A classic piece of climbing literature, written by Bernard Amy and translated by Beverly Davitt.
Bernard Amy
I wouldn't usually post unoriginal content without permission but I'm making an exception for this as it's already available online - but on a website that I get an insecure site warning for - as well as in audio form. If that appeals and you'd prefer to listen to it, then in Jam Crack Podcast Ep26, a gravelly voiced Chris Schulte, transmitting out of Fontainebleau, eventually interrupts a less gravelly voiced Niall Grimes to tell this tale.
Like many, I first read this in 'The Games Climbers Play' a collection of climbing and mountaineering tales and essays, collated by Ken Wilson. If you enjoy this I'd recommend picking up a copy.
Anyway, I'll let Bernard take it from here...
"He who has the greater virtue does not act and has no goal.
He who only had the lesser virtue acts and has a goal." Tao te ching
Although no-one had ever really known his proper name, everyone called him 'Tronc Feuillu'. It must have been something like 'Tron Fo Oyu', but his fellow countrymen pronounced the name too quickly for a European to grasp it properly.
This surname, however, did not in any way describe his actual person. Tronc Feuillu was a long, thin man, with the face and hands of an ascetic. His head was shaved. From somewhere behind his flat eastern eyes came an expression which was at the same time severe, ironic and gentle. He was more like the trunk of one of those trees found in the Southern Hemisphere which, having survived the flames of a sorest fire, seem to have acquired power over death.
Tronc Feuillu was a member of the Japanese delegation at the international gathering at ENSA. Although he was the most outstanding person in the team, he was not the leader. However, his companions spoke of him with a respect which his technical abilities alone did not entirely justify. When questioned, the seemed rather vague, and talked of "supreme wisdom" and "a technique beyond technique", which explained nothing. To those who would have liked to know more, Tronc Feuillu's companions replied: "The facts will speak for themselves. You will have to wait to see how he does the route he has planned."
"The route? Is he only going to do one?"
"Yes, definitely".
Three days later, the weather became fine. The Japanese launched a direct attack on the North Face of Rekwal, the highest route and without a doubt the most difficult in the range. Led by Tronc Feuillu, the avoided the route known as 'The Clock' by using a variation famous ever since. No-one has been able to follow it again. The most skilled European and American alpinists have attempted it, but not one has been able to cover more than the first thirty feet. Tronc Feuillu succeeded in climbing a smooth rock wall, 250ft. high, where there was no ledge, nor even a crack wide enough for foot or hand. He did not use pitons, nor did he protect himself with running belays. He and his three companions - who appeared transfigured by their brilliant leader - climbed that long passage without hesitation, "without any apparent effort, as if the passage in question were just a simple one", reported a British team tackling 'The Clock' at the same time.
The event aroused much comment. First the British, and then the other climbers who had been on the face at the same time, enthused over the sureness and skill of the Japanese, and particularly over the mastery of Tronc Feuillu. The Japanese leader became the 'personality' of Chamonix. But his admirers hardly had a chance to approach him. He fled from the public, with its noisy adulation. He countered all curiosity by displaying a total indifference towards 'image', publicity, notoriety, and ego-tripping. Thus, even though he had just completed a very important route, he displayed a calm detachment, a refusal to become prey to the mad frenzy which the slightest sign of a corner of blue sky above the Aiguilles inspired in others.
For he did not set out on another route. Not that he spent his time in Chamonix. The fine weather continued, and he was quite happy to disappear for the entire day, without anyone knowing whether he went off to climb on his own, or to stroll in the Alpine meadows. His companions completed other routes, three of which were first ascents of the highest order. Tonc Feuillu did not accompany them. Some alpinists where amazed at such disaffection. They even went so far as to suggest that a deep fear experienced on Mont Rekwal prevented him from making a further ascent. Although he must have known of this, he seemed completely disinterested. As for his compatriots, they insisted that Tronc Feuillu formed an integral part of their team. "It is enough," they said, "that through his meditation he inspires our achievements."
One rainy day when the Chamonix crowd was passing the time, impatiently, in cafes, Tronc Feuillu ventured out to the Drugstore. He was talking, discussing, looking surprisingly relaxed. No-one recognized in him the austere character of the past few days. Someone managed to question him about his extraordinary climb: "How did you go about it? What were the difficulties? Was it possible to use pitons? How did you cover the first forty feet? Do you know that only one climber has since managed to cover that part and come back down it again?" Tronc Feuillu allowed the questions to continue and then replied: "At the end of that section, I perceived on the top of Mont Rekwal one of the most beautiful snow-flake patterns that I have ever seen." His audience took this to be a witticism, all the more so since Tronc Feuillu himself broke into laughter. "He doesn't like questions," we said, "He wished to send the other about his business. It was a fitting answer." And there we left it.
Towards the middle of August, there was a period of fine weather. I was able to do some good routes. Then I returned to Chamonix to rest for a few days. One morning I watched the sun rise in a perfectly clear sky above Mount Blanc and the Aiguilles. The streets were almost deserted. Everyone was up in the mountains. Standing in the Place de la Poste, I tasted that moment, certain that a beautiful day was about to unfold. I was going to be able to enjoy it without any reservations, to abandon myself to idleness while still retaining on my fingertips the memory of the rock and the wind from the heights.
Tronc Feuillu came out of his hotel. He was carrying a small bag, and I guessed that he was going for one of his mysterious walks. He passed quite close to me, stopped, and abandoned his usual silence:
"Aren't you going out climbing?" he asked.
I looked at him and smiled:
"Well, you know, just because it's a fine day..."
"All the same, we don't often get it as fine as this..."
"True, but it's not always necessary actually to touch the rock to enjoy it!" My reply must have pleased him. Against all my expectations, he invited me to accompany him.
Tronc Feuillu led me along paths quite unknown to me. I thought at first that he was taking me along the Blaitiere path. However, he turned off very soon towards the heart of the forest. With amazingly sure steps, he followed the faintest tracks. From time to time, we came across broad paths, but managed it all so well that in the end I hadn't the faintest idea where we were. The high slopes which we were climbing appeared to us across the trees. They enveloped us completely, and it seemed to me that we were gradually becoming lost in a labyrinth. I allowed myself to be led along, happy to discover a mountain so unfamiliar to me.
I had placed myself behind my guide, making sure that I followed his every step. He was moving forward at a regular pace. I could not see his face, but I guessed it to be lost in a dream which, however, still permitted him to find his way through the network of tracks, copses and paths which we were following. Finally, we emerged in a clearing on a shelf of the forest. The morning sun poured into it. The earth was covered with grass still heavy with dew. The droplets were sparkling in the light. They formed quite regular patterns, leading one to believe that a master gardener had arranged them thus by using a very special rake.
Jutting out from the grass were several rocks, scattered in little groups. One of them dominated all the others. It was an enormous, monolithic block, at least 20 ft. hight, and made of beautiful ochre-colored granite, already warm from the sun. It was so compact and solid that it was difficult to believe that it had once rolled down from the scree above. I had never seen such a fine block. Or perhaps it was our walk that predisposed me to regard it as perfect.
The side facing the sun was dry. The air nearby quivered in the heat coming from the rock. I couldn't help thinking of a perfect climb across that sun-drenched rock face, a climb which would lead me to the summit of the block. "To touch a fine rock is most pleasant and reassuring." I had a strong desire to go and touch this rock. But Tronc Feuillu stopped me with a gesture and, almost sharply, asked me to wait. Placing his bag on the ground, he took out his PAs and put them on. Without knowing whether this was the object of our coming here, I understood that my companion, like myself, had thought of climbing the block. Was he really considering doing so by means of the only visible face? The face looked utterly impossible to me.
He mad his preparations slowly. Having changed his clothes very carefully, and having wiped the soles of his shoes and smeared his fingers with resin, he sank into an endless period of meditation. I saw his muscles slacken one by one, his whole body relaxing. His breathing became more and more regular. His gaze would move across the carpet of grass which separated us from the rock, stop at the rock face, and return again to the grass.
Fascinated by such immobility, I watched without daring to move. The nearby forest and the great slopes all around were silent and yet I could tell that they were filled by the same spirit which at that moment animated Tronc Feuillu. As though he were talking to himself, I heard him murmur: "If I could go as far as the stone without disturbing a single dewdrop, the stone would no longer exist. And I should be at its summit." Then, after a long silence, he spoke again: "To be at the summit of the rock, you must be the summit of the rock, and thus of stone." I realized that he was speaking on my behalf, for he had long ceased to need to himself. I thought back to the North Face of Mont Rekwal, the Japanese variation and the feat of Tronc Feuillu. I wondered if he was about to prove that same mystery.
He ceased to be immobile. He was deep in a trance, but without seeming to be in the power of any external forces. It was more a surfacing, and externalization of his own powers. He moved towards the rock. His feet did not crush the blades of grass but gently parted them. He placed his hands on the rock, and then, without a single irregular movement, as though it had been the easiest of climbs, he reached the top. Holding my breath, fearing that I might break what seemed to be a spell - but would Tronc Feuillu even have heard me? - I saw him grasp the upper shelf and install himself there with ease. The finest climb that I have ever seen! The elegance of his movements was such that it erased the very inertia of those movements. Tronc Feuillu was even more clever than I had been told!
As he stood up on the summit, he turned his face towards the sun, and I saw his features illuminated by the bright light.
Each of us wears a mask on his face a mask with hard, bitter features, marked at times by cynicism or despair. Each of us wears it to a grater or lesser degree of transparency. When I say the face of Tronc Feuillu, I thought that he had succeeded in giving his mask perfect transparency. But at the same time I realized that I was mistaken. He had gone even further: his mask no longer existed. The sun was lighting up a man both terrifying in his lack of personality - he was pure, vast thought - and fascinating in the immense internal peace which filled him.
The moment did not last. Tronc Feuillu was already leaping towards the hidden face of the block, disappearing and joining me once more - with a laugh. Indeed, my amazement must have been rather ridiculous. But it was in the most serious of tones that he asked me whether I , in my turn, would like to climb the block. My silence must have answered for me. Without more ado, he changed his clothes again, and indicated that he was returning to the valley. I followed him. Later, as though he were continuing a conversation (which in fact we had never begun), he started to talk. Without interrupting our walk, and without turning round, he said:
"Usually, that sort of thing is not expressed in words. But I know that you need words. And what you said to me earlier in the square in Chamonix makes me think that perhaps you will understand ... And yet the words you need already exist within you. I can remember having read in a book: 'If one really wishes to master an art, technical knowledge alone is not enough. On must go beyond the technical to the point where the art becomes "an art without artifice", which has its roots in the subconscious' ... I could use more impressive words, tell you that we cannot attain perfection by piling feat upon feat, or by making the greatest possible use of our muscles and senses, but that, on the contrary, we must use the basic link that joins our own Essence to the essence of our art. But why say that which cannot be said!"
We continued to walk down towards the valley. Tronc Feuillu preceded me. I heard his words, and I should have liked to see his face once more. But he did not stop, and in places I almost had to run to keep up with him. He was silent for some time. I dared not question him. Later, he continued.
"What you have seen me do is for some only the beginning of climbing. In my country, we say 'the ultimate state of activity is inactivity' ... I'm going to tell you the story of a climber named Chi-Ch'ang. He lived in a Chinese province, but there can be few climbers in my country who do not know his story. Chi-Ch'ang would have liked to be the greatest climber in the world. He was highly skilled, but would have liked to reach perfection. Finally, he discovered that the greatest master-climber in the world was a certain Wei-Fei. It was said that Wei-Fei was capable of drawing himself up smooth, vertical stretches of stone, no matter how high up. Some people had seen him climb overhangs of solid rock where no holds were apparent. Chi-Ch'ang made his way to the distant province where Wei-Fei lived, and became his pupil.
The master kept him there for several days, then explained that he would continue his instruction when Chi-Ch'ang had acquired the art of not blinking. Chi-Ch'ang returned to his home and lay down on his back beneath his wife's loom. He wanted to be able to keep his eyes fixed on loom pedal, without closing them when it passed in front of his face. Day after day he practiced. When two years had passed, he was able to refrain from blinking even when the pedal pulled out one of his eyelashes. From that moment on, neither blasts of wind filled with snow or dust, nor the lightning on the mountain ridges, could have any effect on him. Indeed nothing could make him blink. He even slept with his eyes open. One day, whilst he was contemplating the village fields, a spider spun her web between his lashes. Chi-Ch'ang knew he was ready, and returned to the Master.
"This is but a first stage," Wei-Fei said to him. "Now you must learn to see. Come to me again when that which is minute appears obvious to you, and when that which is small appears huge."
Chi-Ch'ang returned to his province. On a river-bank he found a perfectly smooth pebble, adorned by a lichen which could hardly be seen. He placed it near to the window of his room, sat down at the other end and, day after day, practiced looking. Two weeks later, he could see the lichen quite clearly. Soon, it began to look larger. After three months had passed, it seemed in Chi-Ch'ang's eyes as large as a flower. Its slightest detail was familiar to him. He spoke to the other members of his family of the astonishing complexity of the leaves of the lichen, admiration filing his voice. The season passed. Chi-Ch'ang hardly noticed, if at all. The occasions on which he left his room were rare. Each day his wife cleaned the pebble, lest a speck of dust should settle on it and disturb him in his contemplation. After three years, the lichen seemed to him as large as a tree. For the first time, Chi-Ch'ang diverted his gaze from it to the pebble. Its dimensions seemed those of an enormous block. He rushed out of the house: horses seemed as big as mountains, pigs the size of hills; chickens looked like castle towers. Chi-Ch'ang went then to the climbing school where he had originally trained, and came upon a smooth stretch of rock that no one had ever climbed. The slightest roughness on its surface seemed to Chi-Ch'ang on that occasion to take on the size of considerable hold. He climbed it easily. With out waiting any longer, he returned to Wei-Fei. This time, the master had to admit that his pupil had succeeded.
This Chi-Ch'ang had spent five years in the initiation to climbing. He felt that from then on all feats would be possible. He decided to undergo a series of tests. He began by climbing quite easily some of the routes which had been Wei-Fei's speciality. The he covered them again, carrying a bag filed with stones, heavy enough to unbalance him on the ground. On his head he placed a cup full of water; not a single drop was spilt. A week later, he chose an overhanging wall so split and cracked that it threatened to crumble away. He began to climb, and such was the swift sureness of his movements that each stone, when pushed off balance by one movement, found itself immediately readjusted by the following movement. At the end, Chi-Ch'ang reached the top of the wall without a single rock having fallen. Wei-Fei, who had witnessed the feat, could not help by applaud.
From that day on, Chi-Ch'ang knew that he had nothing more to learn from his master. He could return to his village: no-one could equal him. And yet, he did not feel satisfied. A final obstacle stood in his way: Wei-Fei himself. Full of bitterness, Chi-Ch'ang realized that he could not set himself up as the greatest climber in the world. He was his master's equal, not his superior. The two continued to climb together. One day while they were climbing a long dihedral, roped up together, Chi-Ch'ang made a belay on a terrace which had a large number of rocks scattered on it. Lower down, Wei-Fei was climbing. Without hesitation, Chi-Ch'ang pushed one of the rocks into space. But for some time the old master had been able to read his pupil's mind; Chi-Ch'ang without realizing it, had lost some of his confidence. Wei-Fei saw what was happening, dangled on the rope at once, and avoided the falling rock by swinging right around the outside of the dihedral, then returned to his original position. Chi-Ch'ang had fixed the rope instinctively, so that he would not be pulled down by Wei-Fei's weight. He threw more rocks but his companion avoided them all. Then he selected a large, sharp-edged piece of rock and cut the rope with it. Wei-Fei found himself without any support, completely at the mercy of his enemy. "This time I have won," muttered Chi-Ch'ang. He pushed a final stone. But at the very moment when Wei-Fei was about to be dragged into space, he leaped on to one of the smooth faces of the dihedral and clung there for a brief moment. At the same time he pushed the stone away with one hand. The stone, deviating from its original trajectory, crashed against the rock, carving out a tiny hold as it did so. Wei-Fei dropped on to it. Before Chi-Ch'ang realized what was happening, the master had reached the bottom of the dihedral.
Aware then the he would never succeed, Chi-Ch'ang felt full of remorse. As for Wei-Fei, he was so pleased at having exhibited his genius in such a magnificent way that he felt no anger towards the person who had wanted to kill him. The two men reached the summit without a rope, and wept as they embraced each other. Wei-Fei realized, however, that his life was in danger from that day on. The only way to avert the danger was to direct Chi-Ch'ang's attention towards another object.
"My friend," he said, "I have passed on all my knowledge to you. But neither you nor I possess the ultimate knowledge. If you wish to know more, you must cross the Ta-Hsing col and climb to the summit of Mount Ho. There you will find the old master Kan-Ying who never has had and never will have an equal in our art. Compared with his, our skill is like that of a child. He alone has something to teach you."
Chi-Ch'ang set off at once. After a difficult journey which lasted a month, he arrived at the summit of Mount Ho. He stopped, removed his walking shoes and put on his climbing boots. Then he set off for the grotto where the hermit lived. Kan-Ying was a very old man. His eyes were very gentle. His back was bent and his white hair reached right down to the ground. A man so old would surely be deaf. Chi-Ch'ang went up to him and shouted: "I have come here to make sure that I am the greatest climber in the world." And without waiting for a reply, he rushed up a large block of marble, polished by the elements, which overhung the entrance to the grotto. When he had climbed back down again, he noticed that Kan-Ying was smiling indulgently.
"What you are doing is really quite easy: what is there to admire about the act of climbing on rock? The route is there to be followed, a rock to be climbed. Come, I'm going to teach you something better."
Annoyed at not having impressed the old man, Chi-Ch'ang followed him until they reached a col which gave access to a face of rock and ice rising to a dizzy height. Kan-Ying began to tackle an ever-narrowing traverse dominated by a high wall of rock which had been smoothed by falls of ice. Up above, a formidable serac barrier hid a par of the sky from them. They were prevented from seeing the foot of the rock face by overhanging rock which jutted out beneath them. Kan-Ying proceeded without hesitation. Suddenly he pulled Chi-Ch'ang towards him. With a terrible noise, a huge part of the serac above fell down around them, surrounding them with a cloud of finely crushed ice. Chi-Ch'ang realized that a slightly overhanging rock was protecting them, and the avalanche would have swept him away if Kan-Ying had not intervened. For a moment his gaze followed the falling blocks of ice. The void beneath him took on a new dimension. A nausea which he had never felt before took hold of him. But Kan-Ying left the shelter of the rock quiet calmly and carried on.
The winding track had disappeared. There was only a simple narrow ledge of rock along which Chi-Ch'ang moved very slowly. He reflected that he had done well to change his boots before arriving at the grotto. And yet, there was Kan-Ying before him, bare feet clad in old sandals, walking as if he were on a footpath. Chi-Ch'ang would have felt humiliated by this if his mind had not been otherwise occupied. Both had left the shelter fortuitously provided by the overhanging rock - but was it only by change that they had been there at that moment? - and now nothing was protecting them. Chi-Ch'ang began to feel uncertainty overtake him. If just one block of ice were to fall, it would be the end, he thought. Suddenly, Kan-Ying stopped, and turned towards Chi-Ch'ang:
"Now, show me your skill! You see that overhang beneath the serac barrier? You have just enough time to reach it before the next avalanche."
Chi-Ch'ang was too proud not to accept the challenge. He left the holds on which he had stopped and began to climb towards the serac. But hardly had he, with the greatest difficulty, moved forward one meter, when he heard a cracking sound above him. He climbed down again hurriedly, and without even stopping at Kan-Ying's side, he continued until he reached the shelter of the overhang once more. One of his legs had begun to tremble and he had no control over it. The old man had not moved and laughed as he watched him:
"The glacier does not move forward when it is not time for it to move forward. Come back up here and follow me!"
Chi-Ch'ang moved across again. They continued until they reached a traverse which was a continuation of the first one. This permitted them to skirt a spur which plunged into the abyss. Kan-Ying reached the very edge of the spur. A magnificent needle of rock jutted out before them. It was only two rope-lengths away from the climbers, but the precipice made it inaccessible. Up above, the sharp narrow edge of the spur jutted out, supporting fragile groups of rocks over the void.
"Now," said the hermit, "permit me to demonstrate the art of true climbing."
"But your are only wearing sandals," said Chi-Ch'ang in a weak voice, "you will never cross those overhangs."
"Who mentioned overhangs? For the finest movements one needs the finest summit. Don't you think that that aiguille is work more than the spur we are now on?" Chi-Ch'ang looked once more at the abyss which separated them from the aiguille and, not having understood, turned to Kan-Ying.
"But there is no arete, no face which leads to the top!"
"Boots? Rock? As long as one needs the soles of one's boots and rock to climb, one knows nothing of this art. The true climber does not need tools, or even rock.
The old man seemed to find before him imaginary holds, then to carry out a succession of incredibly precise movements. Chi-Ch'ang thought he heard the almost inaudible sound of non-existent boots making contact with rock that had no substance. Then he say Kan-Ying stand up on the tip of the needle. And then he knew with complete certainty that he had witnessed the supreme manifestation of an art in which he had wanted with all his heart to excel.
He spent nine years on the mountain with the old hermit. What discipline he underwent during those years, no-one ever knew. When he came down again to return to his village and his home, everyone was astonished at the change which had taken place in him. He no longer had the determined and arrogant air about him which he had previously. His former master, Wei-Fei, knew that he had returned and came to see him. Straightway, he understood.
"I can see now that you have become a great climber. And from this moment on, I am unworthy of roping myself up behind you."
The people of the province welcomed Chi-Ch'ang as the greatest climber in the country. And they waited patiently to see feats which would confirm his brilliance. But Chi-Ch'ang did nothing to satisfy their waiting. He never returned to the rock faces he had formerly visited so often. he had not even brought back his climbing boots which, brand new, he had taken away with him nine years before, saying as he went that they would be the instruments of his glory. And to those who begged him to explain, he would reply, in a jaded voice:
"The ultimate stage of the spoken word is silence. The ultimate stage of climbing is not to climb."
The most subtle one amongst them understood what he meant, and admired him: but many, misled by the lack of expression on his face, thought that he was rather simple, and went away again without understanding why he enjoyed such fame.
All kinds of stories about him began to circulate. Moved by jealousy, superstitious people, or those prepared to make use of the superstitiousness of others, passed around the story that, while on Mount Ho, Chi-Ch'ang had learned all the black arts, and that even now the migrating birds would avoid flying over his roof. Climbers, however, convinced of the supreme wisdom and unequalled skill of Chi-Ch'ang, said that no evil spirit ever haunted his house. It was, they added, the god of climbers who came to visit the Master's soul and to discuss with him the merits of fabled climbers of old.
Chi-Ch'ang paid no attention to the stories that were told about him. Old age crept softly upon him. His face had lost all expression. There was no outside force which could disturb his complete impassiveness. He was so well attuned to the secret laws of the universe, so far removed from the uncertainties and contradictions of the material world, that in the evening of his life he no longer made any distinction between 'I' and 'he', or between 'this' and 'that'.
The multiplicity of the senses had vanished for him: his eye might as well have been an ear, his ear a nose, his nose a mouth. Forty years after his return from Mount Ho, Chi-Ch'ang departed peacefully from this world, as a puff of smoke disperses in the sky. During all those years he had never made a single reference to the art of climbing, nor had he touched a single rock. It is said that, shortly before his death, he paid a visit to a friend who had a luxurious home. As he crossed the threshold, he indicated the door-frame which was hewn from free-stone, and asked his friend:
"Pray tell me, what is the material of which this doorway is made?" Then, straight away, seeing his host's climbing boots in the corridor, "What strange boots! What can they possibly be used for?"
His friend, quite stupefied, realized that Chi-Ch'ang was not joking. He turned towards the Master, and could only say to him in a trembling voice:
"You must truly be the greatest master of all time to have forgotten what stone is, and what the instruments of climbing are."
It is said that in the days which followed, the painters of the region threw away their brushes and the artisans were ashamed to be seen with their tools...
...So there is the story of Chi-Ch'ang who wanted to be the greatest climber in the world, concluded Tronc Feuillu. "Draw what conclusions you will. But before we reach Chamonix, let me add this: the climbers of your mountains have often tried to define climbing. They have talked of a sport, of a drug, of a way of forgetting, of an escape, of a religion, a philosophy, an ethic or a moral. Some of them, those who have understood a little better, have mentioned a way of life. The truth is at the same time contained within all these words and in none of them... Arrange them around a circumference: alpinism must be at the center. It is the duty of everyone to put it there, indeed it is the duty of everyone to aim for the center... As they say in your language: 'as sure as I am called...'" He turned towards me, smiling broadly, like someone about to crack a good joke.
"...just as sure as you call me Tronc Feuillu!"
I have never known his real name.
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