little glacier at the top ofthe cirque does Mettelhorn’s final pyramid
reveal itself. In 2007, Platthorn had been a snowy peak, but in 2017
it was bare rock baking in the sun. Partly that was due to the time
of year, of course. In July 2007 the winter’s snow still lingered; but
a long, hot summer had stripped everything back to the bare ice
in 2017, with only light patches of surface snow, leading to very
different conditions.
When I reached the top of the Triftchumme and the edge of
the glacier, I thought I was in the wrong place at first. The glacier
no longer came right up to the col, but had sunk into a huge
depression at least 20-30m beneath it – far more than the winter
snowpack alone could account for. James and I had dug through
no more than 3m of snow before reaching the ice. Where we’d dug
out our snow hole was now bare rock, a long way above the glacier’s
surface.
The glacier had changed so much that even the ‘easy’ path
over towards Mettelhorn had become a completely different
proposition. Where it was once initially flat, with no steep ground
anywhere, it had become a bullet-hard slope contouring around
Platthorn before flattening out. I stood at the col and tried to
visualise wading through fresh snow over that landscape towards
the summit. But at that moment, with the sun shining on the
depleted glaciers and heat rising in waves from bare rocky
slopes all around, it could hardly have felt more different.
I stretched Microspikes over my trail shoes and took a few
cautious steps onto the ice. The tiny points didn’t make much of an
impression, and as soon as the slope began to steepen
I really wished I’d brought an ice axe – trekking poles can only do
so much, and Microspikes alone aren’t great on steeper ground.
I crept tentatively upwards, kicking into the ice to help my spikes
bite, but I hadn’t gone far before I started to feel insecure. Looking
down, I could see an awfully long run-out over smooth ice, ending
in boulders. This was terrain for ice axe and crampons, not spikes.
Despite my experience, I’d made an error of judgement on easy but
consequential ground, fooled by a twisted form of one-upmanship
over my own younger self – or perhaps just a trick of memory.
I heard a shout and saw two walkers on the ridge to my right
waving at me. “Don’t go that way without crampons,” they called.
“It isn’t safe! Climb Platthorn instead if you don’t have the gear.”
I didn’t have the gear, so I turned around and climbed Platthorn
instead. Mettelhorn’s summit pyramid loomed above the glacier,
partially hidden by the steep slope I’d tried to climb. It looked
benign in the afternoon sun. When I reached Platthorn’s
summit – arguably a better viewpoint than Mettelhorn –
the neighbouring mountain that had triggered my love
affair with alpinism rose above a crevassed nubbin of