage, ambition and love of nature, where athletes such as Anderl Heckmair, Heinrich Harrer and Lionel Terray wrote mountaineering history.
Eigergletscher
After sorting gear, we caught the train to Kleine Scheidegg, changing for Eigergletscher – the station beneath the Eiger’s North Face. The railway’s engineering impressed us, as did the views. From Eigergletsche,r we could camp freely for the first time in Switzerland. We pitched beneath Rotstock’s cliffs and cooked supper, surrounded by a scene reminiscent of the Făgăraș Mountains: 2- to 3-thousand-metre peaks, streams, evergreen woods, alpine hamlets, and the little trains threading the valleys. No wonder Swiss chocolate tastes so good if the cows graze in settings like this.
That evening, a herd of thirty cows invaded, eyeing our tents with bovine irritation and nibbling at the guy lines; we’d unknowingly set up on their sleeping patch. We paid for that mistake with a sleepless night of clanking bells and attempted tent demolition, compounded by rain. The next day dawned wet, and we dozed until midday, hemmed in again by showers. At night, a crazed fox ripped a hole in our companions’ tent. The third day brought more rain until the afternoon. Frustrated, we climbed Rotstock (2,665 m) via a delightful via ferrata during a dry spell, discovering a small tunnel into the Jungfraubahn railway. Spirits lifted: tomorrow we would head for Eismeer, the start for the Eiger.
Jungfrau – 4,158 m
Next morning Sorin’s altitude sickness forced him to remain at the hut while Alin, Pavel and I set off at 8 a.m. Solo at first, I soon re-roped with them for the steepening snow, culminating in a near-vertical pitch onto the Jungfrau ridge. Strong sunshine softened the snow dangerously, but we reached the tiny summit at 1 p.m. – the highest of the Bernese Trilogy.
Descent proved tense: Pavel’s crampons lacked anti-balling plates, making every step treacherous. Carefully we reached rock, where I hurried ahead to check on Sorin – worse, and resolved to descend next day.
Attempting to fetch water from a glacier tap, I was brusquely stopped by a moustachioed Swiss who emptied my bottle, barking, “Not for drinking, are you blind?” Apparently we were expected to buy water at CHF 5 a litre. I melted snow with my stove instead. By contrast, the female warden was kindness itself, letting us bed down in the dining room with blankets. Outside a gale brewed.
The moonlit trek – a haloed full moon behind the Eiger, meteors streaking overhead – was one of the most magical nights of my life. We reached the tents about 4 a.m. Pavel muttered, “Be prepared, we’re driving home tomorrow…” I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t. By morning, he had packed the car, determined to leave, for reasons that remain unclear – tension with Alin? frustration at missing the Eiger? Whatever the cause, he refused to stay, and as it was his car, we risked being stranded in pricey Grindelwald. We wound up driving to Mannheim, Germany, spending a night at his daughter’s, then onwards to Romania.
The journey felt like a nightmare: Alin and I were exhausted after only four hours’ sleep and twelve hours of exertion, now embroiled in rows. Even today, I don’t fully grasp what happened in those final days. To me, everything had gone remarkably well: all four reached Mönch, three reached Jungfrau, and those trained for serious mixed climbing reached the Eiger. Perhaps had Aurel not been injured, the team cohesion would have differed.
Eiger – 3,970 m
Morning brought clearer weather. Sorin and Pavel felt unwell and decided to descend; Alin and I headed back to Eismeer, hoping conditions had improved for the Mittellegi Hut. Three fine days had stabilised the snow, and indeed the wall looked less icy. After pasta on the glacier rim, we crossed the crevassed ice to the foot of the wall, only to find no obvious start, no pitons, no tat. As more teams gathered, equally puzzled, Alin set off up the line he judged best, each party choosing its own, on frighteningly loose rock. Stones whizzed past like tennis balls – the most dangerous climbing of my life.
After two hours, we reached the Mittellegi Hut (3,355 m), a modern shelter with solar panels, water-catchment, toilets, bunks and a kitchen. Given the sleet outside, we took the beds. The warden, who had minded the hut every summer for 21 years, allowed us to cook our food.
At 4 a.m., the hut stirred. Alin and I were last away at 6 a.m., but soon overtook a Swiss team. Conditions were wintry: mixed ground, rime-plastered holds, constant exposure. The geology–like angled roof tiles offered scant protection; gear placements were poor. We gained the Gross Turm (3,692 m) and, beyond, the famously narrow corniced summit ridge: South Face plunging to one side, North Face to the other. Progress was snail-slow, nerves taut.
Around 2 p.m., we topped out. Cloud denied us views, but euphoria reigned – a childhood dream fulfilled. German climbers we’d passed soon joined us; photos, chocolate, mutual congratulations, then down the long West Flank descent. Avalanche-hardened snowfields led to horribly loose, misty gullies where navigation was fraught. We teamed up with the Swiss, share-brained our way down through stonefall danger, eventually abandoning the rope for faster unroped scrambling. Racing darkness, we fairly sprinted, losing a half-rope from Alin’s pack en route. At dusk, we regained the Rotstock path, descended by head-torch, washed in a stream, cooked soup, then chose to walk all the way to Grindelwald so Sorin and Pavel need not pay another camping night.
I briefly considered staying on alone, but logistically, with so much gear and no transport, it was impossible. We reached home near midnight.
It took a while to process the shock and write this account. Many startling things happened this season – the Peru project collapsing, Aurel’s accident, this premature return – yet I choose to see them as lessons. However much I train, research or raise funds, I can never entirely predict how people will react on expedition. Perhaps the biggest mistake was that our foursome had not spent enough time in the mountains together beforehand. Issues must be addressed early, even anticipated.
Despite the setbacks, the expedition was a success: exhilarating climbs, priceless experiences, and a major step in my mental, emotional, spiritual and social maturation.
My heartfelt thanks go to the sponsors, friends and supporters whose trust and encouragement made it all possible.
