A summit for a piece 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" since the start of the year, wanted to take advantage of his presence in Chamonix at the
UTMB® ultra-trail fair, to champion an ambitious and meaningful project, reflecting the human and sporting values shared between the Drôme-based brand and the adventurer: pushing beyond one's limits, sharing, solidarity and team spirit.
Because we all have challenges to face, summits to conquer, obstacles to overcome and pieces of life to share, the goal of this Mont Blanc ascent was simple: to show as many people as possible that anyone can push beyond their limits, regardless of their physical condition, their disability, their mental or physical injuries, and that together, we always go further.
Kilimanjaro ascent, Atlantic rowing crossing, Greenland traverse: Frank Bruno can now add the
Mont Blanc to his list of the most audacious challenges overcome.
Here is the gripping account of an extraordinary adventure:
One step between Greenland and Mont Blanc…
2 a.m., the sky is clear, the storms have thankfully stopped; beneath the vault of stars, tiny figures are preparing to inch a little closer to the heavens. Fred, my guide, is part of the famous PGHM rescue team in Chamonix — his vast experience reassures me about my choice, once again a mad one, to climb Mont Blanc. A few days ago I was still in Greenland with a prosthesis that was injuring me; now I'm at the foot of an ice giant that cares nothing for my difference or my little worries. The priority for this long day will be a light pack — minimal but complete. Our harnesses will not come off until this evening; the rope will be shorter or longer depending on the danger of the terrain. My partner breaks trail; the Cosmiques glacier reminds me of the land of Nanoq, but here, altitude is added to the equation. A team of four accompanies us; silence envelops us, everyone lost in their own bubble, their own story. The lead climber of the other group comes level with me; my preparation has caught his attention, my difference too. In a few words he tells me the story of his sister, paraplegic since the age of 15 — his silences tell me more than any long speech.
The terrain gains elevation; the first danger puts us to the test. We have to slip beneath a serac — towering ice giants ready to fall judge us, observe us, analyse us. Relief: they let us pass without incident. Then comes my first real challenge: a four-metre ice wall to be climbed. Crampons on and just one ice axe — I need a great deal of concentration and strength to get through. Fred sets the scene at the foot of the ice wall: up there it'll be much longer and harder. My blood runs cold — understandably, you might say, since it's 3 a.m. And we're at 4,000 metres altitude! To keep moving I have to find my rhythm, with no stray thoughts; my actions must be as simple as possible while remaining effective. In front of me stands a man I consider a giant of mountaineering — I feel clumsy, mediocre, lost, utterly hopeless! We overtake a rope team of two who seem to be struggling; it gives me a small boost, I feel slightly less useless — then a second team, all of whom will eventually turn back. I realise that now we're out in front alone. The night is simply magical; the cold is not as brutal as I'd feared — although the temperature is below zero, I think my polar expeditions have toughened me up.
An emotional rollercoaster
Here we are! The face stops us in our tracks — we have to find the right line. I can feel Fred's total concentration; he must be realising that his partner carries the astrological sign of a complete rookie! He explains the task: retrieve the ice screws, the way to plant the ice axe and haul myself up with both hands, to kick the lugs hard into the face to get purchase… The ascent gets serious, as Pascal Paoli might have said! Fred sets off in the lead; the rope team of four arrives and we shelter in a crevasse as showers of ice seem intent on pelting us for being there. That's it — he's reached the first belay; it's my turn. The cold, while waiting for the line to be fixed, has begun its undermining work; my hands, which have already frozen in Greenland, remind me of that bitter memory. I set off, stomach in knots, knowing I have to give everything and more to get through. My shoes have no rigid soles — the choice to go light to protect my stump has sacrificed climbing comfort, and I dread losing the lug on the prosthesis side. At the very first metre, a shower of ice rattles me; my helmet takes the worst of it but an impact to the face makes me fear a serious injury. Blood runs into my mouth, but I'm clear-headed — it must be a simple graze. I push on, I cling, I feel so useless, cursing endlessly. Suddenly my ice axe grip gives way; I slip and I'm hanging in the void, held by nothing but a thin cord at over 4,000 metres altitude. Fred secures me, but I know I have to react fast, gather my senses and above all get off this hellish face. Then I discover 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 those lost on the mountain. On one leg and with a single ice axe I reach a rock piton to collect myself; my hands are frozen, I know it'll be fine but when the blood comes back I'm going to suffer. As if by miracle, Mehdi — the lead climber of the foursome we had overtaken — arrives just below me. Survival instinct, solidarity: he offers to brace me so I can reattach the lug…
Final push to the summit
Mountain spirit, where people come together to stay alive. Fred has finally reached the Col du Mont Maudit; I have 40 metres of face left to climb, and below me the head-torch lights of my four teammates look tiny. In a superhuman effort, I reach the col; daylight is just breaking, my partner congratulates me, and for my part I feel like throwing up from the exertion. We take a break; the rope team of four arrives — everyone is spent but proud to have made it through. The blood returns to my fingers; it feels like they're going to explode, but I think back to my past hospital experiences and try to minimise this moment. We get back on the move with a long traverse across a very steep glacier — of course we're still roped, of course vigilance remains high. The sun finally shows up, flooding us with light, reassuring us, warming us; the day has barely begun and we've already been climbing for five hours. Then there it is, ahead of us, the section leading to the dome of Mont Blanc. The ice axe is put away; my poles will be my extra legs. There's 30 cm of powder and on this side, rarely frequented, the slope is untracked. At this altitude, each step quickly becomes a real feat. We still have 410 metres of ascent to go; I focus only on the present moment. Fred is breaking trail; I can see him stumble in the powder just as often, while for me it's every other step. My breathing is ragged, but what reassures me is that my stump is causing me absolutely no pain. Mehdi and Thom's rope team is ahead; they too are moving slowly but pulling slightly away. I feel diminished; my competitive instinct gnaws at me, but I must stay in this all-important present moment. As I like to tell the elite athletes and top-level soldiers I regularly meet: put your brain to one side and keep moving without whining or trembling… At 9:05, I finally plant my prosthesis on the summit of Mont Blanc; the mist rolls in just as I catch my breath. We congratulate each other; everyone is proud of their piece of life. At the very moment we unfurl the "CimAlp Bout de vie" banner, Mehdi and Thom, with their partners, are busy with their ultralight paragliders, ready to fly down to the valley. I savour this moment of grace, of release. Fred films me; emotion takes over, the wounds of the past seem to flow from my eyes and drift up to the heavens where my dark years now rest. I call my darling — that's for the second layer…
Mont Blanc: an emotional revelation
As if by miracle the mist lifts, the world of the tiny figures below comes into view — this moment is magical, sublime. Our rope-team companions take flight like snow sprites, with their wings they'll be at the bottom in half an hour. As for us, we have to head back down via the Goûter route. The ridge unfolds before us; this section of Mont Blanc is very busy, and at every crossing, after the customary multi-lingual greeting, you have to be careful not to be swallowed by the void. Each step frees us a little more from the lack of oxygen, but also from this privileged moment. We reach the Vallot hut, without stopping too long. Dark bread and dried meat are most welcome — we've already been walking for 10 hours. The layers come off too. Finally we pass above the Goûter refuge, which looks more like a spacecraft than a mountain hut. Such is the paradox of the solitude of the summits: 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 field, roughly 600 metres of descent through a mineral chaos that would chill anyone, take it from a stubborn limping hothead. The crampons are folded and packed away, my prosthesis seems to float, even though it causes me no pain at all. Down a five-rung ladder I go first, the void and falling rocks competing for the role of chief villain. A stainless steel cable secures the route, even though we remain roped together. With each passing minute I adapt to the scree; we even overtake some people, which reassures me that I'm not quite in anvil mode! On our starboard — sorry, right — side, there's a kind of rocky gully; now and then, without warning, blocks detach and tumble downhill with a grim, foreboding sound. After two hours of trouble-free descent, we have to cross this "wretched" gully. In his work as a high-altitude rescue professional, Fred has recovered many fatalities here. This death trap must be crossed at speed. For safety, I bring out the poles again, take a deep breath and launch myself at full tilt across this rat trap. Those 40 metres of traverse — I flew across them without thinking of anything, just: get across as fast as possible and without limping!
Here we are, the dangers are almost behind us, but until we're back in the valley I must stay alert and focused. At the foot of a glacier, I want to check on my stump, which has held up well so far. As I like to do in fleece regions, I use meltwater to wash up a little. What a joy, worth every bathroom in the world. Fresh as a young chamois, I can get back on the road. Another huge descent awaits, I think that's the refrain of every high route. Although my stump is not injured at all, phantom pains are giving me a hard time. But I'm not here to complain or moan, so my poles ease the load as I try not to miss the last train to the valley. A herd of chamois is lounging on the path without a care in the world; the mountain here is mineral, hostile, deadly. I daren't even imagine it in a storm. Finally the little train station comes into view — it's been 14 hours and 40 minutes since we set off into the Mont Blanc massif.
A page is turned, a fine adventure recorded in the notebook of my one-legged adventurer's life.
Thank you to the team
CimAlp for putting the project together. Thank you Florian for shaping the story, thank you Marie the coordinator, thank you Lionel the big boss, and thank you to Fred Souchon for the patience and skill with which he guided 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 big thank you also to my wonderful Niviarsiaq, who supported, encouraged, listened to and looked after me so much…
Long live life…"
Watch the video of this ascent
