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The
last evening on Nevado Juncal, the Marmillods contemplated
the savage Northeast face of Alto de los Leones (5445 m.).
Seen in profile, Alto is a striking obelisk rising twenty-five
hundred meters above the surrounding valleys; seen face-on
it resembles the keel of an overturned ship, a hanging glacier
perched on its summit ridge. Unlike the other mountains in
central Chile, it offered no easy route to the summit. Fritz
Reichert, who in 1911 made the first ascent of Nevado Juncal,
flatly declared that Alto would never be climbed. Frédy
rose to the challenge, writing, "Alto does not escape
the law of the Cordillera any more than the neighboring summits."
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| Alto
de los Leones |
As
the thirties drew to a close, Alto de los Leones was the finest
unclimbed peak in central Chile, the object of keen ambition
among Chilean and European-immigrant climbers. The failure
of several early attempts lent the mountain an aura of the
impossible. In 1934 an Italian expedition visited the region,
and Alto turned the head of the world-class alpinist Giusto
Gervasutti, but bad weather intervened and he turned his attention
to Cerro Littoria. Two other members of the expedition, Gabriele
Boccalatte and Piero Zanetti, made a reconnaissance around
the base of the peak and realized it would be a difficult
proposition. Pressed for time, they abandoned the mountain
and opted instead for the second ascent of Nevado Juncal,
despite their strong desire to climb a virgin summit. They
climbed a new route on the north side of Juncal, the same
route followed four years later by the Marmillods in December
1938.
In
March 1939, the Marmillods joined a large group of Chilean
climbers for an attempt on Alto's southwest side. The approach
was problematical, requiring a week to establish base camp
beneath the peak. Seven climbers commenced the ascent, well
equipped and provisioned for several days, but after a few
hours four of them turned back on account of rockfall. Frédy,
Dorly and Carlos Píderit carried on for another day
and a half. They reached a high point 250 meters below the
summit where technical difficulties and lack of food forced
a retreat.
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Carlos
Píderit
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Hoping
to squeeze in another attempt before the onset of winter,
Dorly and Frédy took advantage of the Easter holidays
to attempt the Northeast face, which had appeared so intimidating
during their ascent of Juncal. Joining them again was Carlos
Píderit, the ablest native Chilean mountaineer of the
period, and one of very few who embraced hard climbing and
sought out new routes. When the Chilean National Mountain
School was established in Santiago, Píderit was appointed
its first instructor, and he played an important role in teaching
Chileans the use of rope, crampons and ice axe.
The
trip from Santiago to the base of Alto took one day, and the
first camp was pitched in the same spot where base camp had
been located for the ascent of Juncal. The next day the climbers
advanced over scree and easy rock steps to Camp 2 (4000 meters),
situated in a protected spot near a small glacier. "A
short distance away, "Frédy wrote, "an uninterrupted
cannonade of projectiles of all sizes rained down onto the
glacier. We adjusted more quickly to this sound of nature
than to the nightly din of car horns in Santiago, and we slept
soundly until morning."
Frédy
described the next two days of climbing.
"The
morning of April 9 we attacked the wall directly above us,
after roping up. To lighten our packs, we left the tent set
up at Camp 2 and only carried with us our sleeping bags. Instead
of the solid face that our Swiss imaginations had led us to
expect, we were confronted right from the start with walls
of thoroughly shattered rock cut by deep chimneys and interrupted
by numerous ledges strewn with stones. From ledge to ledge
we climbed patiently the whole day in a more or less direct
line. Falling rocks were our main worry. Several walls offered
delightful climbing on solid rock; our still heavy packs had
to be hauled up with the rope. "
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| Carlos
on the ascent above Camp 2. Summit in background.
Photo: C. Píderit |
Dorly
on the Northeast Face of Alto de los Leones. The original
caption reads, "roca mala" (bad rock).
Photo: C.Píderit
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"An
easy passage, seemingly made for us, allowed a traverse left
to new ground rising toward the ridge line. We passed over
scree and then the defenses of the face drew progressively
closer and we had to climb several walls. Meanwhile, night
was falling, and it was only with great difficulty that we
found a small ledge to pass the night. We were at 4800 meters,
about 300 meters below a large cut in the ridge (the second
notch from the summit of Alto). Of this bivouac, dubbed 'the
eagle's nest,' we remember intense cold and an epic struggle
against the persistent wind, which mistook the covers of our
sleeping bags for the sails of a ship."
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| Ascent
of Alto de los Leones |
"April
10 we resumed the ascent and quickly arrived at the critical
height, about 150 meters below the ridge, where we had to
start a long traverse to the right (north) towards the first
notch and the summit glacier. We entered a major system of
gently ascending ledges that we had spotted at the foot of
the face. The success of our undertaking now depended completely
on their continuity. Would they go or wouldn't they? As we
turned each corner, we exuberantly cheered the discovery of
a new ledge permitting us to continue the traverse. A patch
of the upper glacier pointed the way and was already drawing
near. The hope that for three days had driven us on made our
hearts beat even faster than the altitude. Beneath our feet
the face dropped chaotically into the depths of the Juncal
valley, 2000 meters below, where we could make out the tiny
roof of our tent at base camp next to the edge of the glacier.
Above our heads bulged the solid rock that defended the ridge.
It was impossible to go up or down; we were at the mercy of
these ledges, which were hidden behind a new angle of the
face every fifty meters. I was reminded of an old film in
which Harold Lloyd was sleepwalking along the edge of a skyscraper.
Holding our breath, we passed beneath several gigantic icicles,
which seemed ready to fall off the warm, dry rock at any moment.
And suddenly we saw a beautiful sight: all that separated
us from the upper glacier was a short scree slope. The next
instant we reached the notch in the ridge, right at the foot
of the summit. The glacier, which we reached in its middle
part, descended from the summit in even undulations and disappeared
several hundred meters lower into the abyss of the Southwest
face. Some large crevasses crossed it from one side to the
other, but none seemed to completely bar access to the summit,
now rising over us no more than 300 or 400 meters. Almost
certain of victory, we felt like dancing for joy on the smooth,
flat glacier, whose luminous presence offered us a strange
form of congratulations. What marvelous relaxation, after
three days spent on a shattered face under the constant menace
of falling rock. We laid out our bags at the edge of the glacier
against the first rise in the arête, which should have
protected us from the frigid drafts. It was only token protection
we later named this the 'frigidaire' bivouac. But we
could feel how close we were to success, and this allowed
us to smile through the starry night, even while our teeth
were chattering."
On
April 11, the three climbers left the bivouac early and navigated
the glacier to the summit, arriving in mid-afternoon. "There
we built a small cairn in which I left my ice axe, "
wrote Frédy. "It is an Andean tradition to leave
an ice axe behind on the high summits, and exchange it for
the one left by the preceding party. For example, nobody will
believe you have climbed Aconcagua if you come back without
the ice axe of your predecessors! The glacial wind prevented
me from feeling sentimental over the loss of my faithful ice
axe, inherited long ago in the Alps from an unknown climber
who took mine for his own on a pre-dawn morning. We made a
close examination of our conquest, advancing our heads like
curious jackdaws out over the abyss that encircled our roost.
At the bottom of the Los Leones valley, the sinuous torrent
glittered like a string of pearls; in the Juncal valley, 2500
meters below, crept the interesting white form of the Juncal
glacier. The view was unlimited, grandiose, but the most impressive
spectacle was made by the glacier that began right at our
feet; isolated in celestial purity, it threw itself down in
wild leaps and bounds toward the gaping abyss of the Southwest
face, over which immense blocks of ice were perched."
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| Carlos
and Dorly rest on the summit glaciar
Photo: F. Marmillod
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Dorly
and Frédy on the summit of Alto de los Leones
Photo: F. Marmillod
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"Our
cards and Swiss flag were placed in a metal box with the emblem
of the Club Andino de Chile and deposited in the cairn. At
four o'clock we left the summit and after dark we reached
our frigidaire bivouac, where we spent one last miserable
night. The following day, we slowly retraced the route of
ascent. The evening of the 12th we reached the tent, and the
13th of April we returned to Santiago with the rich memory
of a beautiful adventure. This exceptional experience constantly
fanned the flame of our future ambitions."
Frédy
summed up the overall nature of the ascent: "It was impossible
to avoid rockfall, a danger on all sides of the mountain,
and we suffered from the cold owing to the lateness of the
season. With regard to technical difficulties, it must be
said that they did not surpass a medium grade for this class
of peak; nevertheless, they are greater than generally encountered
in the Central Cordillera. The greatest difficulty was climbing
from an altitude of 3000 meters to 5400 meters up exceptionally
steep slopes with a load that necessarily was very heavy."
Alto
de los Leones would prove to be the Marmillods' outstanding
climb in the Andes. The peak was classic, the route dangerous
and exacting, and the ascent a significant event in the history
of the Cordillera. If Alto could be climbed, then so could
other "impossible" peaks and faces, and the publicity
given the ascent by the media did much to encourage andinismo,
or Andean mountaineering among native Chileans. In short,
the Marmillods established a grande course, an ascent
outstanding in its era for length, seriousness, and sustained
difficulty.
Attempted
more often than climbed, Alto de los Leones maintains a formidable
reputation to this day. Forty years after the first ascent,
only ten additional ascents had been completed, always by
the original route or variations of it. Not until 1979 was
a new and very difficult line established on the Southwest
pillar, the first genuine new route on this imposing summit.
Shortly
after Alto, Sandoz transferred Frédy to Mexico. In
March 1941 he and Dorly made the second ascent (first by a
woman) of the Fraile de Actopan, a seventy-meter rock tower
in the Pachuca mountains north of Mexico City. The tower,
rated moderate fifth class, is characterized by knobby rock
and chicken heads, and Frédy placed pitons as protection
at the crux, an overhanging crack with friable holds near
the summit. The ascent came four months after Dorly had given
birth to Mariette, their first daughter.
During
two years in Mexico, Frédy and Dorly climbed the snow-capped
peaks of Popocatepetl, Ixtaccihuatl, Orizaba, and a number
of lower summits. Like many travelers before and after, they
surrendered baggage to thieves:
"Once
on Popocatepetl we left our packs for a few hours in a rock
crevice; we returned to find that someone had carefully removed
all articles of any value: knives, flashlights, etc. When
we made the ascent of the Fraile de Actopan, we foolishly
parked the car some distance away from the main road in order
to approach our objective by a mining path. A sad sight greeted
us when we returned: bullet holes riddled the auto body, all
of the windows were broken, a tire was slashed, and our belongings
had disappeared. Moral: one must look ahead and neither count
on the honesty of others or on the efficiency of the police,
for the one is as doubtful as the other."
In
late 1941, after nearly four years away from Switzerland,
the Marmillods longed to return home. They knew the war might
soon make the trip impossible, and Frédy applied for
a U.S. visa so the family could book passage on a ship sailing
from New York. With luck they would be home by Christmas.
After tense weeks of waiting at the Mexican border, the request
for a visa was denied. They were trapped in Latin America,
and there for the next four years the Marmillods lived, worked,
raised a family, and continued climbing.
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