La Muse de Trient

On the NNE face of Tête de Biselx, high above the Trient plateau, Fay Manners & Ella Wright establish a new mixed route

3^rd and 4^th April 2026

Girls on Hills guide Ella shares her experience of this first ascent of 'La Muse du Trient' in the Mont Blanc massif:

Am I really ready for this?

I hadn’t trained enough this season. Would I even be in the right headspace? Fay had years of alpine experience, this was only my second winter in the Alps.

Can I actually do this?

The questions looped endlessly, each one feeding the next, until doubt became background noise.

“Damn…I’m tired.”

Maybe I should just sleep. Think about it tomorrow.

Repeat.

These thoughts circled me for days leading up to the climb, returning at all hours, louder in the quiet.

Fay and I come from similar backgrounds. Neither of us was born into mixed climbing. We came to it as adults, first through rock climbing and then skiing. Skiing, though, is still very new to me, and let’s just say it hasn’t quite come naturally.

We grew up in different countries, but sport was a constant in both our lives. Hockey especially. The mountains pulled us in for different reasons, yet we both developed a deep respect for them, one that feels distinctly different from those who were lucky enough to grow up in a mountain lifestyle.

I’ve often thought that learning these sports as adults means fear and danger are never abstract instead, they stay close, always fully formed, always understood.

April 2nd

Fay, Jan Virt (a professional outdoor photographer) and I began the five-hour skin into the Trient Hut. Both Jan and I had minimal ski experience, and although Fay had also learned later in life, she had since become one of the leading British female skiers, opening new steep lines across the Alps and beyond. Jan and I, however, were still second-guessing our kick turns on the sharper corners. Despite that, there was a bubbling excitement between the three of us. I felt it strongly, though at times it was edged with a wave of nausea, a mix of anxiety and altitude.

The plan for the day was simple: reach the hut and get eyes on the wall. Jan had brought a drone, which we knew would be a major asset in helping us identify a viable line.

The NNE face held very little visible history. Only a few signs of past passage remained. Old tat slung around flakes near the Copt Couloir, most of it evidence of retreats rather than successful lines. In 1972, Jean Troillet climbed a route here in very different conditions, when the glacier sat higher and the couloir still held deep summer snow. Since then, very little had been added in a true mixed style. In 2017, Simon Chatelan opened two mixed routes on the N Face, both using only traditional protection  (protection that could be taken out by the second climber, nothing drilled and left).

Two weeks before we set off on our climb, Fay sent me a message asking if I fancied opening a new line she had scouted years earlier while skiing the Copt Couloir. In keeping with the style of the previous routes and our British ethics, we would aim to climb a new route and leave nothing on the wall.

On our approach to the hut, we were treated to spectacular views of the wall. But as soon as we arrived, just as we were getting ready to launch the drone, the cloud rolled in, and that was the last we saw of it for the day. Typical. For the rest of the evening, we talked through our approach and strategies, packing and repacking gear, and pacing in small, anxious circles. At one point, I unpacked my bag entirely, only to repack it again for no real reason. Fay, on the other hand, was calm. Completely at ease. You could see this was her element, and it was deeply inspiring and encouraging. There aren’t many women in the outdoor world who are so well-rounded at a professional level, especially those who are equally committed to supporting and nurturing the next generation. Fay’s mental strength and physical ability inspire me hugely, and I hope my future includes many more trips alongside her.

Sleep never really came that night. I drifted in and out of it, tangled in thoughts, watching the minutes crawl past on my phone. The unknowns playing over and over. I just wanted to start. I knew that once I had my axes in my hands, something would settle.

However, as I tossed and turned the self doubt became louder in the quiet again…

Repeat.

6am - finally.

We moved out into the cold, skinning toward the face under a brilliant full moon. Our packs dug into our shoulders, loaded with everything we might need, and plenty we probably didn’t.

At the hut the night before, we had met two young guys who were intrigued by what two women with heavy packs were heading out to do. My anxious pacing probably drew a bit of attention too. They were heading for the Copt Couloir and offered to carry our 70-metre static line. The small gesture lifted our spirits more than I think they realised; a simple act of kindness went a long way, especially given my limited ability on skis. The team felt lighter for it, and we thank you for your help.

The wall grew quickly as we approached, less a feature now, more a presence. What had seemed distant and readable the day before began to shift…and then it was obvious. The line we’d imagined, traced so neatly from afar, simply didn’t exist.

That became the quiet truth of the trip. Not once did we touch the line we had planned. Up close, the face told a different story entirely, options closing and opening all at once. The mountain had no interest in our intended plans.

We vaguely found a start, and a few icy runnels took us higher up the face. But a looming headwall above us left us both feeling fairly anxious.

We worked our way up the first three pitches, using Jan and the drone to gain eyes on what lay above. The footage didn’t always give us a clear sense of the steepest sections, but it did help us pick out small islands of terrain where we could stop, regroup, and study the ever-approaching headwall.

Three pitches in, we called it for the day. Using the 70-metre static line, we set an abseil into the couloir, planning to use the same line the following day to jumar back up and continue on the face.

It had been a good day, plenty of progress, but I was tired. The altitude always affects me, the lack of sleep and lack of an appetite was starting to take its toll…

Over dinner, we planned the next day, and looked at more images of the headwall. But in all honesty, I couldn’t be bothered to look any more, I was exhausted, and felt the following day would be what it would be.

As I tried to sleep thoughts started to whirl around in my head, the self doubt beginning to creep in again. I felt like I shouldn’t be there, maybe I was in to deep… I should probably go to sleep…

Repeat.

4:30am alarm.

The night before, we decided we were going for the summit, no matter how long it would take. We would drop the static line and leave some gear at the base of the couloir, to be collected on the descent. It felt far more natural climbing lighter and moving faster, without the weight of ropes and equipment from the day before.

The climbing that followed was incredible, beautiful granite cracks and good protection. It was an amazing feeling, like what I imagine an artist feels in front of a blank canvas. You just read the wall, decide where the next line will go, how to climb it, how to move upwards.

Fay and I spent hours laughing together. Laughter has a way of settling nerves instantly, of making everything feel a little less serious. In the end, we were making our own small mark in history, in beautiful sunshine, and beginning to build a friendship through climbing.

I watched Fay climb a 30-metre pitch of M7+ continuous terrain. It was mesmerising, seeing her constantly questing, solving sequences mid-movement, and adapting as the route unfolded beneath her.

I then led us onto the ridge, and I remember arriving there, looking down at Fay and smiling, shouting, “I don’t think we’ll be getting down in the dark today!”

The route was an incredible adventure. In reflection, everything, the route, the partner, the mountain, felt perfectly aligned with my own progression as a climber. I was drawing on different pools of knowledge, built over my career, and realised there was, in fact, far less to be anxious about than I had thought.

As much as I wish the self doubt would just vanish, I can already hear its back, right now, as I write about this trip - I can already feel the anxiety building, questioning whether I just ‘got away with it’ or could I even do another?

Repeat.

Oh… and in case you were wondering about the ski down? Let’s just say I made it down in one piece.

By Ella Wright (all photos credit Jan Virt)