Steve Bell - Virgin on Insanity: Coming of age on the worlds toughest mountains

Steve Monks outside the Leschaux Hut, January 1981.

I didnt climb mountains because I was brave, I climbed them because I was afraid. The fear of falling, of being buried alive by an avalanche, or being crushed to a pulp by collapsing cliffs, were nothing compared to my fear of not being enough. Frailty is easily hidden behind a mountains big reputation. So, duelling with death, thats where I tucked mine.

I felt like Id been run over by a truck. When I opened my eyes, I was underneath one. In the first daylight of the year I could see its rusting belly, the drive shaft, its barrel-shaped fuel tank. The stench of old oil was nauseating. Next to my head a fat treadless tyre swelled beneath the weight of the dilapidated truck. If it rolled I would be crushed, perhaps that would make me feel better.

A shard of light pressed through a gap in the garage door and laid down next to me, a frigid reflection of the snow outside. I shifted in my sleeping bag, accidentally nudging Steve who made a noise that sounded like remorse. He rocked his head up to remind himself where he was. His face was a crumpled green as he turned to face me.

Your eyes look like piss-holes in the snow, he croaked, trying to grin. Steves broad Bristol accent was barely discernible.

What a night, I replied, throat like gravel. Now its payback time. Each word was separated by a painful pulse in my head.

Ive got a nasty feeling we made a plan last night. God, I hate alcohol.

Happy New Year, I said. I really wanted it to be, because Id made myself a resolution, the same one I made last year.

Fighting wicked hangovers, we grudgingly packed up our sleeping gear and shoved open the garage door. Bright white light charged in from the ground and the sky, illuminating our bedroom. Blimey. I had little recollection of how we got there. The last thing I could remember clearly was partying in the Bar Nationale and dancing in the snow-covered street outside. Oh yes, and a French girl who Id asked to take me home. Obviously that didnt work. I sighed inwardly. 1981. Another year had ticked by and I still hadnt rid myself of my embarrassing secret.

Several hours later Steve Monks and I plodded the last few steps through deep snow up the railway track to Montenvers. It was deserted. Only mad dogs and Englishmen. Most sane people would be languishing in the bars and restaurants back in Chamonix, outwardly frustrated but secretly pleased that the sky was overcast and unappealing. All those hundreds of climbers shaking off their hangovers, while we were up here all alone with only our own hangovers for company.

Soon after Chamonix disappeared behind a bend in the railway track, the Mer de Glace came into view. The glacier was almost all white, a great frozen fiord winding between the spires of the Mont Blanc Massif. Far away at the head of the valley, the glacier climbed up to meet a sheer wall of speckled black and white. That was where we were heading, to the north face of the Grandes Jorasses.

The old hotel had an open room in the basement, so at least we had some shelter for the night. We only had six days food and fuel so we tried not to use any. Who knows how long the climb would take, especially with this poor weather?

The next day we clambered down the iron ladders on to the glacier, feeling much better after an alcohol-free night. The snow cover made it hard going, our boots breaking through a meringue-like crust and sinking knee deep into soft mushy stuff underneath. We were thrashing our way across a gargantuan pavlova. Every now and then Id scoop some up, squeezing the air from it before popping it into my mouth like a lolly. It tasted of the mountains, cold and fresh. It made my teeth ache.

Id been this way before when I climbed another route on the Grandes Jorasses, the Walker Spur, but that was in the summer when the going was much easier. Then it took a few hours to reach the foot of the climb, now it was taking a few days. We took turns to break the trail, changing over frequently as leading was so much more tiring than stepping into the leaders footprints. The pavlova was not at all sweet, and by the time darkness descended and snow began to fall, it was positively bitter. There were no old decrepit trucks here so we broke a rule and slept beneath a large rock. Wed both heard the story of the Irish lad whod done the same on this very glacier; the ice shifted during the night and so did the boulder he was sleeping under. He never woke up. We wondered which rock it was, whether he was still there.

It was still snowing in the morning. The tops of the mountains were obscured by the off-loading clouds, everything we could see was cold and grey and lifeless. The closest shelter was the Leschaux Hut, further still up the glacier. If we could get there wed be well placed for an attempt on the climb when the weather improved.

The wind turned vicious, hurling snowflakes against our ski masks as we stumbled towards the edge of the glacier. We found a few crevasses, when a foot didnt stop going down but kept going until stopped by a crotch, or the base of a rucksack. Id pull my dangling foot out and look into the blackness of a bottomless hole. Somewhere deep inside this glacier was our friend Arnis Strapcans. He and Steve were leading lights of the Bristol climbing scene and theyd been a powerful climbing partnership. The previous summer Arnis had disappeared on a solo mission to climb Mont Blanc. He most likely fell into a crevasse. Looking into the cold dark hole I thought of Arniss face, his curly blond hair, intelligent blue eyes and wicked humour. His trademark sign-off was, Have fun, or get hurt real bad!. The Latvian bombshell was a one-off whod touched many lives. Wed all wept for him.

We were lucky to find the hut. Only the roof was visible, the little veranda at the front being full of snow. We dug out the door and fell inside, taking a good deal of snow with us. After two days of floundering around on the glacier, it was a relief to have a roof over our heads. The hut was a ramshackle affair, little more than a shed with a line of bunks along the back wall. The water supply was frozen so we had to melt snow. We found a catering-sized tin of potato powder and lived off it for the next four days while we waited in vain for an improvement in the weather. Most of the time we rested, dozed and slept in the warmth of our bulky sleeping bags. Occasionally, we talked; mostly about climbing, sometimes about girls. Steve was considerably more experienced on both counts.

One forlorn evening, while we tucked into a cheerless meal, a sad thought crept in from the cold. I was thinking about Arnis. What do you think happened to him?

Steve knew Arnis better than I did, and I valued his opinion.

We can only surmise cant we, replied Steve, resignation in his tone. I dont know what route he was trying. Something on the Brenva Face, but he may not have even got there. Lots of big crevasses up there.