A summit for a fragment of life
Always further, always higher: the Drôme-based brand CIMALP takes the one-legged adventurer to the roof of Europe.
It was last spring that this ascent project was born. CIMALP, which chose to sponsor and support Frank Bruno and his association "Bout de vie" from the start of the year, wanted to make the most of its presence in Chamonix at the UTMB® ultra-trail salon, to showcase an ambitious, meaningful project — a reflection of the human and sporting values shared between the Drôme-based brand and the adventurer: pushing beyond your limits, sharing, solidarity, and team spirit.
Because we all have challenges to take on, summits to cross, obstacles to overcome, and fragments of life to share, the goal of this Mont White ascent was simple: to show as many people as possible that anyone can push beyond their limits — whatever their physical level, their disability, their mental or physical injuries — and that together, we always go further.
Climbing Kilimanjaro, rowing across the Atlantic, crossing Greenland — Frank Bruno can now add Mont White to his list of most extraordinary challenges conquered.
Here is the moving account of an extraordinary adventure:
One step between Greenland and Mont White…
2 a.m. The sky is clear; the storms have thankfully stopped. Under the vault of the sky, ants are preparing to draw a little closer to the stars. Fred, my guide, is part of the famous PGHM group in Chamonix; his vast experience reassures me about my choice — once again a crazy one — to climb Mont White. A few days ago I was still in Greenland with a prosthesis that was hurting me; here I am now at the foot of an ice giant that cares little about my difference or my minor troubles. The priority for this long day will be a light pack — minimal but complete. Our harnesses won't come off until this evening; the tether will be shorter or longer depending on how dangerous the terrain is. My partner opens the route; the Cosmiques glacier reminds me of the land of Nanoq, but here there is altitude on top of everything else. A team of four accompanies us; silence washes over us, each of us in our own bubble, in our own story. The lead climber of the other group comes alongside me — my preparation has caught his attention, as has my difference. In a few strides he tells me the story of his sister, paraplegic since the age of 15; his silences say more than any long speech.
The terrain gains elevation and the first danger puts us to the test. Under a serac we must thread our way through — giants of ice, ready to fall, judge us, watch us, size us up. Phew, they let us pass without a hitch. Then comes my first real difficulty: a four-metre ice wall to climb. Crampons on and only one ice axe — it takes enormous concentration and strength to get through. Fred sets me at the foot of the ice wall: "Up there it'll be far longer and harder." My blood runs cold — perfectly natural, you might say, it's 3 a.m. and we're at 4,000 metres altitude! To move forward I need to find my rhythm, free of any stray thought; my movements too must be as simple as possible while remaining effective. Ahead of me is a man I consider a giant of mountaineering — I feel clumsy, mediocre, lost, utterly useless. We overtake a rope of two who seem to be struggling; that gives me a bit of a boost, I feel less hopeless — then a second rope, and all of them will eventually turn back. I realise that now we are alone out in front. The night is simply magical; the cold is not as brutal as all that — although the temperature is below zero, I think my polar expeditions have toughened me up.
A rollercoaster of sensations
Here we are! The wall stops us dead — we need to find the right line. I can feel Fred is deeply focused; he must be realising that his partner is signed under the Lorraine astrological sign of "quiche"! He explains my task: retrieve the ice screws, how to plant the ice axe and haul myself up with both hands, kick hard into the wall to find a stance… "The climb gets tougher," as Pascal Paoli would have said! Fred leads off, the rope of four arrives, we tuck ourselves into a crevasse — showers of ice seem to want to stone us for being there. Right, he's reached the first belay — my turn. The cold, while waiting for the line to be fixed, has started its undermining work; my hands, which have already frozen in Greenland, remind me of old times. I launch myself, stomach in knots, knowing I have to give everything and then some to get through. My boots have no rigid soles — the choice to go light so as not to injure my stump has sacrificed comfort for climbing, and I dread losing the lug on the prosthesis side. At the very first metre, a shower of ice rattles me; my helmet spares me the worst, but a hit to the face makes me fear a serious injury. Blood runs down into my mouth, but I'm clear-headed — it must be just a graze. I push on, I grip, I feel so useless, moaning without end. Suddenly my ice-axe grip gives way, I slip, I'm hanging in thin air held only by a piece of string at more than 4,000 metres altitude. Fred secures me, but I know I have to react fast, get my head back together and above all escape this hellish wall. Suddenly I understand why I came off! My right lug is no longer in place on my carbon foot. Oh hell — I'm not about to add my name to the list of the mountain's missing. On one leg and with a single ice axe I reach a rock piton to get myself together; my hands are frozen, I know it'll be fine, but once the blood comes back I'm going to suffer. As if by a miracle, Mehdi — the lead climber of the group of four we had overtaken — arrives below me. Survival instinct, solidarity: he offers to brace me so I can reattach the lug…
Final push for the summit
Mountain spirit, where people come together to die a little less. Fred has finally reached the Col du Mont Maudit; I have 40 metres of wall left to climb, and below me the headlamp lights of my four teammates look tiny. In a superhuman effort I reach the col; first light is just beginning to show, my partner congratulates me, and for my part I feel like being sick from the effort. We take a break; the rope of four arrives — everyone is spent but proud to have made it through. The blood comes back into my fingers; it feels like they're going to explode, but I remember past hospital experiences and choose to downplay the moment. We set off again on a long traverse across a very steep glacier — still roped together, of course, still with heightened vigilance, of course. The sun finally keeps its appointment, flooding us, reassuring us, warming us; the day is only just beginning, yet we have already been climbing for five hours. Then, right in front of us, the final stretch to reach the Mont White dome. The ice axe is put away; the poles will be my extra legs. There is 30 cm of powder and, on this less-frequented side, the track has not been packed down. A single step quickly becomes, at this altitude, a genuine feat. We still have 410 metres of elevation gain to go, and I think only of the present moment. Fred opens the route; I watch him stumble in the powder almost as often as I do — which for me is about once every two steps. My breathing is laboured, but what reassures me is that my stump is causing me absolutely no pain. Mehdi and Thom's rope is ahead — they too are advancing slowly but gaining a slight lead; I feel diminished, my competitive instinct gnaws at me, yet I must stay in this present moment that matters so much. As I love to say to the elite athletes and top-flight military personnel I regularly meet: put your brain to one side and keep moving without moaning or trembling… 9:05 a.m. — I finally set the prosthesis on the summit of Mont White, the mist wrapping around us just as I catch my breath. We congratulate each other; everyone is proud of their own Bout de vie. At the very moment we unfurl the "CimAlp Bout de vie" banner, Mehdi and Thom, with their partners, are busy rigging their ultra-light paragliders to fly down to the valley. I savour this moment of grace, of release. Fred films me; emotion takes hold — the wounds of the past seem to flow from my eyes and drift up toward the sky where my dark years now rest. I call my love — this one's for the second layer…
Mont White, a revelation of emotions
As if by a miracle the mist evaporates and the world of the ants below comes into view — this moment is magical, sublime. Our rope-mates take off like snow sprites; with their wings they'll be down in half an hour. As for us, we must take the route back via the Goûter. The ridge unfolds before us; this section of Mont White is heavily frequented, and at every crossing — after the customary multilingual greeting — you have to be careful not to be swallowed by the void. Each step delivers us a little from the lack of oxygen, but also from this moment of privilege. We reach the Vallot hut without lingering too long. Dark bread and dried meat are very welcome — we've already been walking for ten hours. The layers thin out too. We eventually pass above the Goûter refuge, which looks more like a spaceship than a mountain hut. Paradox of the solitude of the peaks: you have to book six months in advance just for the right to rest there for a few hours! At the end of the ridge we reach a platform where we can finally remove our crampons, but another trap opens its arms — the Goûter scree, some 600 metres of descent through a mineral jumble that would put off anyone, take it from a limping hothead. Crampons folded away and stowed, my prosthesis feels as though it could fly, even though it doesn't hurt at all. Down a five-rung ladder I go first — the void and falling rocks compete for the role of chief villain. A stainless-steel cable secures the route, even though we are still roped together. With each passing minute I adapt to the scree; we even overtake people, which reassures me that I'm not quite in anvil mode! On our starboard — oops, right-hand — side there is a kind of rocky gully; without warning, from time to time, blocks break loose and fly downward with a grim, ominous roar. After two hours of uneventful descent we have to cross this "accursed" gully. In his work as a high-mountain rescuer, Fred has collected many of the dead here. This death trap must be crossed at full speed. For safety, I bring out the poles again, take a deep breath, and launch myself flat out across this rat trap. Those 40 metres of traverse — I flew across them without thinking of a single thing, just: get through as fast as possible and without limping!
Here we are — the dangers are almost behind us, but until we are back in the valley I must stay alert and focused. At the foot of a glacier, I want to check my stump, which has held up well so far. As I love to do on fleece expeditions, I use the meltwater to wash up a little. Wow, what a joy — worth every bathroom in the world. Fresh as a young chamois, I can set off again. Yet another huge elevation gain awaits us; I think that's the refrain of every high-altitude route. Even though my stump is not injured at all, phantom pains are giving me trouble. But I'm not here to complain or whimper, so my poles take some of the load as I try not to miss the last train down to the valley. A gang of chamois squats on the path without a care; the mountain here is mineral, hostile, deadly. I dare not even picture it in a storm. Finally the little railway station comes into view — it has been 14 hours and 40 minutes since we started tramping through the Mont White massif.
A page is turned — a beautiful adventure logged in the notebook of my one-legged life as an adventurer.
Thank you to the CimAlp team for putting the project together. Thank you to Florian for shaping the story, thank you to Marie the coordinator, thank you to Lionel the big Boss, and thank you to Fred Souchon for the patience and mastery he showed in guiding me through this magnificent adventure.
Thousands of you follow the adventures of a stubborn, limping hothead — I thank you from the bottom of my heart; you are my strength. A thank you as well to my wonderful Niviarsiaq, who has supported, encouraged, listened to, and cared for me so much…
Long live life…"
