Campbell, Bluebird & Coniston

It must have been in the summer of 1966 when reports started to appear In the Daily Sketch about Donald Campbell returning to Coniston with Bluebird. He already held the world water speed record at 276.4 mph, but the Americans were beginning to get close and maybe he got caught up in the patriotism of ‘I’m backing Britain’ and the forthcoming football World Cup. Whatever his reasoning, he firmly believed that if he could put the record over the 300 mph mark it would not be beaten for at least 20 years.

He had been a regular visitor to Coniston over the previous two decades or so, at first with his father Sir Malcolm when he broke water speed records here and then in the 1950’s in his own right, powering Bluebird to success on several occasions. My first, vague memories of seeing Bluebird are from 1959. Whenever I heard the sound of it’s jet engine bursting into life I would head across the road to Mrs Woodend’s garden which overlooked the lake, to get a brief glimpse of the famous blue boat, setting off on a run down the lake. As a 4 year old and over the coming years, Bluebird and Campbell began to enter my consciousness more and more, like some kind of folk hero that may never return. Attempts on the record had become very costly and Campbell had already had difficulties with sponsors. The landspeed record attempts had been particularly expensive and the patience of sponsors was running out, many were not keen to commit without a guarantee of success.

So in 1966 many locals were sceptical about the possibility of Campbell’s return, it was to be a largely self funded operation, or as the media put it ‘on a shoestring’. As an eleven year old the prospect of a ‘world event’ like this, taking place on ‘my lake’ filled me with excitement. I had listened to the stories of previous records and wished that I could have witnessed them. So I was very disappointed when, the local policeman told me that he would believe it when he saw it.

As I came home from school one day at the beginning of November that year, an exciting rumour was spreading around the village. There was a large truck pulled up on the garage forecourt with a large blue tarpaulin wrapped around a very large, Bluebird shaped object. I could hardly contain myself, I ran up to the garage to see if it really was true. When I got there our local police constable was stood guard beside the unmistakeable shape of the world’s fastest boat! I thought back to our conversation earlier in the year and could hardly contain my excitement.

Later that evening the large load made it’s way towards the lake at Pier Cottage which would be the base for the record attempt team. After the long and uneventful trip from the Campbell’s home in Surrey up to Coniston, the short journey from the village to the lake would not go smoothly. On getting a glimpse of the lake, Bluebird faltered, as if somehow reluctant to take to the water. The driver had to coax her inch by inch through the gates and onto the rough track down to Pier Cottage. Once through the gates there were further problems. One of the modifications to Bluebird was the addition of an aircraft like tail fin, which was too hight pass under an old tree that leaned over the track preventing the truck, with it’s valuable cargo from progressing any further. The driver was left with no choice, he took to the field and came to a sudden halt as this heavy, leviathan like machine floundered in the mud of the water meadow. Local farmers tried with their tractors, but it took the arrival of some very heavy duty haulage equipment to assist Bluebird on the final 200 yards down to Lake Coniston.

Soon after, Donald Campbell arrived and the press contingent swelled with every passing day. Members of the press and television from all over the world filled the hotels and guest houses, at a time when they used to be empty at the end of the summer season. In those first few days after their arrival at Coniston, access to Bluebird and Donald Campbell was completely open. After school I would go straight down to Pier Cottage to see what was happening. A new temporary boathouse was being erected from scaffolding and blue tarpaulin, but frustratingly, Bluebird itself still remained under wraps. It was not until later in the week when the boathouse was completed, that the wraps finally came off, to reveal the magnificent shape and colour of Bluebird K7. The sleek lines, the balanced shape, all topped off by the new addition of the tail fin, taken from the Gnat fighter jet that had been the basis of the new design. Even the colour looked new, a brighter, almost electric blue, reflected in the calm lake and shining through the dusk of a calm autumn evening. The excitement in the air was palpable, all around the shores of the lake close to Pier Cottage.

I suppose it was inevitable that such easy access could not continue and Bill Jordan, the local RAC man was made sentry at the gates at the top of the lane down to Pier Cottage. In full uniform and cap, he looked every bit the part, with his handlebar moustache and military like pose, it became obvious to us kids that there would be no getting past him.  As the technical team gathered and the operation became ‘serious’ it would not work having kids getting in the way, but during that first week we were given plenty of time to look over Bluebird and talk to Donald Campbell. Even after that he always had time for us in the village, but access to base from now on would be limited to permit holders only, they had a job to do. However, when the RAC man had a day off I think every kid in the village knew about it and we were always tolerated, for a little while anyway. In one of my visits to the base I was able to obtain Donald’s autograph and he proudly showed me and a couple of friends around the boat. As Bluebird sat in it’s launching cradle on the slipway he pointed out the three planning points and told us that at 200 mph only 12 square inches of the boat would be touching the water. I asked “and what about at 300 mph, how much of the boat will be in contact with the lake then?” He gave a chuckle and smiled at me saying, “We’ve yet to discover that old boy”.

England had just won the World Cup, but as a football mad youngster this was still the biggest event in my life so far. I knew that this was a special time and I was not going to miss any of it. Although access to the base at Pier Cottage was now very restricted I had a plan. The base is flanked on one side by Yewdale beck and just across the beck is free access land, so this would be my base for the next few months until the new world record had been set. I was not going to miss it. Secretly I made a vow to myself that I would be there to witness every trip that Bluebird made on the lake, thus ensuring that I would be there for the triumphant moment when Donald Campbell set a new World Water Speed Record. I had no doubt about my strategy, there was no room for error. When a historical moment is about to take place so close to home, nothing can be left to chance. 

Yewdale beck is lined with trees on both sides which had the unfortunate effect of obscuring proceedings at base on the other side. However I soon found that by climbing different trees on ‘my’ side of the beck I could keep a close eye on what was happening. I started to build up an understanding of what different activities meant. I became a very youthful expert in body language, unfortunately at this stage in the project I was mainly reading frustration.

At last, on Friday the 4^th of November, Donald was ready to take Bluebird onto the water and reacquaint himself with the old boat and get to know the new boat. There had been many changes made since they last took to the water, some of them very significant. Perhaps the biggest change being the engine which now had a thrust of 5,000 pounds, capable of flying Gnat fighter at 600mph. Bluebird had only been here for a few days, but my impatience was reaching desperation as I longed to see her promise fulfilled. I cycled down to the boating centre and walked around the shore to my vantage point and sure enough, it was all action on the other side of the beck. The Landrover was winching Bluebird down the rails and into the cold still waters of the lake. I could see the Landrover but not the boat at this point. The winch stopped and I waited and waited, not knowing what was happening at this stage. Then my heart nearly leaped out of my chest as the jet engine burst into life with a roaring scream quite unlike any other. I prepared to see a flash of blue shoot past me on the lake at a speed that would justify the noise I was hearing. But no, Bluebird crept around the headland at a serene 10 mph, looking quite squat and low in the water. Not the excitement I was craving, but it was a start, a taster of what was surely to come.

The next day was one of difficult choices, the fifth of November and a Saturday too. Normally the idea of having a day off school to prepare for bonfire night would be a big event. Added to that, my teacher was taking a party of children from school on a walk on the fells. I have loved fellwalking from an early age, but now there was the added complication of the possibility that Bluebird could very probably be taking to the water again and I would have to be there. After much discussion with Mr Bateson, the teacher, we decided that it would be a good idea to choose a route on the fells that would keep the lake in view at all times, just in case. He knew how me and my friend Dave loved to be on the fells, but he also understood just how important it was for us not to miss the moment.

Our small troop of about 20 school children set out through the village and up onto the fells and soon after the lake came into view the noise of a jet engine shattered the air. We all stopped and turned towards the lake watching for the blue boat to taxi out into the middle of the waters. Dave and I looked at each other with thoughts of going back, but by the time we could get down to the lake it could all be over. So we decided to stay put. We watched and watched, but nothing happened. The engine kept on roaring but no boat appeared. We couldn’t understand why it sounded like there was so much effort but no result. The noise of the jet engine seemed to go on for ages. It seemed like it was all morning, but maybe that’s just a childish perception and memory, but when it all came to an end so abruptly, we knew that something was wrong. The noise just stopped. No running down as the jet engine wheezed to a standstill, this time it was a sudden and abrupt halt.

On our return to the village all was explained. Donald had been doing static tests on the engine, with Bluebird firmly anchored to the slipway both fore and aft, he had put the engine through its paces. But the new engine with its greater power and greater thirst for air had caused the air intakes to collapse and had sucked some rivets and plastic into the engine and completely destroyed the turbine blades.

It’s amazing how everyone in the village suddenly became self styled jet engine technologists and the words Bristol Siddley Orpheus engine entered the local vocabulary as if it was as common place as char fishing or quarrying. The whole population were behind the attempt, as if the pride of Coniston itself was dependant on its success. But as Donald left the village in his blue E type Jag there were many who though that this was the end of the project. The wrecked engine was only on loan from the Air Ministry and where would he get another one from? Certainly none of us knew where to find one.

A large crane appeared at the base further fuelling the idea that Bluebird was to be taken ‘off the water’. But lights were burning day and night down at the base as the engine was lifted from the boat and Leo Villa (chief engineer) set about repairing the engine ready for when Donald returned six days later with the newly modified and strengthened air intakes. The repaired engine would only be used to test that the new intakes were up to the job, a new engine was on it’s way for the main event. Donald had to buy a complete Gnat fighter to get the engine, paying £10 above it’s scrap value for the privilege. The new Orpheus engine was stripped, cleaned and installed by a team from Bristol Siddley and as Bluebird once again glistened with anticipation, but the weather turned and as is often the case, Coniston was lashed with autumn gales and heavy rain. The blue tarpaulin was ripped by the strength of the winds and the weight of water collecting on it’s roof, as the make shift boathouse was battered, close to submission. Frustration was growing as technical difficulties and climatic conditions competed to undermine what had been expected to be a three week project.

On the 16^th of November Donald returned again, this time with the new intakes ready to be fitted and that evening the static tests took place again, this time without incident. The noise of the jet engines roared out of the darkness of the late afternoon and through the village, but this time we understood what it meant. He wouldn’t be taking Bluebird out in the dark, it was the static tests. So when the engines quietly settled down the village breathed a sigh of relief and knew that the record attempt was back on track. A couple of days later on the Friday and with the ‘new’ engine now installed, the weather improved and the lake was like glass. My fears were mounting. I believed the boat was ready and I could see the conditions were right, but I had to go to school! Imagine my torment when later that morning, from the confines of the classroom, I heard the roar of a Bristol Siddley Orpheus jet. It was very distracting and at lunch time I tried every part of the perimeter of the school grounds to get a view of the lake. I went to the highest point of the school, but no luck, I couldn’t see the part of the lake that I needed to. I need not have worried, further problems were still to be overcome. This time the excess spray caused by the extra power of the new engine was flooding in through the air intakes and ‘putting out the fire’ as Donald described it. More modifications were needed.

I spent all weekend perched in my tree, watching the comings and goings across the beck at ‘base’. I was hoping to see some activity that indicated a launch was imminent. The lake shores were thronged with day visitors hoping for the same, but Saturday and then Sunday, came and went without a sign of serious activity. The following Tuesday the school day torment happened again, but by now my ear was becoming tuned in to what was happening and whatever it was, it wasn’t going to plan. With school over I raced home to hear that he was hoping to go out again before night time, which at that time of year isn’t too long after four o’clock. I sped down to the lake on my bike just in time to see Bluebird emerge from around The Point. The intensity of the engine noise rose higher and higher and spay plumed from behind her and as Donald applied the power she ploughed, slowly on, shipping huge amounts of water over the top of the boat. And then, at about 60mph she rose onto her planning points and shot across the water with a grace and speed like I had never seen before. After a short run he turned the boat around and returned with the same amazing speed, gliding across the lake like an ice skater. In the fading light as he slowly manoeuvred Bluebird back towards the boathouse we could see what looked like two sacks tied around the tail fin and resting on the rear transom. We later learned that the problems during the day had been an inability to get Bluebird up into it’s planning position, each time the power was applied the boat just dug into the water. Leo Villa had the idea of adding more weight to the rear of the boat, lifting the nose end slightly. This experiment had been effected by fixing two sandbags around the tail fin and had successfully allowed Bluebird to plane and achieve 100 mph for the first time on this trip.

The night lights were burning once again as a permanent modification was made, but the mood in the camp was upbeat, with Donald promising ‘250 mph by the weekend’ everyone was optimistic.

The mood was to be short lived, Donald was out again the next morning but only achieved 120 mph and struck a log in the process sustaining some damage to the boat. The weather changed again and with the passing of November, the flat calm conditions that were now essential for any high speed to be achieved were gone. Meanwhile my collection of press cuttings grew as I avidly collected every newspaper I could from family and friends, determined not to miss any reports or photographs.

It was Saturday the 10^th of December before perfect conditions returned with the lake once again, flat calm. This raised another dilemma for me. With a family Christmas shopping trip to Barrow having been planned, how was I going to balance that with my real need to witness a world record attempt? We were up early that Saturday morning and could see from the upstairs windows that things were happening down at the lake. We delayed our departure more and more but eventually had to leave. My Dad agreed to go via the east side of the lake, where we would have a better view of things should Bluebird appear. As we drove around the head of the lake and up towards Lane Head we could see across to Pier Cottage and Bluebird was indeed being lowered into the water. We pulled into a gateway near Brantwood, the snow covered Old Man reflecting in the mirrored surface of the lake. All was still and quiet. Then with an unmistakeable explosion the sound of a jet engine surged across the valley and before long the blue streak of Bluebird skated across the surface of the lake infront of us. Still not a record, but he had broken the 200mph barrier for the first time, surely it wouldn’t be long now. Apparently the run was one of many to come that day to test the braking systems. Donald once made a joking reference to me about the brakes. He said “First I put my foot on the gas, then turn slightly to the right, hope I’ve missed Peel Island and then I slam on the brakes And if they don’t work at least I’ll have the record for the fastest man down the river Crake!” He laughed heartily at all his own jokes.

News of the 200 mph run was widely reported and the following day the crowds flocked to Coniston in expectation. But there was a slight ripple on the lake all day, so Bluebird stayed on dry land. What did happen however was that the two markers for the measured kilometre were moved into place. These were two huge slatted seven foot cubes, painted bright orange. Each one was lashed to two rowing boats and towed out to their positions and anchored. The stage was now set and it felt as though  we were another step closer to an attempt on the record. On the Monday morning with conditions perfect Donald achieved 261mph on the downward run and 239 on the return, an average of 250. His existing record stood at 276.4, the moment was getting closer and closer.

There was much speculation about whether the superstitious Donald Campbell would be so cavalier as to risk a high speed run on Tuesday the 13^th of December. Conditions were perfect that morning and as the Two Fairline 19 boats set off down the lake it became apparent that the answer was yes. These two boats did a sweep of the lake, looking for any debris that may cause problems, they also carried Dr Stephen Derbyshire, the team doctor along with other official observers. The run in both directions appeared faultless and achieved an average speed of 265 mph, but on return to the boathouse Donald reported hitting a seagull which had damaged the front part of the boat. He also wanted an inspection of the engine to see if the dismembered bird had been sucked in through the air intakes. There was also some doubt about the power of the engine, he didn’t feel he was getting enough from it to power him through the 300 mph barrier.

The men from Bristol Siddley returned and fitted a new fuel pump and two days later Bluebird was back in peak condition and ready to break records. But the weather had changed yet again, the wind and rain returned and lasted for days. Then on the 19th, the forecast looked promising for the following morning and the crew were back on standby for an early inspection, the best chance of a calm lake always being early in the morning. The conditions were perfect, people gathered around the lake ready to watch, but nothing happened. Speculation was rife around the shoreline, the calm waters stayed all day, but still no sign of Bluebird. The story eventually broke that Bluebird was trapped in the boathouse. The heavy rain overnight had collected on the tarpaulin and collected to such a weight that it had bent several of the scaffolding poles, leaving them hanging down below the height of the tail fin, leaving Bluebird stranded on dry land. The project was now over six weeks old and there was much talk around the village of despondency setting in. Donald himself was looking tired and weary and must have hoped to have this whole thing sewn up before Christmas. But winter bit once again and the Swiss time keepers eventually lost patience. There were rumours of arguments which Donald must have lost because on the 21^st the men from Longines set off home for Christmas and Donald announced that there would be no more runs until the 28^th. The village was once again returned to it’s local inhabitants as the pressmen, TV crews, engineers, timekeepers and onlookers all returned home for Christmas. Any thoughts of world records were suspended, probably until the New Year.

So it was a great surprise to all when on Christmas morning word spread around the village that help was needed to get Bluebird onto the perfectly calm lake. A makeshift crew of locals got Donald afloat and he managed to make two runs thought to be well in excess of 250 mph. With the weather set calm and the time keepers frustratingly absent, another run was set up for the 27^th with better, though still unofficial timing. By lunchtime the word in the village was that he had broken the 300 mph barrier and though he may have touched that speed, the figure was later revised to an average of 280 mph. This was still above his existing world record, but also, still ‘unofficial’. The downside of this trip was that he hit a duck which badly dented the front spar which attached one of the sponsons to the main body of the boat. At the time no one seemed to take it seriously, but did it affect the airflow and therefore the aerodynamics of that crucial part of the boat on future runs? Concern was growing over the number of wildfowl increasing on the lake as the winter progressed and locals were conscripted to bring various firearms down to the lake to see if they would scare them off. This wasn’t successful so huge fireworks were purchased that did the trick and just prior to a run huge rockets were fired into the sky over the southern end of the lake from the Fairline launches, clearing the lake of any living obstacle.

After the Christmas break the various crews reassembled in Coniston. The members of the press increased their pre Christmas numbers as word went out about the success of the two unofficial runs. But the weather wasn’t settled and it was the late afternoon of Monday the 2^nd of January before the lake settled down. Bluebird was fuelled up and lowered into the lake and Donald waited for the signal from the far end of the lake that would tell him that everyone was in position. Half an hour passed and with the light fading two of the observers unexpectedly drove back into the yard. The 2^nd of January was a Bank Holiday because New Year’s Day had fallen on a Sunday, as a result, the road down the east side of the lake was totally blocked with the cars of hopeful spectators and the time keepers had not been able to get through to take up their positions. The opportunity was lost.

The following day, the weather was virtually identical and in the late afternoon the lake settled down, but it was just a little later than the day before and the light was fading, just enough for the attempt to be called off. This was the week, all that was needed now was a calm lake, everything else was in place. Everything was ready.

I was woken at quarter to seven the next morning by my Dad. He told me that there were a lot of vehicles heading down to the lake already, the bright lights at ‘base’ were shining through the dark morning sky. The air was very still and the lake calm, we knew that at first light Donald Campbell would set a new World Water Speed Record in Bluebird, just down the road from here. My parents had to slow me down otherwise I would have been down the road on my bike by seven o’clock. They assured me that there was time to eat my breakfast, “nothing will happen until it gets daylight”. My cousin Roy called for me and by half seven we were standing on the lake shore across the beck from base. The darkness was just lifting and the lake was flat calm, but there was much activity nearby. I trembled with excitement or cold, maybe a bit of both, it had taken nine weeks to get to this point. The preparation seemed to go on for hours, then at last the flotilla of boats set off for the far end of the lake. This usually happened half an hour before Bluebird would appear. The usual routine was that we would hear the Bristol Siddley Orpheus jet fire up and Bluebird would slowly appear around the point and take up a position in the middle of the lake. We would often get a thumbs up from Donald in his cockpit wearing his blue, racing boiler suite, helmet and full face mask. Something was different this morning. We heard the engine and we heard different engine noises as Donald seemed to be doing some different manouvres. We soon realised that he had gone up to the head of the lake to start his run, giving him longer to get up to speed before the measured kilometre. At ten minutes to nine the engine roared up to full power and Bluebird shot past us at about 100 mph, speed increasing all the time. Like a blue comet shooting across the lake with it’s trail of spray out behind, it faded into the distance as just a plume of spray. We knew that the downward run had been very fast. Over the last few months we had become incredibly accurate at assessing speed and we knew that this was in the region of 300 mph. As the spray died down we could see Bluebird once again as it turned around, five miles away at the far end of the lake. We were both surprised to see him set off again almost straight away. There were two scenarios here, the usual one was to refuel at the far end giving time for the wash to die down. The other possibility was to turn around immediately and let the wash flow to the shore, but set off before the return wave comes back to the middle. Whatever was happening on this run was different and the return seemed far too quick. But the plume of spry came up again with it’s small dark shape at it’s leading edge powering across the lake at an enormous speed. We both agreed that this was it, he was definitely travelling at a new world record speed. From our vantage point it was hard to tell when he had got through the measured kilometre and just as I said “there, he’s done it!”, the front end of the boat began to lift. The nose went up and over, high in the air and down with what looked like an explosion as it hit the surface of the lake. Silence. Absolute silence. All went quiet as momentarily a crumpled Bluebird sat on the surface of the lake. And as I said “well at least it hasn’t sunk”, it disappeared beneath the surface, at the deepest point of the lake.

The observer boats were soon motoring to the middle of the lake and circling round, picking up bits of wreckage and debris, but no sign of Donald. The crew back at base couldn’t see the run from the boathouse where they busily prepared for the triumphant return. Clive came running round from the boathouse to where we stood on the opposite side of the beck urgently asking us what had happened. We told him what we had seen and more of the crew appeared, looking down the lake with expressions of anguish and disbelief. Then the radio message came through from the boats on the scene. As the radio sputtered into life all we heard was “total disaster I’m afraid, total disaster, over”.

And it was ‘over’, not in the way we had expected, but in the worst possible way. Looking over towards the Bluebird Cafe at the end of Lake Road, some of our family and friends were just arriving, wanting to know what had happened and we recounted the story again, as we would do many times that day and for many years to come. The village descended into a state of shock as the word spread and minutes turned to hours with still no sign of Donald. All morning we lived in the hope that he had survived, but knew inside how that was most unlikely. That afternoon, Roy and I cycled to where his Dad and mine were working in the Brathay area to tell them the news. As we travelled back home that night, in silence and in darkness, it was pitch black over the lake, apart from the search lights in the area where the search continued. I saw the lake differently, for the first time it was not just the benign stretch of water where we swam and fished in the summer months, but also somewhere that could claim a life in an instant.

The search for Donald went on for weeks. A Police diving team were soon on the scene and within a few days the main fuselage of Bluebird was located on the bed of the lake and the cockpit was also discovered some distance away, but no sign of a body. Conditions for the search were far from ideal, with the lake temperature being very low in January. It was also the deepest part of the lake at 140 feet, the divers were strictly limited to how long they could stay down there. A further difficulty was the lack of visibility. The divers said that there was about four feet of silt on the lake bed which was easily disturbed and even at the best of times the visibility was only about four feet. A buoy was attached to Bluebird and a systematic sweep of the area took place.

One Friday lunchtime I was in the playground at school when my Mum arrived. I was puzzled but she assured me all was well, she just needed to see Mr Bateson, the Head teacher. When she came out of the school with my coat she said that she had permission to take me out of school because I was wanted for a television interview. Since the accident Roy and I had talked about an object that we saw thrown from the boat as it somersaulted in the air. The theory that Donald Campbell had been thrown from the boat was gaining some credence and the TV news wanted to film our version of events for the news. Roy and I were taken down to the lake shore by the Bluebird Cafe and Brian Barron interviewed us on camera. There were a few cuts while we helped him decipher both our accents and dialect before the interview was in the can. We were then taken down the lake in one of the Fairline 19 launches to meet the diving team, to tell them what we had seen and where we thought the object had landed. They moved the search to focus on that area but again, nothing was found.

In the many years that have passed since then, the Campbell story has not diminished. Whenever people ask where I am from they immediately relate the story to me. The interesting thing to me is that most of them tell me that they were there on the day the accident happened and I fully believe that they think they were. But it was a quiet Wednesday morning in January, I know virtually all of those who were there that morning and it wasn’t a huge amount of people, not even many locals were there although many appeared at the lake soon after. I think many of these people had visited the lake in the nine weeks that Donald was there, some probably even lucky enough to see Bluebird grace the waters of Coniston. And I believe that when they saw the news footage on that evening of January the 4^th, it touched and moved them. And over the years the strong feelings that were evoked by that short piece of film have lead them to believe in all sincerity, that they were there to witness the crash. If all the thousands of people that have told me they were there, actually were there, it would have been mayhem! But I love to hear their stories. It doesn’t offend me that they aren’t telling me the truth. It reminds me of the extent that this story, this man Donald Campbell and his beautiful boat Bluebird, captured people’s hearts and imaginations.

Footnote:- 

Coniston May 2021

A recent enquiry about some of the details of the day got me wondering why they had asked me and it dawned on me that there maybe aren't too many eye witnesses left to tell the tale. Having a count up and asking around a few people that might know, I have come to the conclusion that there are possibly only ten of us left. There may be more, but as yet I haven't found them.

 Photos Of Whitby June 2021

 

Chamonix To Zermatt

The Haute Route

August 23rd 1994

The Final Countdown... walking up to Zermatt.

We left the hotel just as the town was filling with young people on their way to school. Walking along the road with them I felt a bit like an overgrown schoolboy with an outsized satchel on my back. The atmosphere created by the excited chattering of school children seemed to siut our mood, as our own excitement was barely beneath the surface. Today we would achieve what we had dreamed about for so long, so it was with great enthusiasm that we left St Niklaus and headed up the valley to Zermatt. The path out of the village was close to the railway line and each time a train went by the passengers waved to us, adding to what was beginning to feel like a carnival atmosphere. It’s not the most interesting part of The Haute Route, just a straight forward valley walk of fifteen miles or so, but a nice easy day for seasoned Alpinists.

It would not be fair to give the impression that the walk up the valley held no interest. Any lack of interest was down to us, on any other day it would have been a walk that would have satisfied our interests and curiosity for hours. There was still a lot to see and some very enjoyable scenery, but our interest was masked by the anticipation and the excitement that we inevitably felt. It was inevitable that on this day, if on no other, our objective was everything, today was all about arriving in Zermatt. By now we were getting hard to impress and all we wanted from today was to walk into Zermatt, all other distractions were kept to a minimum. Of course we were eager to see the Matterhorn at close quarters, but it’s one of the twists of this journey that ensures that the great mountain stays hidden from view right up to the last minute, only revealing itself to the successful Haute Routers when they are within fifteen minutes of the finishing line.

The weather looked clear as we left St Niklaus, but it would be an hour or two before the sun would penetrate the depths of this high sided valley. In this deep, narrow valley is inevitable that our track would follow the course of the railway, which followed the course of the road, which followed the course of the river.The various strands that run the length of the valley cross each other from time to time in a woven artery that runs from Zermatt to the Rhone Valley. Fortunately the most intrusive of these links, the road, was usually the furthest away from us and terminated at Tasch, a few miles below Zermatt.

The path entered the woods on the right hand side of the valley and the walking was comparatively easy with no seriously uphill sections, just a gradual climb up the valley. We were making good progress, until one major diversion set us back slightly.

Three years earlier there had been an enormous rock fall in the valley near the village of Randa. It’s plain to see, a great section of the mountain had collapsed into the valley, cutting all through routes. The disaster took place over three days with the first being on April 18th when 33 million cubic metres of rock fell from the mountain, burying the road and railway. It also blocked the river and a lake formed, threatening houses in the village. On April 22nd there was a further collapse, but not a significant as the first one, but on May 9th a further 15 million cubic metres of rock fell into the valley, further burying the road and railway and further damming of the river making the newly formed lake extend to 1.3 kilometres. The heavy rain and snowmelt that followed caused the village of Randa to be flooded until a channel was cut through the debris and the lake drained. Fortunately no one was killed though some animals perished and some properties were buried for ever. Within ten weeks the road and railway were diverted, although it was a couple of years before permanent routes were established. Which just leaves the footpath that we were following and that came to an abrupt end right infant of us. There was a fence across the path and all we could see on the other side was a mountainous pile of debris, looking rather like a huge scree, it was the rockfall that had happened just three years earlier. Work was still going on to landscape the area and re establish as much as possible of what had existed before, but for now the path didn’t exist. 

The Mattertal at Randa with the debris from the rockfall clearly visible.

A quick look at the map and we could see that we would have to retrace our steps to cross the river and just walk up the road until we could rejoin the path on the other side of Randa. The walk back to find a bridge took us half an hour and then we had forty five minutes of walking along the road until we could cross back over the river and back onto the path. This felt like the most dangerous part of the whole walk, not from further landslides, which do occur from time to time, but from the traffic. As bus after bus flew past us, taking their loads of tourists up towards Zermatt, we felt quite keen to get this section over with as soon as possible.

It was with great relief that we rejoined the path and resumed our walk in more peaceful surroundings. Unfortunately the weather appeared to be worsening, at the top end of the valley we could see The Briethorn and sometimes we could see it disappearing behind squally showers. It was looking more and more likely that we would be caught out in the rain. The wind was getting quite strong and gusty as we approached the village of Tasch, it was funnelling down the valley with such force that our progress was extremely difficult. It seemed like a good moment for a break, if only we could reach Tasch without getting wet. We had come all the way from Chamonix without getting seriously wet. The odd bit of drizzle around Mont Fort and a washed out day back in Les Hauderes where we had to abandon walking for the day, but thankfully we hadn't been caught out in anything resembling a good soaking. If the worst came to the worst we could always get the train up to Zermatt. It was a possibility, but never a serious consideration. I think we would rather have walked into Zermatt dripping wet than to arrive by train along with all the other tourists. As our determination became more and more focussed, our options were being cast one by one to the wind. As far as we were concerned, there was only one way forward. We had come this far on foot and that was how we would enter Zermatt.

We left the footpath and crossed the river once more, this time to visit Tasch to buy some lunch and have a restoring cup of hot chocolate before continuing. The wind that was blowing through the valley was cold and a cup of Suchard’s hot chocolate was delicious and very welcome.We had left St Niklaus with such haste that morning that we hadn’t stopped to buy anything for lunch, so I left Irene outside the supermarket in Tasch, guarding the rucksacks outside, while I took what seemed like an eternity to buy some fruit, cheese and chocolate to sustain us over the final leg of our expedition.

Tasch is literally the end of the road and all car and bus passengers must leave their vehicles there and get the train for the last few miles up to Zermatt. Consequently Tasch is like one great big car park. Field after field around the village, given over to the parking of motor vehicles.

We crossed over the railway line right next to the station without either of us even mentioning the possibility of catching a train. The weather was looking better again and the wind had dropped, so keen as ever, we crossed the river and rejoined the path. At the far end of the bridge was a footpath signpost that said ‘Zermatt 1hr 20 mins’. It’s hard to describe the significance of that small sign to us. Emotions were very mixed, after two weeks of walking, we were suddenly just eighty minutes from our destination and although we desperately wanted to complete the journey, we also didn't want it to end. Every signpost from now on was met with a kind of eagerness tinged with some regret, to see how many minutes of this great walk we had left. It really was the final countdown. It was both exciting and disappointing all at once. We had almost achieved our goal and at the same time it was almost over. Maybe it really is “Better to travel in hope…”.

The path climbed up through the woods, along the narrowing valley and we started to meet more and more people walking in the opposite direction, a sure sign that Zermatt wasn’t far away. We passed a signpost that told us we had just 10 minutes to go and finally Zermatt came into view under a grey sky. It was not a pretty sight as we approached from the north. There was a lot of construction work going on at this end of the town, with another noticeable feature being the heliport, where the helicopters of ZermattAir swooped in and out noisily. It started to rain and overall I began to feel that we should turn around as soon as we got there, maybe go back to one of those beautiful places we had passed through. Ironically, the path lead us directly into the station and we walked out into the square along with all the tourists who had just come up by train. We felt as though we should stop someone and tell them, we hadn’t come on the train, we had just walked here, all the way from Chamonix! But no, we just strolled across the square with the throng of day trippers eager for a sighting of The Matterhorn.

Zermatt

How does it feel to achieve a long held ambition that demands a good deal of effort? I hadn’t dared to even think about it until this moment, but I guess I had vaguely expected to feel elated, but I didn’t. I was tired after our walk and I was irritated by the hoards of people which can only have been emphasised by having hardly seen anyone over the past couple of weeks. Had I expected to feel like a different person? Did I expect that things would never look the same way again? I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't this. The square between the station and the Tourist Office was crowded, the streets looked crowded and soon after we first saw The Matterhorn it disappeared behind the clouds, like a curtain coming down on a finale. The show was over.

This didn’t feel like the place we had looked forward to arriving in for so long. It didn’t look like the kind of place we could enjoy. We went into the tourist office to check the availability of accommodation, crowds everywhere. We came out again, more crowds. In the heat of the town it felt so claustrophobic, after two weeks on deserted mountain paths and fresh mountain air we weren't used to this, it felt so alien. We went back into the tourist office again. Should we stay, or should we leave? Where would we go? Where should we stay? We had come not only to the end of our walk, but we had also come to the end of our plan and not having that discipline of preparing for the next day left us floundering with too much choice. We eventually took the plunge and I picked up a phone and that connected me to a nearby apartment building where I booked a room for three nights. Armed with a street map from the T.O. desk we left the throng in the square and five minutes later we were checking in at the Apartments Jollimont, a comfortable ground floor flat where we had three days to reflect and unwind this walk that we had just completed.

The days had flown by us since leaving Chamonix. It perhaps seems strange to say flown by almost unnoticed, when in fact there had been so much to notice, so much to see. Maybe too much to take in day after day. As one day’s walking came to an end it was time to start planning the next day. Never quite having the time to reflect on the day's achievements and sights before the next one came along. It had been all about being in the moment with no time for thinking about what we had done, all our thoughts and energies were focussed on now and what lay immediately ahead. So much had happened in the last seventeen days since we let home. Geneva, Argentiere, Chamonix, Trient, Champex, Verbier, Mont Fort, Nendaz, Arolla, Les Hauderes, Grimentz, St Luc, Gruben Meiden, St Niklaus and now finally, Zermatt. So many places that we had passed through, over seven mountain passes, past countless snow capped peaks and icy glaciers. Through many beautiful Swiss villages and valleys, seeing more beautiful scenery that anyone has a right to expect in a lifetime of walking. The whole experience had been a wonderful privilege.

We left our packs in the apartment and went in search of a bank and refreshment, in that order. The effects of the robbery earlier in our adventure were beginning to cause us some difficulty as cash machines were virtually non existent and banks few and far between. But one of the pluses of being in a tourist centre like Zermatt was that there was a lovely machine that spewed out Swiss Francs every time Irene showed her card. So refreshed and solvent we strolled around the streets of Zermatt. The warm sun came our as the day trippers drifted away. The magnificent Matterhorn cast it’s cloak of cloud and welcomed us, Zermatt began to feel like a different, more friendly place. As we began to relax, the realisation of what we had done began to filter through.

Today we walked triumphantly into Zermatt. There was no finishing line and nowhere to register our achievement, but by now the silly grin on our very sun tanned faces told the whole story. We had done it! We had passed the physical test we had set ourselves, overcome the difficulties that had arisen along the way, taken on the challenge and fulfilled an ambition. It isn't necessary to mark it with a gesture of any kind, our reward is something that we will feel inside, for ever.

The End

Views from around Zermatt

Chamonix To Zermatt 

The Haute Route

22nd August 1994

Gruben Meiden to St Niklaus.

The Mattertal….. Almost Zermatt

The valleys that we descended into at the end of every day were so deep that weather forecasting was quite difficult. At any one time, from the valley bottom, we could only see a few hours worth of weather to come and certainly not what the day ahead would hold for us. So it was with a little caution that we set out on this, the penultimate day of the trip. The previous day had been very hot and it still felt a little humid, even this early in the morning. There had been a thunder storm overnight but we hadn't heard much of it as the snoring from our neighbour drowned out the noise of the thunder. As we left the hotel at 07.30 and started to climb, what was left of the clouds seemed to be moving away down the valley. When we cleared the steep valley sides and the tree line, the view opened out and the weather was still improving. We could see now that it was set fair for the day and we pressed on with renewed confidence. Our lack of sleep didn’t seem to be holding us back and my disbelief that anyone person could make so much noise and be totally unaware of it, began to diminish. The further away we got from the hotel, the funnier the whole episode started to look.

There were no problems identifying the path, today it was a very quiet but very obvious route. The track lead into a boulder filled combe with patches of melting snow. Above us we could see our route all the way up to the pass quite clearly. We quickly gained ground on a group of about eight people, all walking slowly in a line, passing them on one of their many rest stops. One of them was using an umbrella for shade. As we looked back at them from a distance, they created a strange and alien looking image that seemed to belong to another place and time. It was really just the use of the sun shade and the walking in line that made it look like a scene reminiscent of  the days of The Raj as they slowly made their way up the mountain. They were the only people we saw all morning, we were over the pass and well down the other side before we met another soul. We were however greeted by a very friendly flock of angora sheep, looking magnificent with their black faces, twisted horns and thick wooly fleeces. Their approach was totally without caution and almost amounted to a charge they were so enthusiastic. They were obviously interested in what food we might have to share with them, but due to there being no shops in Gruben Meiden, rations were rather scarce for us, so I’m afraid we had to leave them disappointed.

Every pass presents a new vista, a new world of mountains to identify, a whole new breathtaking experience. The Augsbord Pass was no exception, it was possibly one of the most impressive of the whole walk, it felt like the best one had been saved for the final crossing, but it would be unjust to make comparisons of excellence and this particular view was about to  get even better  as we progressed. It was always a relief to reach the pass and see what the path was like down the other side. At this height deep snow can lay in the gullies even into August. The guide book had warned us that the eastern side of the Augsbord Pass was prone this, depending on how the previous winter had been. Looking down from the pass we could see some snow fields across our route ahead, but nothing that was likely to trouble us. Some of the snow was tinged with pink which looked a bit odd, but we later found out that it is a micro bacteria that can grow in old snow, making it take on a shade of pink. It was hard not to feel a surge of euphoria at the Augsbord Pass as this was the last pass to be crossed on our marathon walk. It seemed highly  unlikely that anything could get in our way now.The guide book did mention some exposed sections further along the path as it contoured around the corner of the mountain into the Mattertal, so we fought to keep our euphoria under wraps for now.

The terrain of the high mountain was very rocky as usual, glacial debris, like great natural tips of boulders and slabs piled on top of each other for evermore. The path was an old trade route that had been laid out using some of the flat slabs to form a pathway. In some places it was very distinct, in others the mountain was fighting back, the wild nature of the place was undeniable. We met one or two people going the other way, they were all from one party but had got strung out along the way. The party leader stopped to exchange a few words, asking if we had spent the night at the Schwarzhorn, we didn't like to tell her to avoid room sixteen at all costs. She then asked us where the others were which puzzled us a bit, but before we had chance to work out what she meant, she quickly answered her own question by saying that they must be further back. We didn't argue with her as we didn’t really understand the question. Being somewhat wary of the ‘exposed’ path ahead I enquired about how bad it was and where it occurred. We were assured that there were no problems ahead, “It’s an ancient trade route you know” came the reply. We did know, but by now we were struggling to get a word in edgeways. As we walked off in the opposite direction to the tour guide that knew everything, we reflected on how nice it is to travel alone, just the two of us, no one else, save for the odd brief encounter.

The Augsbord Pass

There is a point on this path where it turns around a corner of the mountain and suddenly, there before you is the whole of the Mattertal spread out below. It is a breath taking sight. From the Grosser Aletsch Gletcher on the far side of the Rhone valley up to the left, right up to the Briethorn to our right, with The Dom, the highest mountain wholly in Switzerland, directly across the valley. There was a cairn here at this most wonderful of viewpoints where, over the centuries many travellers must have stopped to gaze at the wonder of the sights around them. We removed our packs, very unusual for the time of day, they usually stayed on until we had reached our destination. But now we could see the rest of our route, it suddenly felt like we had done it! Nothing could stop us now, tomorrow we would walk the last few miles along the valley to Zermatt. We sat down, time didn't matter anymore, now all our deadlines were behind us. It was one of the most moving moments of the whole walk as we thought back of all we had seen in the past couple of weeks. Chamonix seemed like a long way behind us now, Trient and Champex like a lifetime away. All those magnificent mountains and valleys behind us mixed with the magnificence of the sheer spectacle of all that was there before us. And then, the feeling that our goal was within our grasp…

The view along The Mattertal

From there it was still a long way down to St Niklaus, approximately five thousand feet and we still had to get there, so eventually we reloaded and continued along the ancient trade route. The way was still paved in places which was a constant reminder of it’s past use and its importance in connecting one valley to the next. No sooner had Irene said “I wonder how long it is since a pack horse last travelled this route?”, when a man leading a heavily laden mule appeared, heading up the track towards us. I cant imagine where he was heading and I’m not at all sure where he came from, there was an almost eerie feel about his sudden appearance. Eventually the path lead us into the small mountain village of Jungen, accessible only on foot or by cable car. We wandered slowly through the village towards the cable car, just to see if it was running. It didn’t appear to be working but on closer inspection we found that it was necessary telephone down to the bottom station to summon the gondola. Well once we had made that call to enquire when the next one would run, it was on it’s way up to us. We could hardly say no now could we? And neither did we want to, today it felt ok to take a ride for a change after another eight hours of walking. The gondola was tiny with seating room for four passengers and when we were joined by two elderly Swiss people, together with our large packs, it became a bit of a squeeze, we were crammed in like sardines.

Heading down to St Niklaus

It was very hot down in St Niklaus when we spilled out of the cable car and we wandered the streets looking for a suitable hotel. We were surprised to find very little choice and after walking around the village for half an hour we booked into the Hotel Monte Rossa. It was a self contained apartment with its own kitchen and a pair of skis on the balcony… just in case I guess. The meal that night was….  interesting…. unusual…. no, it was awful! There was only one word for it, awful! It was mostly meat that seemed to have been boiled together with the vegetables. We decided to skip breakfast the next morning and tried to settle the bill with the excuse that we needed an early start. It didn’t work, he wouldn’t hear of us starting the day on an empty stomach. After the meal we had just eaten it seemed like the best option, but we couldn’t refuse, breakfast it seemed was compulsory.

Breakfast was also magnificent, such a contrast from the night before. Sugar puffs and plain Swiss yoghurt, several hams, sausage, cheese, boiled eggs, freshly baked bread, jam, honey, croissants. If only I had realised at the time how much weight I had lost on this walk, I would have eaten all of it. As it was I left a slice of ham in a vain attempt not to appear too greedy.

tomorrow…

The Final Countdown... walking up to Zermatt.