A summit for a slice of life
Ever further, ever higher: the Drôme-based brand CIMALP takes the one-legged adventurer to the rooftop 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 shine a spotlight on an ambitious and meaningful project — a reflection of the human and sporting values shared between the Drôme-based brand and the adventurer: pushing beyond one's limits, sharing, mutual support, and team spirit.
Because we all have challenges to face, summits to conquer, obstacles to overcome, and slices of life to share, the objective of this Mont White ascent was simple: to show as many people as possible that anyone can surpass their limits, regardless of their fitness level, disability, or mental and 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 overcome.
Here is the moving account of an extraordinary adventure:
One step between Greenland and Mont White…
2am, the sky is clear, the storms have thankfully passed, and under the celestial vault, a group of ants prepares to edge a little closer to the stars. Fred, my guide, is part of the renowned PGHM Chamonix team — his vast experience reassures me about my choice, once again crazy, to climb Mont White. A few days ago I was still in Greenland with a prosthesis that was hurting me; now I'm at the foot of an ice giant that cares nothing for my differences or my minor troubles. The priority for this long day will be a light pack — it needs to be minimal but complete. We won't remove our harnesses until this evening; the rope will be shorter or longer depending on the danger of the terrain. My partner leads the way; the Cosmiques glacier reminds me of the land of Nanoq, but here the altitude adds another dimension. A team of four accompanies us; silence takes over, each of us in our own bubble, our own story. The rope leader of the other group comes alongside me — my preparation caught his attention, as did my difference. In a few sentences he tells me about his paraplegic sister, who has been paralysed since the age of 15; his silences tell me more than any long speech.
The terrain gains elevation and the first danger puts us to the test. Beneath a serac we must squeeze through; towering ice giants, ready to fall, judge us, watch us, analyse us — but thankfully let us pass without the slightest hitch. Then comes my first real difficulty: a four-metre ice wall to climb. Crampons on my feet and only one ice axe — it takes enormous concentration and strength to get through. Fred puts me at the foot of the wall: Up there, it'll be much longer and harder. My blood runs cold — fair enough, you might say, it's 3am and we're at 4,000 metres! To move forward I have to find my rhythm, free from any stray thoughts; my movements too must be as simple and efficient as possible. Ahead of me is a man I consider a giant of mountaineering — I feel clumsy, mediocre, lost, utterly useless. We overtake a rope team of two who seem to be struggling; that gives me a small boost, makes me feel slightly less hopeless. Then a second team — all of them will turn back. I realise that now we are alone out in front. The night is simply magical; the cold isn't as brutal as I'd feared — though the temperature is below zero, I think my polar expeditions have toughened me up.
A rollercoaster of sensations
Here we are — the face stops us cold; we need to find the right line. I can feel Fred is intensely focused; he must have realised his partner's star sign is "quiche"! He explains my task: collect the ice screws, how to plant the ice axe and haul myself up with both hands, how to kick my crampons hard into the face to get purchase… The ascent gets serious, as Pascal Paoli would have said. Fred sets off in the lead; the team of four arrives and we shelter in a crevasse while showers of ice seem to want to stone us for being here. He's reached the first belay — now it's my turn. The cold, while waiting for the line to be fixed, has begun its insidious work; my hands, which have already frozen in Greenland, are making themselves known. I launch myself, my stomach in knots — I know I have to give everything and more to get through. My boots have no rigid soles; choosing light footwear to protect my stump sacrificed climbing comfort, and I dread losing the lug on the prosthesis side. At the very first metre, a shower of ice shakes me; my helmet takes the worst of it but an impact on my face makes me fear serious injury. Blood runs into my mouth, but I stay lucid — it must just be a graze. I push on, I cling, I feel so useless, I grumble endlessly. Suddenly the grip of my ice axe gives way; I slip, I'm hanging in the void held by nothing but a thin cord at over 4,000 metres. Fred secures me, but I know I have to react fast, get my head straight, 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. Hell, I'm not going to add my name to the list of people lost in the mountains. On one leg with a single ice axe I reach a rock piton to regroup; my hands are frozen — I know it'll be okay, but once the blood comes back I'm going to be in agony. As if by miracle, Mehdi, the rope leader of the foursome we overtook, arrives just below me. Survival instinct, solidarity — he offers to brace me so I can reattach the lug…
The final push to the summit
Mountain spirit, where people unite to survive. Fred has finally reached the Col du Mont Maudit; I have 40 metres of face 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 team of four arrives — everyone is exhausted but proud to have made it. Blood returns to my fingers, it feels like they're going to explode, but I remember my past hospital experiences and I'll minimise this moment. We set off again on a long traverse across a very steep glacier — still roped together, of course, still with heightened vigilance. The sun finally arrives, flooding over us, reassuring us, warming us; the day is only just beginning, yet we've already been climbing for five hours. Then, ahead of us, the section to reach the Mont White dome. The ice axe is stowed; my poles become my extra legs. There's 30 cm of powder snow and on this side, rarely travelled, the track is not packed down. At this altitude, a single step quickly becomes a real feat. We still have 410 metres of elevation to climb; I think only of the present moment. Fred leads the way and I often watch him stumble in the powder too — on my end, it happens every other step. My breathing is laboured, but what reassures me is that my stump causes me absolutely no pain. Mehdi and Thom's rope team is ahead; they're also advancing slowly but gaining a little ground — I feel diminished, my competitive instinct weighs on me, but I have to stay in that present moment, which matters so much. As I often tell the elite athletes and top-level military personnel I regularly encounter: you have to set the brain aside and push forward without complaining or trembling… 9:05am — I finally place my prosthesis at the summit of Mont White, the mist engulfs 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 and their partner are busy with their ultra-light paragliders, ready to fly down to the valley. I savour this moment of grace, of release. Fred films me; emotion carries me away; the wounds of the past seem to flow from my eyes and take flight towards the sky where my darkest years now rest. I call my love — that's the second layer…
Mont White, a revealer of emotions
As if by miracle the mist lifts, and the world of the ants below appears before us — this moment is magical, sublime. Our rope mates take off like snow sprites; with their canopies they'll be at the bottom in half an hour. As for us, we must make our way back down via the Goûter route. The ridge unfolds before us; this part of Mont White is heavily trafficked, and at each crossing, after the customary multi-language greeting, care is needed to avoid being pulled into the void. Every step delivers us a little more from the lack of oxygen, yet also from this privileged moment. We reach the Vallot shelter without lingering too long. The black bread and dried meat are very welcome — it's already been 10 hours since we set off. The layers are also coming off. 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 need to book six months in advance just 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, around 600 metres of descent through a mineral jumble that would put anyone off, take it from a limping daredevil. Crampons folded and stowed, my prosthesis seems to take flight — though it causes me no pain at all. Down a five-rung ladder I go first; the void and falling rocks compete for the title of chief menace. A stainless steel cable secures the route, though we remain roped together throughout. As the minutes pass, I adapt to the scree; we even overtake some people, which reassures me that I'm not quite in full-anvil mode. On our starboard side — sorry, right side — there's a sort of rocky gully; without warning, from time to time, blocks break away and hurtle downwards with a grim, ominous sound. After two hours of smooth descent, we have to cross this "cursed" gully. In his job as a high-mountain rescue worker, Fred has recovered many fatalities here. This death trap must be crossed at speed. For safety, I take out my poles again, draw a deep breath, and launch myself flat out across this rat trap. Those 40 metres of traverse — I flew across them without thinking of anything, just: get over it 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 need to 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 in polar regions, I use the meltwater to wash up a little. What a joy — worth any bathroom in the world. Fresh as a young chamois, I can set off again. Yet another huge descent awaits; I think that's the chorus 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 take some of the load as I try not to miss the last train down to the valley. A string of chamois is squatting on the path without a care, the mountain here is mineral, hostile, deadly. I daren't even imagine it in a storm. Finally, the little mountain railway station comes into view — it has been 14 hours and 40 minutes since we started making our way through the Mont White massif.
A page is turned, a beautiful adventure noted in the diary of my one-legged adventurer's life.
Thank you to the CimAlp team 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 having the patience and mastery to guide 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 special thank you also to my beautiful Niviarsiaq, who supported, encouraged, listened to, and cared for me so much…
Long live life…"
