“Imagine us climbing that,” Bryher breathed. The wind whirled around the two girls. The sky was heavy and the clouds threatened a storm. “I am imagining it,” Dorothy replied, her eyes blazing. There she stood, in thick tweed breeches, on the flank of a mountain that rose like a prehistoric stone spearhead above the green pastures and lakes of Wales. Tryfan Lliwedd – her first real challenge.
Then, standing on the summit, all she felt was the weight of the sky and the whole climb on her shoulders – and her own breathing. At last it was slowing, returning to normal. “Look at that, Dorothy,” Bryher broke her calm, eyes wide with wonder. The wind kept whistling, and when the girl – still a teenager – took off her headscarf, a stream of russet hair rose into the air. Dorothy looked around. That's when she understood – mountains aren't just lumps of rock stuck together with clay. Mountains are freedom. But freedom didn't fit the idea of a proper lady back then.
Did it matter? To plenty of people. Above all to John Pilley, head of a middle-class London family. “Why do you do it, Dorothy?” he snapped at her, unable to hold back any longer. She had just come home looking more like a tramp – tired, boots dusty, face sticky with sweat. Her answer was simple. And still it filled the whole hallway of the strictly Victorian house: “Because I want to feel alive.”
Year after year she tested the fragile limits of what English society would still tolerate in women. More and more climbs. Not only on the British Isles now – she got a taste of the Alps, too. They smelled of eternal ice, stung the skin and burned in the muscles. They hurt, and they rewarded. And in 1921 she stepped out of the shadow of her time. “The damned Pinnacle Club,” John Pilley raged. “A climbing club just for women. She's gone mad,” he said, staring at her mother. She only shrugged and said nothing. Dorothy had no regrets – on the contrary, she encouraged other girls to head upwards and not be afraid to talk and write about it – in the pages of the Pinnacle Club Journal, which she edited.
Aiguille du Midi. Mont Blanc du Tacul. Modest climbs at first, in massifs where real mountaineering was not yet on the cards. But she was getting better, gaining experience. She learned to read the warning signs of the weather, to handle glacier gear and to build bivouacs in snowdrifts. And then that evening at the Monte Rosa Hütte. Darkness leaned against the stone walls of the hut, the panes in the tiny windows rattled now and then and the rafters creaked overhead. “Excuse me, are you Dorothy Pilley? The fearless Englishwoman?” a man said behind her. She turned round; he smiled faintly. She raised an eyebrow and returned the smile: “And you're the bookworm who decided to climb mountains?” “Literary critic,” I. A. Richards corrected her.
They went on teasing each other like that for a while. But the next time, he listened as she passionately told stories of people and mountains late into the night. They lay under the stars, talking about their dreams and plans. About how hard – but also how impossibly tempting – it is to cross the limits of what is expected of you.
Together they were stronger. And every climb strengthened their bond further. They became equal partners – on steep faces and in supporting each other. “Don't stop, Dorothy,” Richards urged her, his voice muffled by the wind. The cold cut into her bare hands as she clung to the narrow rocky Zmutt Ridge. “I'm not stopping,” she snapped with a grin and clawed her way on. This was the Matterhorn, after all – their dream and one of their toughest challenges.
“Can we do it?” Richards asked as he coiled the rope over his shoulders. His voice sounded steady, but there was worry in his eyes. Dorothy looked him in the face and nodded. “It's the only reason we're here.” Dent Blanche. A mountain that commanded respect even among experienced climbers. And the north-west ridge they had chosen promised brutal tests. The snowy four-thousanders all around towered like guards, unwilling to let anyone come closer. The sky was darkening, but they decided this was the right day all the same.
Accompanied by an experienced guide – their faithful companion Joseph Georges – they began to climb. The silence was broken only by the crunch of snow under their boots and the occasional crack of ice. “Too quiet a day,” Joseph remarked. He knew every rock gully in his home mountains above Chamonix. Dorothy didn't answer, but she felt the tension spreading between the three lone figures. The face was treacherous; every step had to be precise. As they gained height, the wind sometimes slammed into them – so hard that they had to press themselves against the cold rock so it wouldn't blow them off. Icy needles of snow lifted off the mountainside, raced through the air and lashed their faces. Dorothy was exhausted, but she had no plans to give up.
“Dorothy!” Richards cried as he slipped on a rime-covered rock. She turned; their eyes met. She nodded. A single gesture. Richards pulled himself up on the rope, found his balance again, and they carried on.
“We have to decide whether to go on,” the guide Joseph shouted when they stopped on a small ledge amid the hostile drops. For a moment they could catch their breath. Above them rose the final section – the steepest and most dangerous part of the ridge. Dorothy looked around – Richards was fidgeting nervously, devoted Joseph was waiting. She blew warm breath into her frozen palms. “We go on,” she whispered then. Weakly, wearily. Snow, wind, ice – it was all wearing her down.
It was worse than she had imagined. The final stretch, the toughest test. Her hands were slowly losing feeling, her eyes squinted against the wind, her calves were on fire, and so were her lungs. Richards stayed close behind her, his breathing mixing with the roar of the wind. “Dorothy, all right?” his voice rang out, as if from a great distance. “All right,” she answered, without even turning round.
When they reached the summit, the clouds above them parted. Sharp Alpine peaks poked out of the fluffy cotton wool. “Look,” Richards said, taking her hand. His eyes shone – with love and with admiration. “We did it!”
It lasted only a brief moment. Her cheeks were numb from the icy wind. She stood on the summit, looking around, her eyes glistening. They couldn't stay long on top of Dent Blanche. The ascent was only half the job – the descent would decide between triumph and disaster. The wind was already driving them down and the clouds were closing in again. “Dorothy, we should go,” Richards interrupted her. Her answer was simple: “I know.” She turned and took one last look through the window in the clouds – the only one still left open.
They began to descend. Joseph the guide, coming down behind Dorothy and Richards, watched their every step with the rope kept taut. Beside them came a crack, and rocks rumbled down into the mist. “The mountain is still testing us,” Joseph said. It took a long time. Until at last they found a spot where they could stop, sit down and rest for a moment. Under their feet the tiny shoots of the hardiest grasses showed green. Dorothy sat down, her back against the rough rock, breathing deeply. The stiffness in her face eased, but her heart was still racing. Richards sat down beside her: “Do you think that was our greatest climb?” Dorothy smiled. “Maybe. But there are more summits waiting,” she replied, squeezing the hand resting on her thigh.
Dorothy Eleanor Pilley was born in London in 1894. She was the eldest of four children in a middle-class family. Her father, John Pilley, was an industrial chemist. In 1926 she married the literary critic I. A. Richards, who shared her passion for climbing.
After her first climbs in Wales she moved on to the Alps – climbing, for example, the Aiguille des Grands Charmoz (3,445 m), the Aiguille du Grépon (3,482 m) and the Petit Dru (3,733 m). She led the first guideless women's party to traverse the Egginergrat ridge (3,367 m). Alongside her husband she climbed the Matterhorn (4,478 m) via the Zmutt Ridge; together they made the second ascent of the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau (4,158 m) and climbed the north ridge of the Grivola (3,969 m).
In 1928 they achieved their long-dreamed-of first ascent of the north-north-west ridge of Dent Blanche (4,357 m), the high point of their careers. Further adventures followed – in Japan, China and Canada.
In 1921 she co-founded the Pinnacle Club – the first women's climbing club in Great Britain, set up to support women's climbing and allow women to share their experience.
Dorothy Pilley became a symbol of courage and a pioneer of women's mountaineering, inspiring generations of female climbers with her perseverance and determination to overcome not only mountains but social barriers too. She died in 1986, aged 92.
