By Hamish Brown

The beginning chapters of this story can be found here. Part One Part Two

When Dave's time was up, ("Only ten minutes, Mr. Greave, he has to rest.") Dave bent over and lightly kissed the bald forehead. The smell of wood was missing, he noted. It was a strange, impulsive act, he thought, as he clatted along the corridor but he didn't see any big deal in it. His father was just so super a person. That he did know.

Dennis watched Dave duck through the doorway and disappear. Proud man or not, he broke then-for the only time - - and - - six weeks later was dead. The Agatha Christie was never read.

Dave went out to the Dolomites with two friends and, after a week of poor conditions, had a superb spell of climbing weather. Sated, they moved to chamonix where conditions were more unsettled but they did get the West Face of the Dru (Harlin, Robbins, Direct), the most sensational new route of the year before. His partners, Pete and Mog, wanted to climb the classic Zmutt Ridge (which Dave had climbed already) so they agreed to meet up again a week later when the others returned from Zermatt.

They had spied a possible new route which Uncle Tom had also outlined in his little note book. "Och, you buggers are welcome tae it" he'd grinned. "Just watch it disa fall doon on top of ye."

Meanwhile Dave teamed up with Donald Smeaton to have a look at the Requin. They left Snell's Field for the Requin Hut and had only been gone a couple of hours when the weather broke. Tom rather chortled at their discomfort . After several days of rain most people moved on in search of dryer rock. Tom went home. When Dave's partners returned from the - failed -- Zmutt, two days later, they assumed he was probably stuck on some big route, but couldn't find out where.

They waited a few days but as conditions were good again, left a note and set off for the Italian side of Mt. Blanc. Returning from the Brenva there was still no sign of Dave and there was also a letter for him from his old man waiting at the camp site. Alarm hells were suddenly ringing. Mog eventually telephoned Doctor Tom in Scotland and gained the definite news that Dave and Donald had gone off for the Requin. They had not stayed in the hut but had been seen setting off from the Montenvers.

Several days of searching revealed nothing and it was only a rope of Italians coming down late and their torches failing on the comparatively easy Glacier du Tacul leading them off-route and ending in a silly bivvy that led to the discovery of Dave and Donald. They too must have strayed when the blizzard hit them and in the white-out conditions had fallen into a crevasse - - not the first leading climbers to do so. One of the Italians was airborne, in mid-jump across the crevasse, when he noticed something unusual down in its blue throat.

Dave lay on a ledge, not all that far down, but Donald's body was never recovered. They found a tatty letter written to his father, and a note to Tom, the latter brief enough to quote in flill as it explained what had happened.

Your shit route didut fall on us. We fell in here. On Friday the thirteenth, ha ha. Donald below cert~iy dead. Dangled for two days with no sign of life so I cut the rope as I couldn't take the st[rjain any more. Tried cutting holds but dropped the Opinel. No way ouL silly way to go. Make it sound easy for my father and sister. They mattier more than anything. Feet gone.

Fourth [night] starting. cant hold the [pencil?]

Dave's note to his father eventually reached Julie in New Zealand, along with Dennis's letter to his son. These valedictory letters are too private and poignant to reproduce here, but the superstitious may be interested in one irony. Dennis's letter, from hospital, was written well in advance of his death but with instructions that it was only to be posted when he had died. It bore a clear postmark: BRISTOL, FRIDAY 13th. AUG.1966.

You can find more articles in the archive under The Bothy.

You can find more articles in the archive under The Bothy.