Storm and night on the Eiger
At the height of the 2019 summer, my brother Ruben and I planned to climb the Eiger via the Mittellegi ridge. We’d take the honest route, starting from the foot of the Eiger in Alpiglen. This long, three-day ridge traverse runs over one of the most iconic peaks of the Alps. The crux sits far below the summit, on the endless ridge of the second day, going from the Ostegghütte to the Mittellegihütte. Safe havens in a landscape of rock, ice, and eternal beauty.
We never reached the top of the Eiger. Instead, we spent a long, cold and exposed night at 3,200m on the Mittellegi ridge, together with four other climbers.
Eiger
Ruben and I have long talked about climbing the Eiger via the Mittellegi ridge. In the years we’ve spent living in Interlaken, the Jungfrau (4,158m), Mönch (4,107m), and Eiger (3,970m) dominated the skyline of the Berner Oberland. These three peaks form an impenetrable wall separating the green alpine meadows from the black and white glacial world behind them. As the lowest peak of the three siblings, the Eiger is by far the most notorious one. It boasts the biggest north face of the Alps, and has witnessed plenty of mountaineering drama and triumph, as recorded in Heinrich Harrer’s The White Spider.
I bought this classic mountaineering book from 1959 three years ago, and read it in the shadow of the Eiger. The courageous stories of the failed, first and subsequent ascents both intrigued and horrified me. With no modern crampons, lightweight ropes, technical weatherproof gear, or mobile phones to call for help, many paid a high price for their audacity. So much mountaineering history was right around the corner, most of us oblivious to the efforts and sacrifices of so many climbers. Sitting on ski lifts, drinking beers on terraces, and gliding down the gentle slopes at the foot of this monstrous, massive, daunting face; we are clueless of this world.
The book put me off even considering an attempt of any of the routes on the north face. We aim at no such feat. We decide on the “Mittellegi Ridge Integrale”: a three day ascent of this long, exposed, challenging yet beautiful alpine ridge.
Day 1 is easy, going from Alpiglen to the Ostegghütte, mostly trails and some advanced scrambling on a via ferrata. Day 2 is long, and seems straightforward: a traverse of the long, sharp shoulder of the Eiger in preparation of the summit bid. Deceivingly, this section also holds the crux of the entire route: an airy, vertical, bolted section of 80m 5a climbing. Day 3 is the longest, ascending from the hut to the Eiger summit, and then finding the tricky and exposed way down onto the shoulder of the Mönch, continuing to the Jungfraujoch.
A dazzling total of 5.6 km on an exposed ridge, leading over one of the iconic summits of the Alps.
Leaving the valley
Late morning, we take the train from Interlaken, cutting through the deep valley and working our way up to Grindelwald at the foot of the Eiger. We continue along the green ski slopes leading towards Kleine Scheidegg, but get off at Alpiglen (1,614m). Just a couple of months ago we did endless sledding runs in the deep snow that covered everything. Now, we are looking at blossoming alpine meadows, with the Eiger north face towering above us.
We follow the Eiger Trail to the east, until we reach the split that leads to the via ferrata that will take us to the Ostegghütte. We feel prepared and fit, in good spirits ahead of this big project.
The route today presents no technical difficulties and at a swift pace, we make it to the hut by 4pm. The unmanned Ostegghütte is built on one of the few flat sections, on the far eastern shoulder of the Eiger. What a place. If you’re fit and have via ferrata gear, this is a magical stay, a perfect weekend destination far away from the frantic tourism of the towns below.
Arriving later in the afternoon, we meet two other climbing teams planning the same route for tomorrow. Andy and Paul are from the Italian Dolomites, and Alex and Ludwig are from Munich, Germany. We make tea, talk about the route, read the extra reports we find in the hut, and marvel at the amazing views over the Bernese Oberland before we hit the hay, as always, a bit too late.
Endless sky
We leave at 5am sharp, one hour before the other teams and plenty early for a route that should take 6 to 8 hours. There is some light rain predicted in the late afternoon, around 6pm. We expect to arrive in the hut well before then.
And we make good progress. We initially follow a faint trail that opens up into a wide and steep rocky section leading up to the Osteggsaddle (2,700m). The terrain is a combination of scrambling and low grade climbing over ledges and up small couloirs and chimneys. We go unroped too long, but by the time we realize it, we already made it to the saddle by 6:30am. Timing by the book.
The sky is cloudless, the colors have shifted from soft yellow and warm orange to a bright blue, and as we reach the saddle we get the first views of the other side of the ridge. We take a short break; for snacks, and to absorb all this beauty.
Far below, I see the icefall of the Grindelwald glacier leading to the Schreckhornhütte, probably the most beautiful and rewarding hut hike I know. Directly south, we look upon the Ischmeer (Ice Sea), and the peaks of the Kleines and Grosses Fiescherhorn, Schreckhorn and Finsteraarhorn, Berner Oberland’s tallest mountain standing at 4,274m.
From this point, the terrain becomes more challenging. It’s steep, and the route finding is difficult. We have a rough description, but that is what it is: rough. Big routes just point in the right direction, they don’t tell where to go exactly. That is up to you, and that is part of mountaineering. Nevertheless, we lose precious time, wasting 45 minutes trying to look for a bolt that should lead the way. Time is ticking.
By 9am we have scaled the Ostegg tower and the ridge has narrowed, with 500m drops on either side. There are few to no bolts, and we lose time belaying each other on improvised belays rather than moving simultaneously. We recognize features from the description in the reports here and there. Happy, we pass the famous crawl-through hole, leading to the other side of the ridge and just big enough for one person without a backpack. The terrain gets easier, the route a bit more straightforward, and we move simultaneously now, abseiling from a couple of small towers.
By 12:30pm, we finally reach the crux of the route: a vertical, 80m high, 5a rated tower. It’s a tiny, almost imperceptible dent in the ridge from down below in Grindelwald. But here, it’s a massive obstacle. 5a is easy while sports climbing, but on a long alpine ridge with a backpack loaded with crampons, ice axe and food for several days, after 7.5 hours of moving: it’s very different.
I lead the first pitch, and Ruben follows. When it becomes clear that Ruben does not feel in great shape, we decide I will lead all the pitches on this tower. Even here, I struggle to find the best route. I deviate too much to the right and get stuck on a small, sloping platform with no easy way up or down. We probably lose half an hour here. Again.
When we make it to the top, it is not much better. Should we go over the ridge, or on the side? Left or right of this tower, or over it? Where we deem it safe, we shorten the rope and move simultaneously, just a couple of meters apart. When unsure, we leave 15 to 20m of rope and add some mobile protection. When it’s tricky, we belay. It is safer, objectively, but it comes at a high cost: it is much, much slower.
As always in the mountains, we need a fine balance between speed and safety to minimize risk. Paradoxically, we need to move fast to be safe.
The mountains are a place of stark beauty, but equally a hostile place where we cannot stay. We visit, we climb and explore, but we always have to go back down. We cannot stay. We merely catch a glimpse of what has forever been there, and that is true privilege.
Around 3:30pm, Andy and Paul catch up with us. We’re not the only ones struggling with route finding. Earlier on, they lost an hour looking for the route lower on the Ostegg tower. We should all have been close to the hut by now, and Paul is cursing the difficulty of the route. We keep moving steadily. From here, it shouldn’t be that far anymore. But what is ahead? Reasonably flat and easy terrain, we expect. But the ridge keeps changing.
I call the hut warden and inform her that we will be late.
Don’t worry, we are coming.
Running late
Here we are.
We’re slow and we’re running late. I felt this was coming as soon we lost the faint route markings early on our way to the Ostegg Saddle this morning. The route is exposed. Very exposed. Loose, too. Unbolted, as well. Beautiful, unmistakably.
As we make our way up and down the endlessly long ridge, I feel I’ve reached the limits of what I consider acceptable risk. This route is a beast. It’s 7pm and we should’ve reached the hut hours ago. Instead, the ridge stretches on and on.
We keep moving and don’t question our options. A ridge is bidirectional. There is no left or right, both are dead ends. Thundering abysses that lead nowhere. There is only backward and forward. We just spent 14 hours getting to the point where we are now, there is no going back. We’re at 3200m altitude and the weather is changing. There is only forward.
The two teams that left the Ostegghütte one hour after us have joined, and we’re all moving slowly but steadily towards the Mittellegihütte. I’m very aware that we’re late. Very late, too slow. But we have it under control and we will make it.
Then, the early evening clouds smother the sun and bring us hail. Strong, thick, dense hail. Loads of it. We’re on a wide, easy section and I’m not worried, I just know we need to hurry. Just that bit more. The ridge narrows again, the loose stones turn into solid rock, the walking turns to scrambling, then to roped simultaneous climbing. There’s a first easy tower, which we cross in low visibility. Only to find a near-vertical, exposed section ahead: another, larger tower. How long, far, or big, I can’t see. Everything is covered in a centimeter of molten, icy hail right now, and visibility is low. We don’t question it when I take the gear and start leading the pitch.
Snow and ice
Ruben is belaying me. I start off to the right, placing some mobile protection as I go, but have to move sharply to the left quite soon. Rope drag. There’s no way I can go back. Too slippery, already. As I carefully work my way up, I slowly become aware that I’m leading a climb in low visibility, on slippery ice slush, with not a single bolt and no idea where to actually go. Just up.
I pause. I must be 20–25 meter up. My last cam is at least 7–8 meter below me. I can’t place any protection. I can’t go back. There are no proper holds. Everything is slippery. I plan my next move. I grip the hold and I pull carefully. Ready myself to shift my weight. I prepare myself over and over again, always deciding it’s too risky. The exposure is crushing. It’s snowing outside, everything is wet. My mouth is dry. If I fall, I die. I know it. I’d cascade down 12–15m on the side of the tower before the rope would catch me. On a cam. I can’t go back, I need to move forward. Simple. I move my feet, and slowly pull myself on the ledge. Still no place for a cam. Ruben yells at me from far below, out of sight. No — more — rope.
I’m 35 meter out?
I uncoil the 15m of rope I was still carrying. The rope drag is massive, it would be hard for him to take it in — even harder for me to pull it back up. I don’t tell him, I prefer to move free. I uncoil the rope and lay it down, climbing 10 meter above my last cam with 15m of slack at my feet. If I fall, I die for sure. I know it. I just keep moving. Slowly. My blood is rushing. My hands aren’t cold. My mouth is dry.
Finally, I find a good place for a cam. I clip in and keep moving forward, anxious. I need a belay point. How large is this tower? Will I make it before I run out of rope? Will I get stuck? I don’t. Nearly 50m out, I reach a flat section, a small saddle. I improvise a belay with a sling on a large boulder and start belaying Ruben in.
There they come. Ruben, and attached to him the leader of the second team. Attached to their last man, the leader of the third team. In front of us is an even steeper, bigger tower. Paul curses, frustration spilling out. He knows. I know. We’re not going anywhere tonight.
At 20:43 I call the rescue service. Finally, it’s very clear, there is no doubt. I could easily have died on that pitch. There is nowhere for us to go. We’re at 3,200m altitude and need to get off this ridge before night falls.
In hindsight, what baffles me is that there was no real reason to risk my life on that pitch. We could have, and should have, called the helicopter when we met that tower. There and then, or even before. No doubt. But we were moving, slowly but surely, towards the hut. There was a burning hope that this would be the last obstacle before we met a long easy section, and then a hot meal and a warm bed. That burning hope can be treacherous, it clouded my vision and rational decision making. It did for all of us. Reaching the hut was not a life or death situation, but I made it into one.
As the crow flies, we are 480m from the hut. We wait. It’s getting colder. Paul and Andy take out their two-person emergency bivvy bag and pass a spare one to Ruben to me. Thankfully, we accept. We get in our bags, wind raging.
And we wait.
Just one hour after we call the helicopter, I hear blades chopping through the wind. I can’t believe it. It’s almost dark, it’s windy, and visibility is low, yet here they come. We flash our headlamps, catch their attention, and the helicopter swiftly moves towards our position. There it is, hovering 10 m above us. So close, manoeuvring left and right, back and forth.
Then, suddenly, the helicopter turns and dives, disappearing into the night.
“They cannot rescue you right now. The high humidity will create fog when the helicopter gets too close to the mountain. It is not safe for the rescue team. They will reevaluate at five in the morning.”
Suddenly, it’s dark.
Night
Everyone clips into the improvised belay I made with a sling on a rock, and gets in their bags. A couple of meters to one side there’s a near vertical 500 meter drop, to the other, it’s 1000 meters. I don’t want to imagine all of us tumbling into either abyss, so I install another sling belay on a rock a couple of meters away, and connect the two.
The emergency bivvy bag Paul and Andy gave us is a thin foil, much like a big bag of chips. It offers no insulation, but it has a reflective layer and shuts out the wind. That is gold. It’s a tight fit for two. Shivering, we are in bent, cramped positions for hours. We try to share whatever heat we have and maximize our body contact. My head on Ruben’s belly, his legs over my side, changing positions every half an hour or so. It’s like playing twister in a bag, careful not to tear it apart, as outside there is a ripping wind, a lonely, cold ridge, and a long night.
It is uncomfortable and endless. Yet, no one complains.
I’m shivering all night. It’s a cycle. My hands and feet get cold, then I systematically move them, with great effort, and they heat up again. With great effort, because of the cold and the altitude. It’s hard to fathom how passive I become, any sense for initiative drained from my body.
Everything is hard now.
I have an extra merino base layer in my backpack, just 1m away outside our bivvy bag. I think about it for hours, but I cannot muster the courage and energy to reach for it, take off my other layers, and put everything back on. So I do nothing.
We force ourselves to share the food, of which we have plenty, but only take tiny bits. We are not hungry, but we force ourselves to share an energy bar every hour or so. They are in my pocket, yet it takes me 20 minutes to find the energy to take it out, every time. I just want to wait and do nothing. This is what really kills. I just cannot imagine how it must be in a real high altitude environment, higher up where the snows are colder and the air thinner.
Ruben and I speak occasionally. “Are you OK? Are you cold? What time is it? Can we change position?” From time to time, I hear Paul shout to Ludwig and Alex to check if they are all right. “Stay awake!”. He seems to be the climber with most experience, knowing what to do.
In a way, I’m happy we’re not stranded here by ourselves. We are stronger together. We are all responsible for ourselves, but we share information, food, and gear. We discuss the situation, and agree on what to do. No long conversations, but rational arguments, and a quiet acceptance of where we are.
It’s a long night, and as we wait, every minute takes an hour.
Light
First light comes a bit after 5am. We are sitting in the clouds, a foggy greyness, with fresh snow still clinging to the ridge. Ludwig stayed in in touch all night with the rescue service, but visibility is too low.
No helicopter.
Slow hour after hour, the grey nothing makes way for a sea of clouds below, blue sky above. We are stuck above the clouds. A barrier separating us from the world below. Still no helicopter.
I feel for Alex who did not have a shared bivvy bag, but most of all for Ludwig, who had nothing at all. The night must have been horribly exposed. They seem alright though, responding to the heat of the sun. Paul and Andy must’ve torn their bag somewhere halfway through the night, as it has big holes in it. Ouch. Our bag is pretty much intact, and Paul swaps his torn bag to keep Andy warm. I’m thankful we got to use his spare in the first place. Ruben offers Ludwig to join us in our torn bag, getting some shelter from the wind. It’s not much, but something at least.
Our hope is external. We are all waiting for someone or something to lift us off this ridge. We hardly plan. Briefly, Alex and Ludwig bring up the possibility of continuing to the hut. But fresh snow still covers the ridge, and with yesterday’s death climb echoing in my head, I dismiss it as too risky.
However, as time passes by, we are forced to think ahead, of what will happen if the helicopter cannot reach us today. Should we stay here? Should we continue? The German team makes it clear they are definitely not staying another night. And I don’t consider it to be an option either. As the sun climbs higher and higher, some of the snow slowly starts to melt. If the helicopter does not show up, this will be our only option.
While we are all warming ourselves in the sun, Paul further retreats in his bag, desperately trying to find some heat. He’s shivering. We were all shivering all night, so it does not catch my attention.
We’re all passive,
sitting on the rock,
staring at the clouds,
trying not to think of what will happen
when the helicopter cannot reach us before nightfall,
and trying to stay warm.
Next to us, a climber is suffering the effects of hypothermia, most of us still unaware of the severity of the situation.
We do nothing.
Only when I hear his wailing cries, and I notice his violent shivering inside the bag, I realize something is going wrong, fast. He can no longer stand and hardly responds. He is in bad shape.
Where is the helicopter? There is no way Paul has any other chance of getting out of here.
In hindsight, I cannot understand why we did nothing. Why we did not not press our bodies against his. Did not make him drink. Did not make him eat. Rubbed his back. Anything, to help him heat up.
It failed to dawn on us what was really happening. And when it finally, somehow did, we failed to transform our hope for a helicopter into action. Our hope was external and we lost vigor. With that, we lost control.
I did not feel responsible, nor was I, but I could have made a difference, and that is what counts.
Rescue
We are lucky.
The clouds are slowly shifting. We start to catch glimpses of the world down below. Then, faintly, we hear a helicopter. We yell and point, trying to find a dot in the sky. A bit later, I see them, two of them, heading toward Kleine Scheidegg, Then, one continuing straight to our position. Hope, and relief.
We jam all our gear in our bags, ready for the helicopter to approach. As they hover over the ridge, two members of the rescue team descend on a cable to our position. Andy and Paul clip into the large carabiner at the end of the steel wire, and get lifted off the ridge. Effortlessly, just like that. At Kleine Scheidegg, a medical helicopter is waiting, flying Paul straight to the hospital in Bern. It’s 1:45pm.
The German team flies out next. Then it’s our turn. As I unclip from the improvised belay that secured us all night, leaving it behind, I look at the spot. You would never notice it if you passed it while climbing. I will never forget.
An instant later, I am suspended midair. I never imagined my first helicopter flight like this. One minute later, the helicopter lowers us at the Mittellegihütte, where the hut warden gives both Ruben and me a hug before we step into the helicopter. I called her last night, informing her we were stuck, and asking for help. There was nothing she could do.
Then we’re off again. Through a narrowing gap in the clouds, we disappear, all the way down to Grindelwald. Six minutes. To another world, where the grass is green, the air is warm, and tourists are strolling along the boulevard.
Later that day, we hear Paul’s body temperature dropped to 29°C on the ridge. It got very close to being critical, but the rescue came at the right moment. He owes his life to the rescue team. Maybe, all of us do.
When the helicopter safely landed us in Grindelwald, Christian from the rescue team tells us they could’ve saved us yesterday, if we would have been prepared. We did not know what prepared meant. As soon as we called the helicopter, we took out the rescue blankets, and spread our stuff all over the place. A helicopter will not get close if there are loose items that can get caught in its rotor. They must’ve seen us sitting there, huddled against the rock, bags and rescue blankets flapping in the wind, with visibility deteriorating. And made the call that we were not ready.
Hindsight
When accidents happen, we often hear that there was not one specific thing that went wrong. Rather, it was a combination of factors, cumulatively adding up. Our story was no different.
Overall, we seemed well prepared: we read route reports, had the right material, left early enough, had experience in sports climbing, alpine multi pitch climbing, ridge traverses, and mountaineering.
But.
1. This was our first “difficult” route: graded S(chwierig) / D(ifficile). The ridge was highly exposed and route finding was difficult. Moving quickly in such terrain requires experience and risk-taking. This was above our comfort level, which made us very slow.
2. By ridge standards, the Mittellegi ridge is extremely long. In combination with the constantly changing difficulty and tricky route finding, we were moving far too slow relative to the scale of the route.
3. The weather. This was our main mistake, as it’s the one we had the least influence on while climbing. On a ridge, there is no escape. The weather needs to be spotless, perfect. Great in the morning, cloudy in the late afternoon, and rain predicted in the evening: the forecast seemed fine given the indicated route duration of 6–8h. It was not.
Had the weather remained fair, we would’ve made it to the hut, albeit very late. The Eiger decided differently, but the mistake was ours.
Nevertheless;
there were some things we did well, which I want to highlight as they did help us get through the night and off the ridge:
1. We stayed calm, never panicked.
2. We and the other teams stayed together and were able to help each other searching for the route, sharing material and information. Together, we were much stronger. And, we also have a few new climbing friends from South Tyrol and Munich!
3. We kept eating and drinking, both during the climb and while stuck. In hindsight, it seems that not eating was one of the main factors that contributed to Paul’s hypothermia, as his energy levels dropped throughout the day and night.
4. We knew who to call, how to read our position, communicate effectively, and had the right insurance. Price tag of the rescue operation (total): CHF15,600.
5. Above all, we always stayed positive.
Epilogue
Just over one and a half years ago now, I look back at the experience with huge respect for the mountains, as I always have. No-one aims to get themselves in a situation like that. I am not proud of it. But, in hindsight, for me it was a positive experience. I can say this because it ended well for all of us, and it taught me some very valuable lessons I don’t want to forget. I like to believe it made us stronger and wiser climbers, all of us; hopefully ones that will be able to avoid these situations in the future.
I’m grateful to everyone who helped us that day: the Rega alarm centre , the Air-Glaciers rescue team, the hut warden, the other climbing teams, our worried friends who jumped in and assisted calling Rega, and Ruben, who is the most reliable, stubborn, and enjoyable climbing partner and brother I could ever have wished for. He stands like a rock, always.
