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Title: The making of a mountaineer
Author: Finch, George Ingle
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The making of a mountaineer" ***
MOUNTAINEER ***
THE MAKING OF A MOUNTAINEER
[Illustration: _Climbing the Matterhorn by the Zmutt ridge._
“We had to cut steps across a wide ice slope” (_page 187_).
_Frontispiece_
]
THE MAKING
OF
A MOUNTAINEER
BY
GEORGE INGLE FINCH
WITH SEVENTY-EIGHT PHOTOGRAPHS, ONE DRAWING AND TWO DIAGRAMS
[Illustration]
ARROWSMITH :: LONDON :: W.C.1
_First published in May, 1924_
Printed in Great Britain by
J. W. ARROWSMITH LTD.
11 Quay St. & 12 Small St., Bristol
To
MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE 11
I EARLY DAYS 13
II CLIMBING IN CORSICA 20
III THE WETTERHORN 40
IV THE JUNGFRAU 52
V THE JUNGFRAU AND THE JUNGFRAUJOCH 68
VI ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND 82
VII ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND (_continued_) 95
VIII A WINTER’S NIGHT ON THE TÖDI 107
IX THE BIFERTENSTOCK 122
X MONTE ROSA 140
XI THE TWINS 153
XII THE MATTERHORN--A BEGINNER’S IMPRESSIONS 164
XIII THE MATTERHORN 182
XIV THE DENT D’HÉRENS 193
XV MONT BLANC 213
XVI MONT BLANC FROM THE SOUTH 227
XVII TWO CHAMONIX AIGUILLES 248
XVIII THE AIGUILLE DU DRU 269
XIX TOWARDS MOUNT EVEREST 283
XX MOUNT EVEREST 296
XXI MOUNTAINEERING PHOTOGRAPHY 335
ILLUSTRATIONS
Climbing the Matterhorn by the Zmutt ridge _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Rock-climbing 14
Crossing a steep snow slope 14
Scrambling in the range of the Tödi 18
Climbing the Capo al Dente 24
The southern summit of Capo Tafonato 28
The Cinque Fratri from below the Col de Foggiale 32
Paglia Orba from the Cinque Fratri 36
Morning mists 44
Climbing down a steep ridge 48
The short cut--roping down 48
The north face of the Jungfrau 52
The icefall of the Guggi Glacier 56
“We basked on the roof of the Guggi hut” 62
Cutting steps over the upper lip of a bergschrund 76
Evening storm 80
Morning calm 80
The Eismeer icefall 86
Sounding a snowbridge 86
Cornices on the Punta Margherita 98
A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge 98
The Tödi 108
The Tödi from the Bifertenlücke 116
The summit of the Tödi 116
The Bifertenstock from the Bündner Tödi 128
“... a faithful record of Forster’s blood-bespattered
condition” 136
The east face of Monte Rosa 142
The Frisallücke 148
The Grenz Gipfel 150
The Val Sesia from Monte Rosa 150
A crevasse on the Zwillings Glacier 154
Castor 154
The Swiss ridge of the Matterhorn from the Matterhorn
hut 166
The Swiss summit of the Matterhorn from the Italian
summit 170
The summit of Mont Blanc in 1911 170
Descending the Italian ridge 174
The Matterhorn from the Dent d’Hérens 178
The Matterhorn from the Stockje 184
The Matterhorn at sunset 184
“... that tremendous overhang called the ‘Nose of
Zmutt’” 186
An ice avalanche 196
The north face of the Dent d’Hérens, showing route
followed 210
Back at the Schönbühl hut after the climb 210
Mont Blanc from the Dôme hut 218
Descending Mont Maudit 224
The Peuteret ridge from the Col du Géant 224
Mont Blanc from the Val Veni 228
The Innominata from the Col du Fresnay 236
The Aiguilles Blanche and Noire de Peuteret 244
“A traverse of about thirty yards across the steep western
flank of the Peuteret ridge....” 244
Chamonix Aiguilles and Mont Blanc 250
Descending the Grépon 250
A stiff chimney 250
A sérac 254
“Two ladders tied together and laid across the chasm” 254
The summit of the Grépon 258
Good, sound rock 264
The bergschrund below the Dru 270
Where next? 272
“La Pendule” 274
“... A rather steep ice slope--the Mur de la Côte” 274
On the summit of the little Dru 278
On the first day out from Phari Dzong 290
Shekar Dzong 290
Mount Everest and the Base Camp 294
Camp II. 294
“A suitable slope was soon found” 302
Amid the séracs of the East Rongbuk Glacier 304
Crossing a trough on the East Rongbuk Glacier 304
Mount Everest from Camp III. 306
The North Peak and the North Col Camp 314
The North Peak from an altitude of nearly 24,500 feet on
Mount Everest 316
Mount Everest from the North Col, showing route 330
Monsoon clouds 330
On the return journey to the Base Camp 332
In a mountain hut 336
The Aiguille du Géant 338
The Sella Pass 338
PREFACE
Man’s heritage is great. There are the mountains; he may climb them.
Mountaineering is a game second only to the greatest and best of all
man’s games--life.
The War all but dried up the steady stream of youthful and enthusiastic
devotees who kept alive and fresh the pursuit of mountain-craft. But
fresh blood is as essential to the healthy life of mountaineering as
it is to any other game, craft or pursuit, and, fortunately, there are
cheerful signs that the after-effects of the War are fast becoming
spent. Our youth is beginning to find the dancing floor, the tennis
court and the playing fields of Great Britain too narrow, too lacking
in scope, perhaps also a little bit too soft; and the craving grows for
wider fields and a sterner, freer pastime.
It is primarily for the members of the younger generation that
this book has been written, in the hopes that, by affording them a
glimpse of the adventurous joys to be found in the mountains, they
may be encouraged to take up and try for themselves the pursuit of
mountaineering.
Portions of Chapters II and XVIII have appeared in the _Climber’s Club
Journal_, Chapter VIII in the _British Ski Year Book_, and Chapters
XIV and XVI in the _Alpine Journal_. Where not otherwise stated, the
illustrations are from photographs by the Author.
In conclusion, I would like to thank Captain T. G. B. Forster for the
loan of four photographs; Mr. A. B. Bryn for one photograph; Mr. R.
H. K. Peto for the pen-and-ink sketch of the east face of Monte Rosa
and the drawing of an ice-axe; my brother for Chapter VIII; and last,
but not least, my wife for her contribution, Chapter XII, and for the
tireless pains she has taken in assisting me with the preparation and
correction of the manuscript and proofs.
I also wish to place on record my appreciation of what I owe to the
inspiration and example of the _Alpine Journal_ and of Mr. Geoffrey
Winthrop Young, and to the inspiring influence of Miss P. Broome.
10 GAINSBOROUGH MANSIONS,
LONDON, W.14,
_April, 1924_.
THE MAKING OF A MOUNTAINEER
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
Some twenty-two years ago, on a dewy spring morning in October, I
urged my panting pony towards a hill-top in the Australian bush, the
better to spy out the whereabouts of a mob of wallaby. The last few
feet of the ascent being too much for the pony, I dismounted and,
leaving him behind, scrambled up a short, rocky chimney to the summit.
The wallaby were nowhere to be seen; but my wondering eyes were held
spell-bound by such a vision as I had never even dreamed of. Miles and
miles away the white-washed roofs of the township of Orange gleamed
brightly in the clear morning sunshine; the main roads converging
upon the town showed sharp and distinct from out their setting in the
rolling bush. The picture was beautiful: precise and accurate as the
work of a draughtsman’s pen, but fuller of meaning than any map. I was
just thirteen years old, and for the first time in my life the true
significance of geography began to dawn upon me; and with the dawning
was born a resolution that was to colour and widen my whole life.
Before returning to my pony after this, my first mountain ascent, I had
made up my mind to see the world; to see it from above, from the tops
of mountains, whence I could get that wide and comprehensive view which
is denied to those who observe things from their own plane.
A year later my brother Maxwell and I, now proud possessors of Edward
Whymper’s _Scrambles in the Alps_, emulated our hero’s early exploits
by scaling Beachy Head by a particularly dangerous route, much to the
consternation of the lighthouse crew and subsequent disappointment of
the coastguards who arrived up aloft with ropes and rescue tackle just
in time to see us draw ourselves, muddy and begrimed, over the brink
of the cliff into safety. That climb taught us many things; amongst
them, that a cliff is often more difficult to climb than would appear
from below; that flints embedded in chalk are not reliable handholds,
but sometimes break away when one trusts one’s weight to them; that
there are people who delight in rolling stones down a cliff without
troubling to see whether anyone is underneath; and that if it be good
to look down upon the world, the vision is beautiful in proportion to
the difficulties overcome in gaining the eminence. A few weeks later,
an ascent of Notre-Dame by an unorthodox route might well have led to
trouble, had it not been for the fact that the two gendarmes and the
kindly priest who were the most interested spectators of these doings
did not lack a sense of humour and human understanding. Then we passed
through Basle into Switzerland, bitterly disappointed to find that
the railway did not wind through dark, tortuous valleys bordered by
glistening snow-capped mountains.
That winter we broke bounds. Shod in the lightest of shoes, with
clothing ill-suited to protect against wind, with walking sticks, and
a pocketful of sandwiches we took the train to Wesen. There we bought
a map and set off to climb the Speer, a mountain barely 6,000 feet
in height, but nevertheless a formidable enough proposition for such
an ill-equipped party in winter. All that day we struggled on, often
knee-deep in snow. At dusk, still far from our goal, we sought refuge
from the cold breezes of eventide. Letting ourselves in through the
chimney hole in the roof of a snowed-up Alp hut, we bivouacked
for the night. Shivering and sleepless we lay, watching the stars as
they twinkled derisively in frosty clearness through the hole in the
roof. After what seemed an eternity, morning came, and we plodded on
with stiff and weary limbs to the summit. There, bathed in the warm
sunshine, all hardships were forgotten, and we gazed longingly over to
the ranges of the Tödi and the Glärnisch--real snow and ice mountains
with great glaciers streaming down from their lofty crests. Thence the
eye travelled away to the rich plains, the gleaming lakes and dark,
forested hills of the lowlands, until details faded in the bluish
mist of distance. Switzerland, a whole country, was at our feet. This
escapade taught us further lessons: that mountaineering is a hungry
game; that boots should be waterproof, and soles thick and studded with
nails; that a thick warm coat can be an almost priceless possession.
[Illustration:
_Photo G. I. Finch._
_Rock-climbing._
_The rope is belayed over a projecting spike of rock._]
[Illustration:
_Photo T. G. B. Forster._
_Crossing a steep snow slope._
_Facing page 14._
]
Then came a glorious summer vacation of fishing and sailing round the
coast of Majorca, with hours of splendid clambering on the cliffs
of Miramar, followed by a week with our tutor on the Pilatus. Our
tutor was a sportsman, and we scrambled about together to our hearts’
content, more than once sailing as close to the wind as any of us have
ever done since. And yet again we had learned something: that the
stockinged foot finds a firmer hold on dry limestone than a nailed
boot; that wet limestone slabs are slippery and an abomination to be
avoided; that the thrusting muscles of one’s legs are more powerful and
more enduring than the pulling muscles of one’s arms; and that strong
fingers are of more use in climbing than a pair of well-developed
biceps.
More holidays came and went: summers passed on the shores of the
western Mediterranean, but Christmas vacations spent in Grindelwald,
and devoted to learning the art of ski-ing. In Grindelwald we had the
good fortune to win the liking of old Christian Jossi, in his day one
of the greatest guides and best step-cutters in the Alps. He took us
to the upper Grindelwald Glacier and on its mighty ice pinnacles, or
séracs, taught us the elements of step-cutting in ice and the use of
the rope. He showed us how to fashion a stairway in hard, blue ice, the
floor of each step sloping inwards so that it was easy for one to stand
securely. He showed us the points by which to judge of the merits of a
good axe, how to hold and use it, and how, imitating him, to cut good
safe steps with a minimum number of blows and expenditure of labour.
He showed us how easy it is to check a slip and hold up a man on the
rope provided it be kept always taut from man to man; and he did not
hesitate to rub in, by demonstrations accompanied by much forceful
language, what a fearful snare the rope could be if it were improperly
used and permitted to be trailed loose and in coils between the various
members of a party. He also pointed out some of the many varieties of
snow: some good, in which on even the steepest slopes a kick or two
sufficed to make a reliable step; others which could not be trusted
on any but the gentlest of slopes and needing only a touch to start
slithering down with an insidious hissing sound to form an avalanche
which would sweep everything with it in its path of destruction. Last
but not least, Christian Jossi instilled into us some of his own fervid
love of the mountains and of mountain adventure.
The summer holidays of 1906 drew nigh. Our longing for mountain
adventure was no longer to be denied, and elders and betters had
perforce to give way. But they enforced two provisos--we were to be
accompanied by guides, and climbing was to be restricted to the lesser
Alps of Northern Switzerland. We climbed a few lesser summits, all
about 10,000 feet high; on none was there climbing where hands as well
as feet were required, and not once did we see the axe used to cut a
step. Efforts to wheedle our stalwart guardians into attacking the bold
pyramid of the Segnes Tschingelhorn, always provocatively before our
eyes, failed miserably; they had their instructions. But they could not
always keep us in sight, and more than once, stealing forth alone, we
found good climbing, adventure and untrammelled fun; and the desire to
climb without guides was born in us.
That winter the lesser peaks and passes of Grindelwald were visited
on skis. A stern effort to gain the Strahlegg Pass was frustrated by
a snowstorm in the teeth of which for nineteen hours on end we fought
our way back to Grindelwald, having learnt that, with map and compass
and given your bearings, bad weather in the mountains can be faced and
even enjoyed if you only keep on moving and do not get flurried. We
also knew now that boots should be large enough to enable two pairs of
woollen socks to be worn without pinching the foot, and that toe-caps
should be high and roomy so as not to interfere with the circulation.
A sweater worn underneath a wind-proof jacket of sailcloth was found
to be both lighter and much warmer than heavy tweeds through which the
wind could blow and to which the snow would stick.
From 1907 onwards until 1911, Max and I both studied in Zürich and
were thus thrown into close and continual contact with the mountains,
from which we were separated only by some three or four hours by rail.
Barely a week-end went by without our taking train to the mountains and
climbing. During the Easter holidays of 1907 we betook ourselves on
skis up to the Clariden hut, one of the many little shelters built by
the Swiss Alpine Club in the heart of the mountains. These huts are
furnished with straw-filled sleeping bunks, blankets, a small cooking
stove, a supply of wood, and cooking and eating utensils. We had with
us provisions for a week, during the whole of which period the weather
was fine and snow conditions at their best. We climbed almost all the
surrounding summits, the return to the hut each evening taking the form
of an effortless run on skis over the Clariden Glacier.
During the summer vacation of the same year Max and I successfully
obtained _carte blanche_ to climb without guides, and for nearly three
months we roamed in and about the range of the Tödi. We climbed most
of the summits in the range, including the Tödi itself, which with its
11,800 feet of altitude was much the highest mountain so far grappled
with. We always endeavoured to exercise every possible attention to the
following out of the lessons hitherto learnt, losing no opportunity of
acquiring fresh knowledge regarding matters of equipment, the handling
of rope and axe, and the mountains themselves. In particular we aimed
at cultivating a sense of route-finding and teaching ourselves how to
use the map. The winter of that year saw us embarking upon expeditions
of a more ambitious nature than those previously attempted. Up to
the Easter of 1908 our most successful winter feat was an ascent of
the Sustenhorn on skis; but during that vacation we accomplished the
ascent of the Tödi, a winter expedition that even to-day is reckoned
by no means a simple undertaking. As the summer holidays approached,
a still more ambitious programme was drawn up. Our self-assurance,
confidence--call it what you like--seems to have been boundless, for
we now considered that our apprenticeship had been sufficiently long
to justify us in letting ambitions soar into reality. The programme,
although not carried out in its entirety, nevertheless proved a
great success. Beginning with the Bernese Oberland, we climbed the
Wetterhorn, were driven back by storm just below the summit of the
Eiger, but followed up the reverse by climbing the Mönch, Jungfrau
and Finsteraarhorn. Thence making our way down the Aletsch Glacier to
the Rhône Valley, we went up to Zermatt. From there we climbed the
Matterhorn and the Dent Blanche, then crossed over the Col d’Hérens
to Arolla, where for the first time we experienced to the full the
pleasures of traversing a mountain, that is, ascending by one route
and descending by another. Amongst others, were traversed the Aiguille
de la Za, the Aiguilles Rouges d’Arolla and the Pigne d’Arolla. The
ascent of the last-named was made by cutting steps up the steep north
face, and it was this climb more than any other that won me over to the
delights of ice-climbing. Returning to Zermatt by various high-level
passes, we journeyed northwards and wound up the season in the Tödi
district, where all the major summits were traversed.
[Illustration:
_Photo T. G. B. Forster._
_Scrambling in the range of the Tödi._
_Facing page 18._
]
Thus from its chance nucleus on the hill-top in the Australian bush,
snowball-wise the zest for the mountains grew until it has actually
become an integral part of life itself. The health and happiness that
the passion has brought with it are as incalculable as the ways of
the “divinity that shapes our ends,” chooses our parents for us, and
places us in a certain environment. The love that Max and I have for
the mountains I cannot but attribute to the fact that we were possessed
of a father who taught us from our earliest years to love the open
spaces of the earth, encouraged us to seek adventure and provided the
wherewithal for us to enjoy the quest and, above all, looked to us to
fight our own battles and rely on our own resources.
CHAPTER II
CLIMBING IN CORSICA
Comfortably seated in the depths of Bryn’s favourite and most
somniferous chair, I browsed idly and half unthinkingly through the
pages of a guide book that had found its way, as such things will,
to my host’s address. Cynically amused as far as my sleepy condition
would permit by the flights of verbal fancy to which compilers of
guide books seem addicted, subconsciously certain plain, unbefrilled
facts impressed themselves upon my mind and, eventually marshalling
themselves, roused me out of my lethargy to a state bordering on
excitement.
“I’ve found it!” I shouted.
Max and Bryn awoke, startled.
“What, you fool?” they growled encouragingly.
“Listen! It is easy of access, thinly populated, few tourists visit
the interior, and it has mountains rising to 9,000 feet above
sea-level; the very thing we are looking for.” Wide awake now, they
were interested enough to ask where this Utopia was. Astonished at such
crass ignorance, I answered, “Corsica, of course, fatheads!”
It really was the very thing we had been looking for. The Christmas
vacation of 1908 was just over. A few months ago Max and I had made the
acquaintance of Alf Bonnvie Bryn, a Norwegian who, like ourselves, was
studying in Zürich. Bound together by the common bond of enthusiasm
for the mountains, the acquaintance rapidly ripened into friendship,
and many were the pleasant evenings spent in each other’s rooms. The
topic of conversation was always the same--mountaineering. Gradually
our thoughts turned from other mountain groups more and more towards
the Himalayas, and we decided some day to combine forces and carry
out an expedition to this greatest of the world’s mountain ranges. As
far as actual climbing was concerned, we considered that the Alps, as
a training ground for Himalayan exploration, could not be bettered.
But in one thing which would do much to make or mar the success of an
exploring venture in these distant ranges, we could look to the Alps
for little assistance. That was organisation, particularly with respect
to food and equipment. In the Alps, a mistake or omission of detail in
either of these things can be remedied by a descent into the valley,
involving a loss of not more than a day or so of climbing time. But for
the Himalayas we judged that it would be essential to have everything
that one would want with one. Mistakes or omissions would not be easily
rectified after one had left one’s base, usually the last outpost of
civilization and, even as such, devoid of many of the necessities for
mountaineering. From the base onwards one would have to rely entirely
upon one’s own resources. These considerations drove us to a decision
to spend the Easter vacation in some remote part of Europe; Switzerland
would be our advanced base, and the chosen field of our activities a
wilder territory to which we would not look for supplies of either food
or equipment. Where was such a territory to be found? The more remote
mountains of Norway were ruled out on account of the earliness of the
season. Considerations of distance, and therefore of time and expense,
militated against our going to the Sierra Nevada or the Balkans. Our
mental state was one of puzzled despair until by chance the little
guide book of Corsica insinuated itself into my attention.
Early in March, 1909, we set to work to put our equipment in order,
making sleeping-bags and a tent and buying tinned foods. The latter
were selected with a view to nourishing value, variety, compactness
and minimum of weight. By the middle of the month our preparations
were almost complete. A few days afterwards, Bryn and I set off for
Corsica, leaving Max, whose studies kept him in Zürich for the time
being, to join us at a later date. We travelled by rail through the St.
Gotthard _via_ Milan and Genoa to Leghorn, embarking there for Bastia.
The five-hour crossing on a crazy little cargo boat was rough and
uncomfortable, and we both dwelt at some length and with much feeling
upon the foolishness of setting out on our little expedition instead
of spending the holidays in comparative luxury in Switzerland. But
when, at sunset, loomed up the snow-capped summits of the bold mountain
chain that forms the backbone of the long promontory of Cap Corse, our
optimism returned. The first difficulties on landing were those created
by Customs officials. On explaining quite frankly the object of our
visit, however, they informed us ecstatically that Corsica was the most
beautiful country in the world and that we would be sure to enjoy our
stay there--and passed our stores free of duty! Such patriotism created
a first good impression of the inhabitants, which we saw no reason
later to alter. The Corsicans received us with nothing but the utmost
kindness throughout our stay on the island.
The following day was spent in purchasing maps and drawing up plans.
According to the maps, Calacuccia appeared to be the Zermatt of
Corsica, so to Calacuccia we forwarded most of our stores. Leaving
the greater part of the remainder in the simple little auberge, the
Hôtel des Voyageurs, which was our headquarters in Bastia, we set out
to walk and climb over the whole length of the range of mountains in
the promontory of Cap Corse. Though none of these peaks exceed 4,300
feet in height, nevertheless, owing to the close proximity of the sea,
they appear high. But their chief appeal to us was that they afforded
magnificent views into the mountains of the north-west interior of the
island, where we expected to find the best climbing. The main groups
centre round Monte Cinto which, rising to 8,900 feet above sea-level,
is the highest summit in Corsica. Standing well away to the north of
the main mass was one bold rock needle that attracted our attention.
With the aid of compass and map, we identified this point as being the
Capo al Dente, a peak some 7,000 feet in altitude, and decided to lay
siege to it before going to Calacuccia, especially as we had every
reason to believe that it had not been climbed. Back again in Bastia,
we packed up our remaining stores, sufficient for ten days, and took
train to Palasca, a station on the line between Bastia and Calvi. In
Palasca we were fortunate in securing the services of a mule and his
driver. I say “fortunate,” for our knapsacks, containing sleeping-bags,
spare clothing, ropes, cooking apparatus, cameras and food, weighed
over 80 lbs. each. The mule proved more willing than his master. Our
way to the Val Tartagine, at the head of which the Capo al Dente lies,
led over a number of passes the crossing of which involved a good deal
of uphill and downdale walking. The mule-driver’s strength never seemed
equal to any of the rises, as he would persist in sitting on the mule.
The upshot was that ere half our thirty-mile journey was accomplished
the poor little animal struck work and refused to go an inch farther.
There was nothing to do but dismiss both driver and mule and shoulder
our burdens ourselves. We struggled on all day, steering for the most
part by map. It was a painful business. The knapsacks were inordinately
heavy, and their narrow straps bit cruelly into our shoulder muscles.
At sunset, completely exhausted and feeling incapable of moving another
step, we unpacked the sleeping-bags by the banks of a spring and, after
cooking a meal, slept such a sleep as falls to the lot of few.
On the following day we crossed the last pass and dropped down into
the Tartagine Valley. At the entrance to the valley stood a forester’s
cottage. The forester and his wife refused to allow us to pass without
first partaking of their hospitality. Like all Corsicans, they spoke a
good French as well as the peculiar dialect of their country, a mixture
of French and Italian. Here, as elsewhere in the island, we met with
nothing but courtesy and kindness. In response to anxious inquiries,
our host assured us that the Capo al Dente had never been climbed. From
his house we could see it, a wonderful rock pinnacle bearing a certain
resemblance to the Aiguille du Dru and standing up boldly at the very
head of the valley. In the afternoon we took our leave and followed a
diminutive track leading along the right bank of the Tartagine River.
At an altitude of about 4,000 feet above sea-level, above the snow-line
which at this season of the year extends to below 3,000 feet, we
found a suitable camping site, a huge rock platform on the face of
a cliff. It was sheltered from the wind on three sides and, being
partially overhung, might also be expected to be protected in the
event of snow or rain falling. For nine nights we camped on this spot.
The cold during the long hours of darkness was bitter and ruthlessly
demonstrated the flaws in the design of our sleeping-bags. Day after
day we made our way up to the head of the valley and searched in vain
for a route up the black cliffs of the Capo al Dente. On the ninth day
we at last espied a diminutive crack threading the first hundred feet
of the precipitous lower ramparts of the mountain. We had discovered
the solution to the problem. Within an hour of effecting a lodgment on
the rock we had gained the summit and felt truly recompensed for those
long, cold nights of shivering endured in camp. The climbing had been
steep but by no means excessively difficult.
[Illustration:
_Photo A. B. Bryn._
_Climbing the Capo al Dente._
“... we espied a diminutive crack ... the solution to the problem.”
_Facing page 24._
]
There is a peculiar charm about the view from the summits of these
Corsican mountains. They have the lure of sea cliffs. From most of them
you look down upon the ocean. From the Capo al Dente we could see the
tiny little harbour of Calvi and, fascinated, follow the movements of
a Lilliputian steamer that was leaving on its voyage over the smooth,
broad, blue expanse of the Mediterranean. To the south the great range
of the Cinto reared its snow-clad, precipitous peaks, and, looking, we
felt satisfied that, in coming to Corsica in quest of mountaineering
adventure, we had made no false step. Flanking the Val Tartagine were
other mountains of interest, such as Monte Corona and Monte Padro; but
our provisions were almost at an end. In any case, time was up, for we
had arranged to meet Max in Calacuccia on April 5.
It took us two days to regain the railway at Ponte Leggia, and for
those two days our sole provisions consisted of rather less than a
pound of porridge and a little tea and sugar; a fault in organisation
to which we frankly confessed at the little station restaurant at Ponte
Leggia by purchasing several square meals rolled into one. On April 4
we arrived at Calacuccia. Max joined us on the 5th, and the following
days were spent in exploring the Cinto group to the north-west of
Calacuccia and in selecting a suitable site for a camp. Eventually our
choice fell upon the Viro Valley which, in an island rich in the beauty
of rugged mountain scenery and wild vegetation, is one of the grandest
and most charming.
On April 10 we left the little Hôtel des Voyageurs, where we had
received much kindness at the hands of the proprietress, Madame Veuve
Lupi. A mule and his driver were entrusted with kit and provisions--a
heavy load. The mule was lazy and needed much and continual urging.
The Corsicans seldom strike their animals. If a grumbling “Huh!
Huh!” has not the desired effect, the driver spits on the mule’s
hindquarters--and a trot is almost invariably the result. As a rule,
a whip is worse than useless; it only produces a wild fit of panicky
bucking. The day was hot and sultry. The mule-driver had soon emptied
his wine-flask and, as he disdained to allay his thirst with the
crystal-clear water of the many mountain streams we passed, his supply
of saliva eventually failed. The pace of the mule fell off accordingly.
At Albertacce, a hamlet near the entrance of the Viro Valley, we halted
to pay our respects to the priest, who was also head man of the place,
and make arrangements about our mail. Before we had taken our leave,
the rumour had spread that we were skilled physicians, and we had to
resign ourselves to treating nearly half the inhabitants for all manner
of ills, imaginary and real. Sodium bicarbonate, bismuth subnitrate,
calomel or quinine were administered in homœopathic doses. A week
later, homeward-bound, we returned through Albertacce and had thrust
upon us the homage and thanks of the entire population. The prescribed
treatment had, in every single case, effected a complete cure--another
example of how a reputation may be made.
Half an hour below the selected camping site, patches of snow were met
with. The first extensive snow patch proved too much for both mule
and driver. The Corsicans have a real terror of walking in snow; they
fear that at any moment they may sink in and be suffocated. So we had
to dismiss our burden bearers and make shift to carry our loads into
camp ourselves. In the heart of the forest, on a little snow-free plot
of ground hard by the left bank of the river, we pitched the tent. To
the south-west rose the great precipices of Paglia Orba, the grandest
summit in the great chain of mountains which in the form of a gigantic
horseshoe shuts in the valley of the River Viro.
On the following day at 8 a.m. we left camp, crossed the foaming
waters of the torrent--not without getting more or less drenched in
the process--and spent the next two hours in steadily plodding up the
snow slopes to the Col de Foggiale,[1] a depression on the ridge south
of Paglia Orba. The work at first was distinctly hard, for the surface
crust of frozen snow was not always sufficiently strong to bear one’s
weight. As the lower mountain slopes in Corsica are usually covered
with a dense undergrowth or _maquis_, breaking the snow crust meant
plunging right through into a thick tangle of vegetation, extrication
from which was possible often only after a struggle. Higher up,
fortunately, the snow became firmer and we seldom broke through. The
approach to the col was defended by a huge overhanging cornice of
snow through which we had to tunnel a way with the axe. The charm of
the view from the col lay in the contrast between the whiteness of
snow-covered mountain and the deep blue of sea. Capo Tafonato (7,700
feet), however, a mountain whose praises we had often read, presented
a disappointing appearance. Judging from the map, we had expected to
see it standing boldly up in front of us on the far side of a fairly
wide valley. It stood, however, a low rock ridge possessing no daring
outlines and partially hidden behind Paglia Orba. Nevertheless, two
features commanded our respect; no snow was lying on the peak, a sign
that the wall opposite us was very steep; and we could see right
through a tremendous hole or natural tunnel which pierced the mountain
from one side to the other, indicating that the unseen side was also
steep and that the summit ridge must be proportionately narrow. After
a short rest, we traversed over frozen snow slopes round the base of
Paglia Orba to the gap between it and Capo Tafonato. Here we had a
short discussion as to the route to be followed, finally deciding to
take the right hand or north ridge straight up from the gap and to
traverse the whole mountain from north to south. We roped and were soon
at work climbing the very steep and firm rocks. Following a spiral
staircase of easy chimneys and ledges round the northern, the higher
of the two summits, we reached the top after an hour’s brisk climbing.
After a brief halt to gaze down over the tremendous precipices of the
west face towards the sea, we re-arranged the rope and set off to make
an attack on the gap of formidable appearance that separated us from
the southern summit. This looked just like a much magnified blunt
needle point. To our surprise we were able to descend into the gap
without encountering any serious difficulty, and followed the extremely
narrow, but on the whole easy, ridge to the southern summit which was
crowned by a diminutive cairn. Now followed a descent into another
gap over very rotten rocks and an imposing, but easy, _gendarme_.[2]
All the while we could not help admiring the steepness and depth of
the walls on the western side of the mountain. Soon after passing the
_gendarme_, we came to a great overhanging buttress in the ridge,
at the top of which a hanging coil of rope indicated that the last
climbers to descend here had made use of the doubled rope. The coil
was thin and bleached with exposure, so we cut it off and stowed it in
our rucksacks as a trophy, to be returned, if possible, to its late
owners. We fixed a new coil, passed our rope through it and slid down
some fifty feet on to an uncomfortably sloping ledge. Here we found
driven into a crack in the rock a large, rusty iron nail to which some
coils of strong, silken cord were attached. Threading the rope through
these, we again slid down about sixty feet to a broad snow ledge on the
east face. After hauling down the rope, we followed the continuation of
this ledge in a northerly direction and gained the floor of the immense
tunnel that pierces Cape Tafonato from east to west. A series of ledges
and chimneys brought us safely back to the gap where the climb had
begun, the whole traverse having taken nearly five hours.
[Illustration: _The southern summit of Capo Tafonato._
“... like a much magnified blunt needle point.”
_Facing page 28._
]
After a hasty but enjoyable meal of chocolate, sardines, and tea, we
set off on the return journey. The descent to the Col de Foggiale round
the foot of Paglia Orba was most enjoyable in the evening sun, whose
golden reflection shimmered in the distant gulfs of the coast. We
passed the cornice on the col without jumping and managed, in spite of
the soft snow, to glissade almost half-way down to the tent. We arrived
back in camp about half an hour after sunset. The night was fine,
though cold, but we slept well, for we had earned our sleep with a good
hard day’s work.
April 12 was spent in recuperating from the effects of the previous
day’s labours. In fact, during our whole stay in Corsica we were
generally forced to sandwich our climbs with a generous number of
off-days. Our food, consisting mainly of preserves brought out from
Switzerland, certainly disagreed with one and all of us; by which it is
not to be inferred that the quality of the food was at fault. It was
the nature of the food that was wrong. Our dietary was totally lacking
in fresh vegetables and, indeed, fresh food stuffs of any kind; an
omission which probably explains our general state of unfitness.
During the night of April 12 to 13 a west wind set in and towards
morning became so violent that the tent several times threatened to
leave its moorings. The weather, however, was otherwise fine, so we
decided to make an attempt at traversing the five peaks of the Cinque
Fratri, the highest of which is about 6,500 feet. After numerous
efforts to shake off a certain lethargy which gripped us all, we at
length stumbled off in three detachments, at intervals of ten minutes.
The aim of each detachment was to meet the other two in the gap to the
south of the fifth and lowest Frater. This we eventually succeeded in
doing, though each took a different route up. We roped in the col,
Max being given the lead, an honour which he repaid by dropping a pot
of honey and a loaf of bread on Bryn’s head and mine in the course
of the ascent. The tie-strings of his knapsack had been too weak.
From the gap we traversed round on to the east face of the peak and
climbed directly upwards through the great chimney which runs down it
from the summit. The climax of the ascent was provided by a somewhat
narrow pitch in this chimney, where you encounter a bush of prickles,
roll in them on your back, kick with one leg against each wall of the
cleft and then swing out on to the exposed and very steep ridge on
the right. This brings one to an easy slope of loose stones leading
to the summit. Bryn and I, of course, went to sleep, leaving Maxwell
to confide a slip of paper containing our names to the care of the
newly-built cairn--a reprehensible form of vice to which in those days
we were much addicted. Presently he stirred us up, driving fresh life
and energy into us with the business end of his Anthanmatten ice-axe,
and we obediently scrambled down to the gap between Fratri Nos. 5 and
4. Maxwell was again delegated to pull the two sleep-walkers up Frater
No. 4. He chose the easier, direct way and energetically pulled us up
a few steep cracks, slabs and chimneys, in the hope of rousing us. A
vain hope, for, arrived on the summit, we immediately sought out a
spot that was sheltered from the wind and were soon deep in slumber
once more. All too quickly came another rude awakening at Max’s hands,
and we again moved off. A few feet below the summit we were baulked at
the edge of an overhanging wall. With some difficulty we contrived to
fasten a coil of thin rope round a large block. Maxwell descended first
and succeeded in climbing nearly all the way, though most of his verbal
messages and directions were borne off by the wind, with the result
that the rope was always slack when he wanted it taut and nearly always
pulling him up again while he was climbing an easy bit. Then came my
turn. I found the descent distinctly easy and pleasant, for, still half
asleep, I allowed myself to hang free all the way, leaving the work of
lowering me down to Bryn who found me rather heavy. After sending down
his axe and rucksack, Bryn soon joined us, and we romped up the easy
Frater No. 3. Passing another gap, Frater No. 2 speedily succumbed to
our united attack.
The next gully, that between Fratri Nos. 2 and 1, and running down the
south wall of the mountain, is most remarkable. Very narrow and steep,
with deep, clean-cut walls, it should afford some first-rate climbing.
The descent from Frater No. 1, the highest of these peaks, to the gap
between it and Monte Albano provided another occasion for cutting off
a loop from the spare rope and roping down. The wall here is very
steep, and composed in the main of loose and treacherous rocks. I went
down first and photographed the others struggling to descend, almost
expecting to see them at any moment blown away with a piece of rock in
each hand, so buffeted about were they by the gale.
Traversing round the southern base of Monte Albano, we struck some
abominably slushy snow slopes through which we ploughed a way, finally
stumbling through _maquis_ and loose stones into the welcome haven
of our camp. After a grand five-course dinner, we settled ourselves
comfortably in the tent and talked over deeds and memories until,
wearied out, we quietly dozed off.
Wednesday, April 14, was destined to be another lazy day. It was
Maxwell’s turn to prepare breakfast, and in due course Bryn and I
kicked him out of the tent. Unfortunately we neglected to hang on to
his sleeping-bag, with the result that when we two began sleepily
foraging for something to allay the pangs of hunger, we found our cook
snugly asleep. With eating and sleeping, with roasting in the sun and
cooling in the shade of the forest and in the icy waters of the Viro,
time passed away pleasantly enough, but all too quickly. After such a
glorious rest, we were ready and anxious to grapple with the hardest
problem the mountains of Corsica could offer us. Owing to the ease
with which we had been able to scramble over Capo Tafonato and the
Cinque Fratri, we were beginning to despair of finding a really
difficult climb and had reached a stage where we were ready to tackle
any projected route, no matter how difficult it appeared from afar. In
short, we were in need of proof that one could meet with a really tough
job amongst the cliffs of Corsica’s mountains.
[Illustration:
_Camp._
_The Cinque Fratri from below the Col de Foggiale._
_The Cinque Fratri, I. to V., are the rock peaks to the right of Monte
Albano, the highest summit seen._
_Facing page 32._
]
More than a week ago, on the occasion of an ascent of Monte Albano,
Bryn and I had admired the boldly soaring outlines of Paglia Orba
(8,300 feet). In particular the clean-cut, awe-inspiring precipices
of the north-east face drew our attention. A prolonged inspection of
this huge wall revealed two apparently weak points. The one was formed
by a series of snow patches indicating ledges, probably connected by
small cracks or chimneys and ledges invisible to us from a distance.
The whole series formed a huge C in white on a background of black
rock. A snow field on the summit of Paglia Orba formed the head of the
C-ledge, while the lower end began about eight or nine hundred feet
lower down and about half-way up the upper, more or less perpendicular,
wall. Several larger snow patches indicated a possible connection
between the foot of the C and the gentler slopes below the great final
wall. The other weak point was indicated by a deep shadow, betraying
the presence of a chimney, joining the summit snows with a small snow
patch in the wall some thousand feet below the top. On the east face,
which offers no absolutely blank and perpendicular walls comparable
with those of the impressive north-east face, we could see plenty of
easy ways of gaining the summit. They threatened to be rather dull and
uninteresting; so, in the hopes of finding a day’s difficult work, we
determined to finish up our climbs in the range of the Cinto with an
attack on the north-east face of Paglia Orba.
After a sumptuous breakfast of porridge and coffee we left camp at
8.15 a.m. on April 15. We followed the stream for some ten minutes
then, crossing it near a dilapidated cow-shed, set to work to plod
up the snow slopes leading to the north-east wall. We took turns of
an hour each to break trail, for the snow was already soft. As far
as possible keeping to the rocks that here and there cropped out of
the snow, we rose fairly rapidly. By 10 a.m. we were on a level with
the lowest of the Cinque Fratri. Half an hour later we began climbing
hand and foot up broken rocks to the right of some steep snow slopes.
In order to save time, and being sure of ourselves, we did not use
the rope. To avoid an overhang just below the top of these rocks, we
were forced to cross under a small waterfall which thoroughly drenched
us. Thence mounting a very steep snow slope, we gained the narrow,
heavily corniced crest of a minor ridge which seemed to descend from
the beginning of the great C-ledge. The work ahead looked serious. We
roped, Bryn being invested with the responsibilities of leadership. The
fun began at once. Difficult chimneys, choked with masses of snow and
ice, alternated with small snow slopes lying at a dangerously steep
angle. Good belays were generally conspicuous by their absence. At 1
p.m., having risen some six hundred feet above where the rope had been
put on, we were pulled up short by a smooth wall which appeared to bar
all possible access to the foot of the C-ledge. We were on the upper
edge of a comparatively large snow slope of triangular shape which
had been clearly visible from our camp. We knew that the foot of the
C-ledge was some two hundred and fifty feet, the summit itself over a
thousand feet above us. The way up those two hundred and fifty feet
seemed all too well guarded. To right and left, the ledge supporting
our snow patch ran out into smooth, perpendicular walls. We were
standing on the upper rim of the ledge in a position which, owing to
the lack of any belay whatsoever, was by no means too secure. A chimney
led up presumably to the foot of the C-ledge. The first few feet
appeared to be extremely difficult, and the leader would undoubtedly
have needed the assistance of the other two if he were to tackle it
with any hope of success. Higher up, the chimney looked even worse and
was finally blocked by a huge, ice-covered, overhanging chock-stone.
Far above we could see the icicle-fringed summit of Paglia Orba, from
which water trickled down. Occasionally icicles broke away and fell
_past_ us, proving the wall above to be overhanging. Some two hundred
feet from our standpoint a part of the wall had broken away, leaving a
huge overhanging platform which would have made an excellent site for a
bivouac if only the mountain had been turned upside down.
Whilst munching some bread and chocolate we had ample time to review
our surroundings thoroughly. We made the best use of our opportunities,
the more so as we were beginning to think this was to be the highest
point of the day’s climb. We knew that the Austrian climber, Herr
Albert Gerngross, and his guide, Konrad Kain, had attempted the climb
during the previous year; also, Dr. von Cube, a well-known pioneer
of climbing in Corsica, had referred to the wall in terms of the
impossible. At present, after a lengthy inspection, we were scarcely
in the mood to disagree with him. Finally, admitting defeat, we turned
to descend. When almost a rope’s length down the now dangerously soft
snow slope, I remembered having omitted to photograph the ledge running
out to the right. I halted a moment and asked Bryn to use his camera
to save me the trouble of reascending. To obtain a better view, Bryn
carefully crawled out along the ledge in the opposite direction. This
chance move saved the day, for, some ten feet above his standing-point,
Bryn now caught sight of another ledge which would enable us to enter
the chimney above the most difficult pitch. On hearing this welcome
news I rejoined the others with all possible haste, and together
Maxwell and I shouldered Bryn up on to the newly-discovered ledge.
Once on this, Bryn made rapid progress. Maxwell followed, and, after
a struggle, I arrived to find that they were already attacking
the chimney immediately below the huge, ice-covered chock-stone.
The climbing had now become extremely difficult. Bryn rounded the
chock-stone by climbing out of the chimney over some precipitous slabs
to the right, finally gaining the upper level of the chock-stone. A
period of intense anxiety followed upon our rejoining Bryn. Should we
have to return or could we push through? A series of short snow-filled
chimneys and ledges led up and round several corners. Each time on
clearing one corner we could overlook only the ground as far as the
next. But whether we were getting nearer to the summit or to a forced
bivouac still remained to be seen. At last we gained the beginning of
the C-ledge. On following this, though not without difficulty because
of its incline, we saw that it was broken off at the foot of the huge
chimney previously considered as possibly affording an alternative
route to the summit. We now perceived, however, that the chimney was
formed by a clean-cut buttress jutting out at right angles from the
wall, and that it overhung considerably. Bryn crossed the chimney and,
by climbing a very difficult and exposed series of cracks in its left
wall overhanging an appallingly steep precipice, regained the C-ledge.
“How’s the view?” we called out from below in one breath. Once again
we only learn that the climb can be continued to the next corner. While
Maxwell was rejoining Bryn he had the misfortune to drop his axe. It
fell, providentially without once striking rock, into a tiny patch of
snow some eighty feet lower down the big chimney. Maxwell and Bryn
lowered me down until I could reach it, and then unmercifully hauled me
up to their perch without giving me the least opportunity of climbing.
Exercising the utmost care, we proceeded along a series of highly
sensational ledges leading in an almost unbroken line from corner to
corner. All the time belays were few and small. On rounding what proved
to be the last corner, we saw before us a broad chimney which was
choked by what resembled a frozen waterfall crowned by a huge cornice.
The sun shining on the cornice told us we were at last approaching the
north-east ridge where we could expect easier climbing. What appeared
to be an excellent belay enabled us to pay out Bryn’s rope with some
measure of security as, crouching, he followed the ledge to its extreme
end. The sloping floor of the ice-choked chimney was about two yards
from the end of the ledge on which we stood. Far below could be seen
our tracks in the snowfields, but of the wall beneath we were only able
to imagine the appearance. Altogether, even a climber could hardly
conceive of a more exposed spot.
[Illustration: _Paglia Orba from the Cinque Fratri._
_The C-ledge is visible on the dark rock precipice immediately below
the summit._
_Facing page 36_
]
Bryn took the fateful step from the ledge to the chimney and was soon
mixed up in the intricacies of the frozen waterfall, whose icicles were
clustered together like the pipes of an organ. Skilfully cutting his
way diagonally from left to right across them, he succeeded in finding
a comparatively firm position whence he was able to take in Maxwell’s
rope with his teeth and left hand, as the latter made the wide and
difficult step from the end of the ledge to the foot of the waterfall.
To add to the insecurity of the situation, the belay on the ledge
proved worthless; it broke off as I was testing it, and nothing would
have saved us in the event of a slip. The following fifteen minutes
were indeed anxious ones. I contrived to make myself fairly comfortable
on the ledge, but poor Maxwell, standing in a very shaky step and
hanging on to an icicle, had patiently to submit to freezing while
fragments of ice and snow were showered on him by Bryn’s hard-working
axe. At last Bryn had come to the end of his rope, but there were
still six feet separating him from the nearest belay at the top of the
waterfall and almost directly under the cornice. During a moment of
suspense both he and Maxwell had to climb together. Then, just as the
latter began to tackle the worst bit of all, Bryn reached the belay
and firm footing. We soon joined him, though not without thoroughly
appreciating the great difficulties of the pitch. We avoided cutting
through the cornice by climbing two short but stiff chimneys to the
right of and above the frozen waterfall, and at 5.15 p.m. were beyond
the bend of the great C-ledge, with only easy, though steep, rocks
between us and the summit. Feeling that we were now safe from a forced
bivouac, that constant nightmare of the last five hours, we indulged in
a brief rest. While swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and dry bread we
reviewed the many little episodes, exciting moments, disappointments
and hopes of the last two hours. But so far the sun had eluded us. When
we first viewed the frozen waterfall the sun was shining on the cornice
above; now it had disappeared to the other side of the mountain in its
haste to sink into the Mediterranean, for we had taken over two hours
to master the last hundred feet. Anxious to get warmed in its last
rays, we began work once more. The climb up the final rocks was pure
joy; the plentiful handholds were still quite warm, and their touch
was as welcome to our frozen fingers as the iced handholds had before
been painful. We rose very rapidly and at 6 p.m. stepped out on to the
top of Paglia Orba. A strong westerly wind somewhat counterbalanced the
warming effect of the setting sun, but no discomfort could detract from
the pleasure we all felt at the success of the day’s venture.
The summit of Paglia Orba is covered by a large snow field (at least,
as long as the snow lasts) sloping down from the north to south and
east. As near to the highest point as possible we built a little cairn,
within which we hid a piece of paper giving our names and a description
of the route and times of the ascent. To indicate the spot to future
climbers we wound a piece of spare rope round the rock. Pausing once
more to look down the wonderful precipice of the north-east face, we
re-arranged the rope and set off towards the Col de Foggiale. We soon
came upon a steep gully filled with firm, frozen snow and descended
the first few feet cutting steps. Then, glissading down to the col, we
dropped over the cornice and slid or ran down to the river and, wading
through, regained our camp at 7.30 p.m., just one hour and a quarter
after leaving the summit.
Our success was suitably celebrated by a _grand bal masqué_, followed
up with the most glorious dinner of our lives. Two days later we struck
camp and, casting many a look back towards the noble form of Paglia
Orba, that Matterhorn of Corsica, slowly filed out of the Viro Valley
towards Calaccucia, Corte, Ajaccio, and home, bidding Corsica _au
revoir_ but not adieu!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Col is a French term denoting a depression on a ridge connecting
two summits.
[2] A rock pinnacle on a ridge.
CHAPTER III
THE WETTERHORN
Grindelwald, the most popular of the climbing centres of the Bernese
Oberland, is dominated by the Eiger and the Wetterhorn. The former is
so close to the village that, owing to foreshortening, much of the
majesty of its huge precipices is lost to the casual observer below.
But the Wetterhorn, standing well back at the head of the valley, its
great limestone cliffs surmounted by terraced glaciers upon which the
snow-capped summit cone is so gracefully poised, has long appealed to
the artist--so much so, indeed, that the view of the Wetterhorn from
Grindelwald vies for pride of place with those of the Jungfrau from the
Wengernalp and of the Matterhorn from the Riffel Alp.
My first climbing acquaintance with the Wetterhorn was destined to be a
rude one. My brother Max and I had, for five seasons, served a faithful
apprenticeship to mountaineering in the lesser Alps of Northern
Switzerland and, long before the arrival of the summer vacation of
1908, had drawn up the plan of an ambitious climbing campaign which,
beginning with the Wetterhorn, should lead us over the principal peaks
of the Bernese Oberland into the Zermatt district, that Mecca of the
mountaineering world. Starting from Meiringen, we had, by a circuitous
route over the Gauli Glacier and the Wetterlimmi, gained the Dossen
club-hut, north-east of the Wetterhorn, whence the easiest way to
the summit starts. A party of five Germans, likewise bound for the
Wetterhorn, shared the hut with us.
We left the hut at 2 a.m. on July 24, closely followed by the Germans
who were roped in two parties. Walking up the snow slopes at a furious
rate, they soon left us behind, for, knowing that our strength would
be needed later on, we preferred to take things leisurely. Max and
I arrived at the depression south of the summit and known as the
Wettersattel, to find the Germans already breakfasting and bringing
by no means small appetites to bear upon the generous contents of
their knapsacks. A chilly north wind was blowing, and the sun had not
yet reached us, so we cut short our rest and were soon forging up the
final snow slope to the summit. The new snow which had fallen two days
before, though it had obliterated the steps and tracks of previous
climbers, was now good and firmly frozen; the slopes were nowhere
very steep, and with the help of our climbing irons we made rapid
progress. Save for the last few feet there was no need to cut steps.
The ascent had been easy--far easier than most of the climbs of our
apprenticeship; indeed, it seemed little more than a short mountain
walk, for in less than five hours after leaving the Dossen hut we stood
on the summit. The facility with which we had conquered this, our first
really great peak, however, did nothing to mar our feelings of happy
pride in the achievement. The wind had dropped and the sun was warm.
With our axes we scraped out comfortable seats for ourselves in the
snow and sat down to rest. Westwards from our feet the summit snow
slope curved gently outwards to fall away in ever-increasing steepness
till it was lost to sight, and the eye rested on the green meadows
above Grindelwald. To the south we saw the Schreckhorn, Eiger, Mönch,
Jungfrau and hosts of other giants of the Oberland, and in them beheld
with happy vision a new world awaiting conquest.
Twenty minutes of supreme happiness stole away ere our solitude was
interrupted by the arrival of two of the Germans. The other three had
given up the ascent. The spell thus broken, we prepared to return and a
few minutes later were making our way back to the Wettersattel, closely
followed by the two Germans who there rejoined their friends.
It was our intention to descend on the Grindelwald side of the
mountain. Part of the route leads down an immense gully to the Krinne
Glacier. Arrived at the top of the gully, Max and I made our inspection
and were satisfied. It seemed perfectly safe; it was broad and not
very steep, and the new snow that had fallen had already consolidated
and was reliable and so firm that it might even be necessary to use
the axe to cut occasional steps. There were traces of a previous party
who had attempted the descent but had given it up. By the time we had
completed investigations, the two Germans had already set off down the
tracks. They had decided to be the leading party on the descent, an
arrangement which we disliked exceedingly, but there was nothing for it
but to follow meekly. In the light of future developments, it was lucky
that their three companions, more modest regarding their capabilities,
elected to come behind us.
Now, unless it is extraordinarily steep, there is only one correct way
of descending a snow slope; you go down with your back to the slope,
facing outwards. Standing boldly erect with shoulders well back like a
guardsman on parade, you walk unconcernedly downwards with toes well
up, letting the impetus of your body drive the heel into the snow to
make a good, reliable step. Do not take little mincing steps, one
barely below the other, but plunge bravely. You will then be sure
of your foothold and make good headway. The Germans were evidently
not accustomed to snow. They advanced with hesitation. Indeed, one of
those behind us nervously faced into the slope and descended on all
fours. About four hundred feet below the saddle, the tracks ceased.
For some few feet farther, the leader of the party preceding us made
sufficiently firm steps by kicking with his heels, but soon we found
ourselves on much steeper and harder snow where step-cutting was
imperative. The Germans betrayed an inclination to take to the snow
and ice-plastered rocks to the left, but we warned them that safety
lay only in laboriously cutting a way down in the hard snow bed of
the gully. The leading German, however, soon abandoned step-cutting
and moved out on to the rocks where he and his companion sat down,
one close behind the other. Throughout the climb they had appeared
to find difficulty in managing the sixty feet of rope to which they
were attached; seldom had it been taut from man to man, and now, as
they rested, it lay in loose coils between them. Max and I carried on,
cutting steps down the gully, and had passed below the level of the
two Germans when I saw one of them stand up. He slipped. His legs shot
out beneath him and he began to slide down over the slabs on to the
hard snow slope below. He dropped his axe. I shouted out a warning to
his companion who was, however, too startled to take up the slack of
the rope which was fast running out as the man at the other end slid
on with increasing impetus. He had by now turned over on to his face,
and was scraping frantically into the hard snow with his fingers in a
desperate endeavour to save himself. At length the sixty feet of rope
had run out; with a terrific jerk the second man was dragged from the
rock and hurled through the air. Striking against a projecting crag,
his left arm was wrenched from the shoulder and his chest crushed in.
The body went on until the rope’s length was spent. Again a jerk, and
the first man, whose pace had slackened as his comrade was dragged
from his seat, was in his turn hurled through the air--to smash his
head in on the rocks below. It was a sickening spectacle. The bodies
bounded over and over each other in wide curves until the edge of the
first great precipice leading down to the Krinne Glacier hid them from
our sight. Their three companions, who had looked on aghast, were
naturally in a terrible state of nerves. There was nothing to do but
to go steadily on, and, not yet realising the condition of the party
behind, Max and I turned our attention once more to step-cutting. We
had not proceeded far before they implored us to lead them back into
the Wettersattel. Cutting steps up past them, therefore, we joined
their rope to ours, charging them to keep it always taut from man to
man, and so made our way back to the saddle. Thence we descended with
all possible speed past the Dossen hut to Rosenlaui, from where we
telephoned news of the accident to Grindelwald.
Rude as this our first experience had been, it was not to be the end of
our acquaintance with the Wetterhorn. The Wetterhorn has three summits,
all just over 12,100 feet. The Hasle Jungfrau, probably because of its
more imposing appearance when seen from Grindelwald, is usually called
the Wetterhorn, although the Mittelhorn is higher by a few feet; the
Rosenhorn is by only a few feet the lowest of the three peaks. They are
connected by a lofty ridge running roughly from east to west. Having
been informed that a traverse of all three summits in one day was
regarded as something of a _tour de force_, this was the climb which
headed our programme for the summer of 1909.
[Illustration: _Morning mists._
_Facing page 44._
]
On July 24, Max and I once again made ourselves at home in the
Dossen hut. A school friend of Max, Will Sturgess, aged seventeen,
accompanied us, keen as mustard and looking forward to his first
mountain climb. That evening the weather broke and remained bad until
the following afternoon, when a fierce westerly wind set in which swept
away the clouds and lashed up from the ridges the newly-fallen snow.
Towards sunset the gale dropped, and numerous parties arrived from
Rosenlaui and Meiringen. We prepared our simple evening meal--pea soup,
tea and plenty of bread and jam--and before nightfall were already
seeking sleep on the straw of the bunks. But the ceaseless chatter,
the noise of other people’s cooking operations, and last but not least
the insistence of the preponderating Teuton element on closed windows,
despite the fact that the little hut harboured some thirty individuals,
made rest impossible. Soon after midnight, no longer able to bear the
stifling atmosphere, we jumped down from our beds and gathered round in
front of the door to drink in the sweet, cool night air. A full moon
shone from a cloudless sky, streaking the quiet snows with bands of
silver.
We began to prepare breakfast, an example which was too soon followed
by the other inmates, and so once more the little hut was filled with
noise and bustle. Shortly after half-past one on the morning of July
26, we escaped into the peace of the night. In our rucksacks we carried
only the essential needs for the day, it being our intention to return
to the hut. Over the splendid, hard-frozen snow we mounted up to the
Dossensattel--the little snow depression on the rock ridge at the
lower end of which stands the hut--and within an hour had crossed it
and were making our way horizontally over a fairly steep snow slope
towards the Wetterkessel. Sturgess, who was in the middle of the rope,
slipped twice, but as we always kept the rope taut from man to man he
was easily held, while on both occasions he retained his grip upon
his ice-axe--a promising sign on the part of a beginner. We walked
quickly across the Wetterkessel, for the wind was bitingly cold, and
about an hour below the Wettersattel halted for a second breakfast,
finding shelter in a shallow crevasse. The first red flush of dawn was
creeping down the Hasle Jungfrau as we set off once more. In the snow
at the foot of a great rock pinnacle in the Wettersattel we deposited
our knapsacks. Sturgess, wishing to reserve his strength for later in
the day, elected to remain here and await our return from the Hasle
Jungfrau. In a wind-sheltered hollow he got the little aluminium
cooking apparatus into action, and promised that we should have hot
drinks when we came back.
We found the remains of good steps leading up the final snow slope
and, at 6 a.m., within twenty minutes after leaving the Wettersattel,
stepped out on to the summit. Not a single step had we had to cut. The
wind had died down, and the sky was cloudless. Again we gazed into the
snow and ice-clad recesses of the Oberland, no longer land of mystery,
for in the summer of 1908 we had successfully invaded its fastnesses.
Far below in the Wettersattel, numerous climbers were coming up from
the Grindelwald side--little black spots upon the white purity of
the snows. Sturgess was evidently feeling the cold, for we could see
him occasionally forsake the cooking-pot and indulge in short runs;
altogether he seemed to be exerting himself much more than we two.
After spending half an hour on the summit, we cut steps along the snow
ridge in the direction of the Great Scheidegg, until we could look down
on to the little Hühnergutz Glacier on the cliffs of the Wetterhorn
overlooking the Scheidegg. On our return we found several parties in
possession of the summit, so, carrying straight on and plunging down
the good snow, we soon rejoined our companion who was waiting to
welcome us with a cup of hot tea--veritable nectar to the climber on
the heights. Max and his friend being inclined to dally over this,
their third breakfast, I unroped and, leaving them to follow at their
leisure, proceeded alone up the snow slopes leading to the Mittelhorn.
There were no difficulties to be overcome, and presently I had gained
the summit where I stretched myself out in the warm sun on some near by
rocks and went to sleep.
At 9 a.m. Max, with Sturgess in tow, rudely awakened me, and we made
ready for the serious part of the day’s work. Hitherto, though we had
omitted none of the precautions so necessary for the safe carrying out
of even the simplest of mountaineering excursions, the climb had seemed
little more than a pleasant morning’s walk. Now, however, we were
confronted by the long, be-pinnacled ridge connecting the Mittelhorn
and the Rosenhorn, and unless appearance and rumour belied it, we
were not likely to have too little to do. We roped together. For the
first half-hour along the snow-crest everything was straightforward,
until we arrived on a rocky platform from which the ridge suddenly
fell away in an almost vertical cliff. About thirty feet lower down
was a ledge, narrow and sloping, but roomy enough to provide standing
ground for all three. Max lowered himself over, while I, well-braced,
held his rope and paid him out foot by foot until he reached the
ledge. Then came Sturgess’ turn. He advanced boldly, but lacking my
brother’s rock-climbing prowess, he completed the descent by a free
use of the rope. Now it was my turn. Max warned me that the pitch was
too difficult to descend without help from above; so I cut a short
length off the end of our rope, tied the ends securely together to form
a loop and hung it over a jutting out spike of firm rock. Meanwhile
the others had untied themselves, thus giving me sufficient rope for
subsequent manœuvres. Drawing up Max’s end of the rope, I passed it
through the loop and back to him, so that as I descended he could hold
me from below like a weight on a rope passing through a pulley--the
loop in this case performing the functions of the pulley--and check any
disposition on my part to fall. Safe on the ledge, I recovered the rope
by simply pulling on my end until the other passed through the noose.
This and similar methods of descending difficult pitches of rock or ice
are known to the mountaineer as “roping down.”
A brief scramble over easy rocks led to the upper edge of another
vertical step in the ridge, where we again roped down. This pitch,
however, was much longer than the last and, in addition, it partially
overhung. Here and there, also, it was plastered up with ice that was
softening in the warm rays of the sun. It was practically impossible to
climb, and for most of the way down I hung with my full weight on the
rope while Max paid it out. The ledge on which we now stood was on the
south side of the ridge, the backbone of which we soon regained by an
easy traverse over good broken up rock to the left. Here we made the
aggravating discovery that, by previously adhering to the crest, we had
missed a perfectly simple line of descent on the other side.
The way to the Mitteljoch, the depression on the ridge between the
Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn, was now clear. A few easy rocks followed
by soft snow slopes brought us to the foot of a great rock pinnacle
or _gendarme_. This was easily avoided by skirting round its base on
the north side, keeping as high as possible in the steep snow slopes
below its rocky flank. Before midday, we arrived at the foot of the
north-west ridge of the Rosenhorn and began climbing over the array
of bold, red-brown rock teeth that form its crown. For nearly two
hours, keeping well to the crest of the ridge, we scrambled merrily
over _gendarme_ after _gendarme_, finding the rock good and reliable
on the whole, with little danger of foot- or handholds breaking away.
Sturgess was feeling rather tired and occasionally required help. One
extra long and steep crack taxed his powers to the utmost. A pull on
the rope from above, however, and a push from below enabled him to drag
himself on to the almost level platform at the top of the pinnacle,
where for several minutes he lay and gasped like a fish out of water.
Shortly after one o’clock the difficulties were over, and, seeing
in front of us nothing more than an easy scramble to the summit, we
settled down to a rest and a meal.
[Illustration: _Climbing down a steep ridge._]
[Illustration: _The short cut--roping down._
_Facing page 48._
]
The cold wind to which we had hitherto been exposed had dropped,
and the sun beat warmly down upon us from an almost cloudless sky.
Presently I became assailed with doubts as to whether the highest point
visible were really the summit or merely masking a loftier eminence
farther along the ridge. To settle the question, I unroped and set off
alone. An hour’s easy clamber brought me to the point in question, to
discover to my intense satisfaction that it actually was the summit
of the Rosenhorn. I shouted the good news down to the others who were
already making their way up towards me. At the same moment I found
that my knapsack had been left behind at our resting-place. As Max and
Sturgess had both overlooked it, I hurried down past them, retrieved my
property and, climbing back in all haste, overtook them just below the
top. At 3 p.m. all three stood on the summit. Sturgess immediately set
about finding a comfortable couch for himself on a smooth, horizontal
slab where he dozed while Max and I got busy with the cooker. An hour
sped by quickly enough to the pleasant accompaniment of the munching
of stout sandwiches washed down by copious draughts of hot tea.
Meanwhile the weather was changing for the worse. A south wind had
sprung up; great, woolly cumulus clouds had gathered on the horizon
and were rolling over towards us. It was evident that a thunderstorm
was imminent. So at four o’clock we packed up, re-roped and moved off
along the south-west ridge over which the mountain is usually climbed.
Relieving Sturgess of his knapsack, we climbed over a rocky point
which is almost as high as the summit itself, and were soon making
our way down over the easy rocks to the snow slopes leading to the
Rosenegg. Curving round to the left, we then ploughed our way across
the Wetterkessel in the direction of the Dossenhorn. The noonday sun
had softened the snow, and at every step one sank almost to the knees
in slush. Coming as it did at the end of a long day, the making of
the track was toilsome in the extreme, and Max and I took the lead in
turns. Sturgess, however, showed such hopeful signs of recovering his
energies that we finally decided to regain the hut by climbing over
the Dossenhorn instead of only crossing the Sattel. By so doing, one
more summit would be added to the three already bagged--an important
consideration in our early mountaineering days. The decision involved
a slight change in route. Making for the Renfenjoch, the depression
at the foot of the Dossenhorn, we struggled up through the soft, wet
snow and at last gained the rocks of the south ridge of the mountain.
Thence to the summit was an uneventful climb over good firm rock. We
lost no time on the top. There was no view to be seen, for thick mists
swirled round us and it began to sleet. Soon Max was swallowed up in
fog as I paid out his rope while he descended the steep rocks in the
direction of the hut. When he had called out that he had found good,
firm standing ground, Sturgess followed, while by a steady hold on his
rope I checked any tendency on his part to gain too much momentum.
Soon after leaving the summit the electricity of the highly-charged
atmosphere surrounding us began to discharge itself slowly through our
axes and the sodden rope, making a noise like the tearing of linen.
Fearing the possibility of a more violent lightning-like discharge,
we moved out on to the western flank of the ridge and hurried along
with the greatest speed compatible with safety. We encountered no
further difficulties and at length, at 7 p.m., after an absence of
over seventeen hours, regained the Dossen hut, but not before we had
been drenched to the skin by a torrential downpour of rain that had
superseded the sleet.
Our gallant beginner showed naturally great fatigue, but we rubbed
him until he was warm again and rolled him up in blankets. Max and I
then prepared a hot meal and changed our sodden clothing as far as
the presence of a party of ladies, who with their guides were bent on
climbing the Dossenhorn on the morrow, would permit. Good food followed
by a night’s rest worked wonders for Sturgess who soon recovered
from the effects of his hardships. He was a stout fellow, keen,
uncomplaining and always ready to do his best, and had indeed acquitted
himself splendidly on this, his first great mountain climb.
CHAPTER IV
THE JUNGFRAU
A glance at the map of the Bernese Oberland will show that a straight
line drawn in a north-easterly direction from the Breithorn to the
Eiger will pass through, or close to, the Grosshorn, Mittaghorn,
Ebnefluh, Jungfrau and Mönch. The ridge connecting these great peaks
forms a lofty watershed flanked on the south by gently-rising glacier
slopes and on the north by precipitous ice-clad cliffs and icefalls.
Almost every route, therefore, leading from the north across this
great connecting ridge constitutes an arduous ice-climb followed by
a comparatively easy descent on the south side. Small wonder, then,
that the guides of the Oberland, who live in close proximity to such a
wonderful training ground, excel all others in the art of snow and ice
mountaineering.
The ascent of the north face of the Jungfrau is reputed to be one of
the finest ice expeditions in the Alps and, as such, attracted the
boyish attention of my brother and me, incited as we were even in
the earliest days of our climbing career by the picture of Himalayan
adventure that hovered in the background of our minds. In the event
of the picture coming to life, ice work, we felt sure, would stand
us in better stead than mere agility on rock, and it was, therefore,
our endeavour to perfect ourselves as far as possible in the more
serious side of mountaineering, that is, in the intricacies of snow and
ice-craft. The north face of the Jungfrau presents itself to the eye
as an imposing edifice built up of glistening, greenish-white terraces
of ice and snow of such purity that it were almost desecration to set
human foot upon them. To the mountaineer, who is perhaps actuated
less by poetic imagination than by the virile desire to pit his puny
strength against a much stronger force, these great terraces become
but the stepping-stones on the road to the summit. In number they are
five--the upper reaches of the Guggi Glacier, the Kühlauenen Glacier,
the Giessenmulde, the Silbermulde and the Hochfirn--forming a wonderful
spiral staircase, as it were, betwixt earth and heaven. No better field
could be found in which to test our skill and improve our knowledge;
and it was this ambitious climb that figured next to the Wetterhorn in
our programme for the summer of 1909.
[Illustration: _The north face of the Jungfrau._
“... an imposing edifice of glistening terraces of ice and snow....”
_Facing page 52._
]
Max, Sturgess and I, after traversing the three summits of the
Wetterhorn, left the Dossen hut on July 27 for Rosenlaui, and thence
walked over the Great Scheidegg to Grindelwald where we arrived with
barely an hour to spare before the last train of the day was due to
leave for the Little Scheidegg. That hour was a crowded one. Boots
required re-nailing and patching up, a stock of provisions sufficient
for eight days had to be laid in, and all superfluous baggage bundled
up and posted off to Zermatt, our next port of call in the valleys.
We spread out into the village bazaar where, thanks to a good
distribution of labour and unstinting use of what we were pleased
to imagine was Swiss-German, we stirred up the kindly but stolid
Grindelwald shopkeepers to unwonted activity and succeeded in arriving
at the station just on time. The spectacle we presented--dissolving
in perspiration, weighed down by bulging knapsacks, with climbing
irons, cooking apparatus and ropes slung on anyhow, loaves of bread
tucked under our arms--caused some merriment amongst the trippers
who thronged the waiting train. However, we succeeded in finding room
for ourselves and belongings and utilised the leisure afforded by
the journey up to the Little Scheidegg in repacking stores in more
convenient and comfortable fashion. We also made the acquaintance of
the famous Swiss climber, the late Dr. Andreas Fischer who, with the
two guides Hans Almer (son of Christian Almer, in his time the greatest
of Swiss guides) and Ulrich Almer (son of Ulrich, Christian’s almost
equally renowned brother), was, like us, bound for the Guggi hut. All
three were extremely kind to us. We told Dr. Fischer that Max and I
intended to climb the Jungfrau from the Guggi hut. Somewhat amazed
and not a little concerned at this bold project on the part of two
mere boys, he urged us to be careful. When we assured him, however,
that we were fully aware of the toughness of the impending task and
intended to spend at least one whole day in reconnoitring the way and
cutting the necessary steps up as far as the Schneehorn, he saw that
we meant business and returned our confidences by telling us of his
own ambitious plans, from which it appeared that our roads would lie
together as far as the Schneehorn. There, however, our ways would
part, for it was his intention to cut up long and tremendously steep
ice slopes to the then unascended north-east ridge of the Jungfrau and
climb over that ridge to the summit.
In spite of the novelty of our surroundings and the wonderful aspect of
the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau as seen from this side, the walk from the
Scheidegg over the Eiger Glacier to the hut was, for us with our heavy
loads, far from being a pleasure. More lightly laden, Fischer and his
guides soon outstripped us, and it was with a sigh of relief that, just
before nightfall, we arrived at our destination.
The old Guggi hut, now almost disused, is one of the smallest in the
Alps, measuring as it does in floor space only ten feet by twelve.
In 1909 more than half that space was taken up by two tiers of
straw-filled sleeping bunks, and what remained was largely exhausted
by a tiny stove and rickety table. Within comfortable walking distance
of the Eiger Glacier station of the Jungfrau railway, the hut is
frequently visited by trippers, a section of the community noted in the
Alps for the trail of disorder they leave behind them; and we arrived
to find the Almers endeavouring to clear up the pigsty condition in
which they had found our resting-place for the night. We lent a hand
and, a semblance of tidiness once more restored, prepared a simple
dinner and turned in to sleep. There was a rug for each man and one
huge horse blanket which sufficed to cover us all, so we slept warmly.
Shortly after midnight the disturbing ring of my alarum watch drove
us forth to inspect the weather. The night air was warm, and long
streaks of fish-shaped clouds in the west threatened trouble. Fischer’s
party required settled weather for their expedition, and as on the
first day we only intended prospecting as far as the Schneehorn and
could, therefore, afford to wait for an hour or two, all turned in
again to sleep while waiting for the weather to show its hand. At 1
a.m. Max and I became impatient. Prospects were still doubtful, though
for our purposes fair enough. The Almers could not make up their
minds to start; but we, not so dependent upon the weather, decided
to clear for action. Dr. Fischer now came forward with a plan which,
even then, I realised was prompted by his anxiety for our safety and
the liking which he had already formed for us. He suggested that
we should join forces and go together as far as the rocks of the
Schneehorn and bivouac there for the night. Next morning, weather
permitting, we could then complete our climb, and he and his guides
would carry on with their great task. We at once fell in with this
generous proposal. Hans and Ulrich, hitherto obviously downhearted at
the idea of a day’s idleness, now brightened up. One by one we crawled
out of our bunks--the cramped space would not allow all to get up
together--and while the cooks monopolised the interior, the rest of us
busied ourselves outside the hut, groping for clothes in the darkness,
seeking the more elusive garments with matches and generally completing
our toilet under difficulties. Breakfast, coming so soon after a
late supper, was but a shadow of a meal; and it was barely half-past
one when, shod with climbing irons, we put on the rope and, bidding
good-bye to Sturgess who intended returning to Grindelwald in the
course of the day, stepped forth with lighted lanterns into the night.
With a few steps we had left the ridge upon which the hut stands and
were proceeding through the icefall of the Guggi Glacier. Max and I
had an easy time of it here. We could not risk wounding the feelings
of such splendid guides as the Almers by offering to take our share in
finding the way, and therefore had to content ourselves by following in
our best style, always paying attention to the correct handling of the
rope. Once, while making our way round the corner of an ice pinnacle
below which yawned the black depths of an appalling crevasse, Dr.
Fischer expressed anxiety for our safety. But Hans, watching us coming
along, reassured him: “They are sure-footed like cats; they know how to
use the rope; they are quite safe”: ample reward for the self-restraint
we had imposed upon ourselves in not attempting to take the lead. Young
Ulrich, who went ahead, had plenty to do. The icefall is very broken
up. Clambering over or round, or even under enormous séracs, towering
all about us like the suddenly frozen waves of a storm-tossed sea,
we gradually made our way upwards, amidst a brooding, gloomy silence
that was rendered more vast and impressive by the occasional chipping
of Ulrich’s axe, the tinkling of fragments of falling ice and the
crunching sound of the climbing irons as their sharp points bit at each
step into the ice.
[Illustration: _The icefall of the Guggi Glacier._
_Facing page 56._
]
Almost at the head of this first icefall we encountered the most
serious of its defensive barriers. A huge crevasse, a great open gash,
stretched across our path and was lost in the darkness, its bottom far
beyond the reach of the dim light of the lanterns. Hans having paid us
the compliment of asking us to explore out to the left while his party
reconnoitred to the right, we were fortunate in soon discovering a
solution to the problem in the shape of a slender flake of ice forming
a fragile bridge. After some judicious step-cutting, the flake being
too frail to endure much belabouring, we were across and shouting the
news of our success to the others, already returning from a fruitless
search.
All now lay clear before us up to the foot of the second icefall,
where the Kühlauenen Glacier tumbles down on to the Guggi in a mighty
mass of séracs. Uncrevassed slopes, gentle at first but rising up more
steeply as we mounted higher, brought us rapidly to the foot of the
icefall where we foregathered and studied the outlook while waiting for
the pale light of dawn to enable us to stow away the lanterns. Beyond
the frozen torrent of séracs merging into the Guggi Glacier stretched
a great vertical wall of ice, a gaunt, lofty rampart forty to sixty
feet high, which gleamed clear and unbroken in the cold, grey light
from under the cliffs of the Mönch right round to the rocks of the
Schneehorn. It was plain that the obstacle could not be turned; the
flanks were too well guarded by steep ice-glazed and avalanche-swept
rocks. Yet nowhere was there apparent a flaw which would aid the
besieger. In Hans Almer, however, there was no lack of decision.
He seemed to act on the principle of poking his nose right into a
difficulty in searching for its key. Presently, with a cheery “Come
along!” he cut ahead and, with amazing speed, worked his way through
a steep tangle of crevasses and séracs, never at fault for a means
of negotiating the many obstructions met with, until we arrived on a
débris-strewn ledge at the base of the great ice cliff. Haste had been
imperative, for almost throughout this passage we had been endangered
by lurching monsters of séracs. It is true we were still in the shade,
and according to the best authorities séracs do not fall until the
warmth of the sun’s rays or the hot breath of the föhn wind strikes
upon them. Later in the day Hans emphatically characterised such
beliefs as “Unsinn,” and told me that, in his experience, séracs fell
just when they thought fit and often displayed the greatest activity
on cold and frosty nights when it behoved them to be asleep. My later
observations tend to show that the falling of séracs is most likely to
occur just before sunrise, during the coldest hours of the night. On
the east face of Monte Rosa I once counted sixteen falls of ice and
séracs between 3 and 4.30 a.m., eleven between 6 and 8 a.m. and two
between 3 and 4 p.m.
The swift scramble up the séracs had somewhat robbed us of our breath,
and we welcomed the brief halt which a search for a possible breach
in the great ice wall before us demanded. Immediately above, the wall
showed sure signs of disintegration; several great sheets of ice were
in process of detaching themselves. One monster, fully fifty feet in
height, leaned forward in an ominous manner. As its fall would have
strewn with blocks the ledge where we stood, Hans moved over to the
right where a great square-cut bastion of undoubted firmness afforded
security from the perils of falling ice. From here we sighted the one
and only weak spot we were ever able to detect in the great barrier. A
huge crevasse in the glacier above cleft the wall in twain, and were
it but possible to gain the floor of this crevasse, the problem of
surmounting the wall itself would no more exist. But the approach to
the chasm was defended by an immense archway of rickety séracs which
looked ready to collapse at any moment. The presence of masses of very
broken ice under the archway promised slow and, therefore, unsafe
progress, and Hans decided that we must look round for another way out
of our trouble. Max and I were told to climb to the top of the bastion
now shielding us and to report on the prospects as seen from up there.
The others, bent on a similar mission, moved along the ledge towards
the Schneehorn rocks. But neither party had any luck; there remained
nothing but to risk the archway passage or retire, beaten. We were
on the point of leaving the issue to chance by tossing a coin, when
nature stepped in and providentially staged a thrill. Suddenly a loud
crashing as of thunder was heard, and the ground upon which we stood
trembled and shook under the impact of tons of ice blocks; dense clouds
of ice dust filled the air and, enveloping us, hid everything from
view. As the mists slowly thinned we saw that the giant archway had
fallen in. The ruins, choking up the floor of the crevasse, furnished
us with a causeway giving egress to the glacier above. The god had
indeed descended from his chariot. Without the necessity of cutting a
single step, we arrived a few minutes later on the almost level plateau
of the Kühlauenen Glacier, the second of the five glacier plateaux
characteristic of the north face of the Jungfrau.
Meanwhile, the weather had not improved. By now we ought to have
been able to bask in the warm rays of the rising sun, but fish-shaped
clouds filled the morning sky, and great masses of clammy mist floated
up the Guggi Glacier and rolled down upon us from the Jungfraujoch.
A snowstorm was brewing. We sat down in the snow for a rest and,
while eating a few biscuits, noted the best point for crossing the
bergschrund which defends the approach to the rocks of the Schneehorn.
The mists had closed in ere we began the final stage of the day’s work.
Largely filled up with masses of snow and fallen stones, the schrund
was easily crossed, and, walking up a short slope of good snow, we
soon gained the rocks which were dry and firm and nowhere actually
difficult. Knowing our dislike for merely following in the footsteps of
others, Dr. Fischer tactfully encouraged us to choose our own line of
ascent. So henceforward we climbed on a level with, and some distance
out to the left of, his party.
At 9 a.m. we arrived at a point about half-way between the bergschrund
and the summit of the Schneehorn and, observing that the rocks higher
up were sprinkled with new snow, decided to look round for a suitable
site to bivouac. Failing to find a platform large enough to seat all
five together, we rummaged about in detachments for convenient ledges
and eventually settled down within speaking distance of each other.
The ledge chosen by Max and myself was small and narrow. With our backs
to the wall above and feet dangling over the cliff falling away to the
glacier below, we planted the cooking apparatus between us. The next
two hours were spent partly in attending to cooking operations and
partly in chipping Hans Almer who, every few minutes thinking he espied
a more suitable abode than the one he was occupying at the time, was
continually on the move changing house. At 11 a.m. it began to snow in
a desultory, intermittent manner. Then came a sleet and hail storm with
chilly gusts of wind from which there was no sheltering. Before midday
it snowed in real earnest, and it was obvious that, unless an immediate
change set in, there could be no hope of our continuing the climb next
day. New snow lay two inches deep over the rocks when, at one o’clock,
Dr. Fischer gave the word for retreat.
The descent over the now snow-covered rocks demanded great care; but,
once down on the glacier, we plunged in long strides over to the
crevasse in the great ice wall. The steps of the morning were all
obliterated, but, unhesitatingly and in spite of the mist and snow,
Hans unravelled his way through the séracs and presently brought us
out on to the Guggi Glacier. Dr. Fischer elected to rest here; but
Hans told us to go straight on, advising us not to retrace the line
of previous ascent, but to try and get through over on the right bank
close under the rocks of the Mönch. Acting on his advice we found there
a good way and at 3 p.m. were safely back in the hut.
Presently Dr. Fischer’s party arrived and, after a brief halt, returned
to Grindelwald to await more auspicious weather. Max and I, having a
stock of provisions sufficient for more than a week, could afford to
wait on the spot, ready to drive home a renewed attack as soon as the
weather cleared. In the early hours of the morning of July 29, the sky
was still overcast; so we slept on well into the day, awaking, too
late for breakfast yet too early for lunch, to find the sun blazing
down from a cloudless sky and dissolving the rolling billows of
cloud in the valleys below. After an orgy of a meal that we elected
to call “brunch,” we basked on the roof of the hut until, early in
the afternoon, the sun sank behind the Jungfrau. Towards evening
we carried our surplus provisions over to the Eiger Glacier to be
forwarded by rail to the Eismeer station. On returning to the Guggi
hut, we found Dr. Fischer and his guides once more installed therein,
full of confidence in the prospects.
At 2 a.m. on July 30, we again set forth on our quest. Not a breath
of wind stirred; the sky was cloudless. Hans Almer sent us on ahead
to lead the way. Knowing the ground well now, we forged up through
the first icefall and came to a halt on the gentle snow slopes at the
foot of the Kühlauenen Glacier icefall, there to await the arrival of
the others. They had no sooner reached us than Dr. Fischer found that
he had lost his tea flask, so he and Hans went back to look for it.
In the meanwhile Ulrich and we two shivered and stamped about in a
vain endeavour to keep warm. Just as it was becoming light enough to
dispense with the lanterns, Dr. Fischer rejoined us, having found his
precious flask in the snow at the very edge of an immense crevasse just
above the Guggi icefall.
By 5 a.m. we were walking over the almost level basin of the Kühlauenen
Glacier and soon afterwards were grappling with the rocks of the
Schneehorn--no longer without difficulty, for much fresh snow hampered
us in the finding of foot- and handholds. Beyond the site of our
bivouac of two days ago, we found the rocks so buried in snow that Hans
had to clear a way with his axe. Progress was accordingly slow, and
it was not until 7 o’clock that, cutting through the little cornice
at the head of the final, short, steep, snow slope over which the
summit of the Schneehorn (11,200 ft.) is approached, we set foot on the
Giessenmulde, the third of the five plateaux. Henceforward our ways
lay apart. While Max and I were bound for the direction of the Little
Silberhorn, Dr. Fischer and his guides were to turn off to the south
towards the immense slopes of gleaming ice leading up to the north-east
ridge of the Jungfrau. But so quickly are friendships formed in the
mountains that already, after such a brief acquaintance, we were by no
means loth to retard the hour of parting by settling down to breakfast.
[Illustration: “_We basked on the roof of the Guggi hut._”
_Facing page 62._
]
At a quarter past seven Dr. Fischer said, “Now then, you boys, it’s
time you were off!” and, after bidding an “Au revoir” all-round and
expressing the hope that we would meet on the summit, Max and I got
under way. While crossing the level, hard-frozen snow surface of the
Giessenmulde, we had ample time to study the icefall guarding the
approach to the Silbermulde, the fourth glacier plateau. This icefall
was obviously formidable, and it looked as if a huge, unbridged
crevasse which cut across it might prove, if not insuperable, at all
events a source of much delay. The icy north-east ridge of the little
Silberhorn, however, offered a sure, even if arduous, means of flanking
the obstacle; and we quickly decided to choose the harder work of
cutting up this ridge in safety, in preference to the less laborious
but much more uncertain and, on account of possible falls of ice,
perhaps dangerous passage through the icefall. The ridge was covered
with a thick layer of crystals of rotten ice, in which two, or at the
most three, well-directed blows of the axe sufficed to make a good
step. Working hard and as fast as possible, we rose so rapidly that,
half an hour after leaving the others who were now just beginning to
tackle their big ice slope, we arrived on the beautifully curved ice
ridge which forms the summit of the little Silberhorn. After a brief
descent, we crossed the Silbermulde and faced the next difficulties,
a great bergschrund and a short, but very steep, ice slope below the
Silbersattel. Over to the left, away from the Silbersattel, the two
edges of the bergschrund approached more closely together, so that by
discarding my rucksack and standing on Max’s shoulder I was able to
effect a lodgment on the slope above. I then saw that, to get over to
the Silbersattel, handholds and footholds would have to be cut round to
the right, past an almost vertical ice bulge. Only the right hand could
be used to ply the axe; the left would be fully occupied in holding on.
Max unroped and tied himself on again, but this time at the extreme end
of the hundred-and-fifty-foot rope; then, after carefully working round
the bulge, I was able to cut straight up into the Silbersattel where,
finding good standing ground, I held the rope firmly and afforded Max,
with his double burden of rucksacks, the necessary assistance over the
bergschrund and round the bulge. It is quite probable that in some
seasons this obstacle may prove impassable. The Silberlücke, however,
could always be gained by crossing the Silberhorn, a roundabout
route which would entail some loss of time. The ridge known as the
Silbergrat, stretching up before us to the Hochfirn, commences in a
great rock pinnacle which looked difficult, but was, with the ensuing
ridge of good firm rock, quite easy, though enthrallingly interesting
in view of the dizzy precipices that fall away to the Lauterbrunnen
Valley. Higher up, cornices, wind-whirled into fantastic shapes,
crowned the ridge. We hacked them down and strode triumphant over
their battered remains until at length the rocks merged into a slender
snow-crest, along which, swinging the axe in rhythm with our pace and
leaving a step after each blow, we passed quickly over to the Hochfirn,
up which, almost knee-deep in soft snow, we laboriously plodded our way.
The day was now won; no further difficulty lay between us and the
summit. It was still early, and time was our own to squander as we
willed; so, veering towards the left, we stamped through deep snow
up on to the Wengern Jungfrau (13,320 ft.), the lower summit of the
Jungfrau, in order to see how Dr. Fischer’s party were progressing.
They were still far below the north-east ridge--three tiny black dots
sticking like flies to the smooth, glassy wall. Our shouts of triumph
were faintly echoed by them; then, realising that there would be no
chance of our meeting up here, we turned towards the true summit of
the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.) and, walking up the easy rocks of the south
ridge, soon gained the top. It was 11 a.m.; we had been in all only
nine hours _en route_, and of those nearly one hour had been spent down
below the Kühlauenen icefall, awaiting dawn.
As on our last visit to the Jungfrau, the view was clear. To the north
we looked down into the valleys of the Bernese Oberland, invitingly
clad in the soft, restful colourings of forest, pastureland and lake.
Southwards, the gaze passed over glaciers and snow-clad mountains,
through the bluish haze rising from the dark rift of the Rhône Valley
to beyond the Pennine Alps, and lingered at last on the glistening snow
cap of Mont Blanc. The hardest part of the day’s work was over. The air
was warm, still and languorous, so, after setting the cooking apparatus
on to melt snow for a brew of tea and having, by way of precaution
against the consequences of any tendency to sleep walk, belayed the
rope to our axes driven deep into the snow, we lay down and were soon
wrapt in slumber.
Two hours later we awoke at the chill touch of a gust of wind. Clouds
hovered all around, warning us of the approach of yet another spell
of bad weather. We finished lunch and made ready for the descent by
the ordinary route to the Bergli hut. As was to be expected, we found
a beautiful staircase of immense steps already cut in the moderately
steep snow slope leading down to the Rotthal Sattel. The bergschrund
below the saddle was smaller than we had ever known it before, and soon
we were plodding a monotonous way over the Jungfrau Glacier through
the now thoroughly softened snow towards the Mönchjoch. There was not
a breath of wind; and so fiercely did the sun blaze that we almost
marvelled that the whole glacier did not turn to water. At 4 p.m. we
arrived at the Bergli hut. The sky had become completely overcast; but,
though the sun was obscured, the air was hot and stifling. A break in
the weather seemed certain; a matter of small concern to us, however,
for our labours had been so strenuous that a day of enforced idleness
was a welcome prospect. At 6 o’clock we turned in and slept peacefully
and uninterruptedly until 8 a.m. next morning.
Dr. Fischer and the Almers had arrived at the hut about midnight.
They had gained the north-east ridge, only to be driven down to the
Jungfrau Glacier by bad weather. Snow-glasses are apt to disturb one’s
aim when cutting steps, and as the Almers, for this reason, had not
worn theirs during the ascent of the great ice slope, they were now
snowblind and in considerable pain. But they were a merry pair of
companions notwithstanding. After a joint breakfast, we all went over
to the Eismeer station, Fischer and the Almers leaving for Grindelwald
while Max and I returned to the Bergli hut with a fresh supply of
stores. Early in the afternoon the weather showed unmistakable
signs of mending, so we settled down to try and shape our somewhat
uncertain plans for the future. Our first big ice-climb had left us
with a voracious appetite for more. The wicked, green shimmer of the
appallingly steep ice slope leading from the Kühlauenen Glacier up to
the Jungfraujoch held out a persistent challenge. But how to get there
from the Bergli hut? The solution was simple, if perhaps a little
ambitious: climb the Jungfrau, descend the north face to the Kühlauenen
Glacier, and then cross over the Jungfraujoch to the Concordia hut. The
north face had already so far exceeded our expectations for ice work
and wonderful scenery that there was no fear of our finding a renewed
visit dull. The ascent to the Jungfraujoch would provide some hours of
continuous step-cutting, and we were still in need of practice with
the ice-axe. Furthermore, by descending to the Concordia hut we should
find ourselves well on the way to Zermatt. Fair dreamstuff for the
mountain-mad! Content and expectant, we turned in to sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE JUNGFRAU AND THE JUNGFRAUJOCH
On reading the early annals of the Alpine Club, one cannot but be
struck by the outstanding popularity of snow and ice-climbs and by
the standard of efficiency reached in such climbs by the pioneers.
The climber of to-day has added but few to the long list of wonderful
ice-climbs that stand to the credit of his forerunner in the sixties.
Ice-climbing has fallen into disfavour, but immense progress has been
made in rock-climbing--a deplorable but readily explicable state of
affairs. Since the early days, the army of climbers has become greatly
inflated and embraces many who can spend only some short two summer
weeks in the mountains. It is but natural that they should take the
shortest way of getting to the summit. The novice who is sound in wind
and limb can do well on rocks even at his first attempt. The traces of
the man who was there before him still show clearly. Little scratches
tell where to look for hand- and footholds and are reassuring testimony
that another has accomplished and, therefore, encouragement to emulate.
The rocky way does not change from day to day and but little from year
to year, and with every fresh scratch the route becomes more easy for
the next climber, so powerful a stimulant to the human will is the
knowledge that another has attained. Thus even the greatest rock-climb
becomes in time a gymnastic feat, a trial of purely physical strength.
But there is no royal road to becoming a great ice-climber. Much spade
work, both practical and theoretical, and demanding time, hard work,
conscientiousness and unbounded enthusiasm, has to be done. Snow, sun,
wind and the eternal flow of ice obliterate all comforting tracks, and
the ice-mountaineer has to choose and make his own route. Thus the true
ice-climber is always a pioneer.
It is obvious that the would-be ice-climber must learn the art of
cutting steps in ice or hard-frozen snow. A step can be fashioned with
almost any sufficiently hard and pointed instrument. I once cut four
steps with the big blade of a pocket-knife; on another occasion I made
several with a sharp-pointed bit of granite. The steps were almost as
good as if they had been hewn out by the orthodox weapon, the ice-axe;
but in each instance the process involved a far greater expenditure
of time and labour than would have been the case had I been properly
equipped. The ice-axe is the best step-cutting implement known; but
there are axes _and_ axes. As differ the makeshift and the inferior
axe, so differ the inferior axe and the good axe. Both the makeshift
and the inferior axe are spendthrifts of time and energy. When only a
few occasional steps have to be cut, the consideration of a moment’s
waste here and there may be negligible; but on an expedition where
step-cutting is the order of the day, prodigality of humble seconds
makes a mighty total that cannot be ignored. A first-class axe is a
_sine quâ non_. What, then, is the criterion of a really useful axe?
It may be stated without much fear of contradiction that only the
craftsman who knows how to use the implement of his craft can express a
sound opinion as to the merits of any particular example of that type
of implement. Strange, then, it is that nearly all climbers will take
hold of an ice-axe and, wisely shaking their heads and furrowing their
brows, proceed to pronounce judgment upon it, despite the fact that
it is common knowledge amongst trained and experienced mountaineers,
both amateur and professional, that more than ninety-nine per cent.
of the climbing fraternity are ignorant, not only of the art of
step-cutting, but also of many of the other important uses to which an
axe may be put. It should be noted that there is all the difference
in the world between cutting a few incidental steps and undertaking
the lead on an expedition where step-cutting is the rule. For the
vast majority the ice-axe is, in reality, an unmitigated nuisance; a
thing that is always getting in the way; too cumbersome to use as a
walking-stick; a collection of sharp, steely points and edges ever
making painful contact with the more vulnerable portions of both his
and other people’s anatomy; an immobiliser of a hand sorely needed to
clutch at handholds; twenty-five francs’ worth of uselessness, and
often to be renewed because of its remarkable propensity for falling
down cliffs and its owner’s no less remarkable propensity for throwing
it away whenever he slips; an inferior opener of tins and a mangler of
the contents thereof; a poor instrument for driving in nails and no
respecter of fingers. All save a small minority of climbers would be
far better served by a stout, crook-handled walking-stick which can
almost always be induced to perform at least the one function implied
in its name.
The two most important uses to which the mountaineer expects to put his
axe being to cut steps in ice or snow and to employ it as a belay when
driven into either, the design of an axe should be governed largely
by these two requirements. The different parts of an ice-axe are as
follows:--The head consists of the pick (with the straight, curve and
point), the centre-piece, the blade (which is connected to the rest
of the head by the neck), and the two fingers by means of which the
head is attached to the thicker end of the shaft. The other end of the
shaft carries the ferrule and spike. The head of the axe should be
hand-forged, and the metal must be neither so soft that it bends easily
nor so hard that it is readily fractured. Measured from the middle of
the centre-piece, the lengths of pick and blade should be 8 in. to 8¹⁄₂
in. and 4¹⁄₄ in. respectively. The straight of the pick should form a
right angle with the axis of the shaft. If the angle is more or less
than a right angle, excessive vibration of most unpleasant character
is readily set up while cutting steps. The width of the cutting edge
of the blade should be from 2¹⁄₄ in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. The fingers should
not be less than 6¹⁄₂ in. in length, and the rivets by means of which
they are attached to the shaft must not exceed three in number. As
they pass right through the wood, they tend to weaken the shaft and
must not, therefore, be unduly multiplied. The shaft of the axe should
be made from well-seasoned, straight and fairly close-grained ash and
occasionally dressed with linseed oil. For a man about six feet in
height, an overall length of 33 in. to 35 in. is the most suitable. A
shorter man would do well to use a shorter axe. A longer axe gets in
the way more easily, is more difficult to handle, disturbs the aim and,
on account of the greater vibration set up at each blow, unduly tires
the hands and is liable to cause blisters. For similar reasons, the
shaft should not be round in section but elliptical. A round shaft does
not fit so closely into the hand and, weight for weight, is also less
strong than the oval one. At the head, where the fingers are attached
to the shaft, the larger diameter should be 1¹⁄₂ in., the smaller ⁷⁄₈
in., tapering at the ferrule to 1¹⁄₄ in. and ¹³⁄₁₆ in. respectively.
Some climbers tack a leather ring or similar protuberance round the
shaft, a few inches above the ferrule, with the object of affording a
better grip and so preventing the axe from slipping through the hand
when cutting steps. Apart from the fact that there is no reason why an
axe should not be grasped in such a manner that it does not slip in
the hand, such a contrivance is liable to cause blisters and seriously
interferes with an important function of the axe, namely, the testing
of snow bridges over crevasses and otherwise sounding the condition of
snow. Some makers construct the ferrule and spike in one piece. Such
an arrangement lacks the strength of the simple ferrule and spike made
separately. The ferrule should not be too short, or it may fail to hold
the spike or give sufficient protection to the shaft. The protruding
portion of the spike should be 2¹⁄₂ in. to 2³⁄₄ in. long, of square
section ⁹⁄₁₆ in. where it emerges from the shaft and tapering off to a
rounded point. Many amateur climbers adorn the heads of their axes with
slings made of leather or of some woven material, the object being
to enable the owner to carry his axe by passing the sling over the
wrist and thus leave the hand free for climbing. This is a dangerous
practice. An axe carried in this manner is liable to get caught up in
the rock and may thus lead to a serious disturbance of the climber’s
balance. Furthermore, such slings must be removed when step-cutting is
necessary. The proper way to carry an axe, when climbing rock where
one does not wish to have a hand encumbered, is either to tuck it into
the rope at one’s waist or hang it through a small loop at the back of
one’s rucksack. So placed, it can be readily and without loss of time
taken out when wanted and as easily put back. On very long rock-climbs,
where the axe is perhaps not needed for hours on end, probably the best
way to carry it is to pack it head downwards into one’s rucksack with
the spike end protruding at the top.
[Illustration]
Climbing irons, also known as crampons, or ice-claws, are of the
greatest assistance to those mountaineers who know how to use them. A
climbing iron consists of a steel framework which can be attached to
the climber’s boot by means of straps or thongs, and is provided on the
under side with a number of sharp points, teeth or prongs. These should
number either eight or ten, preferably the latter; four to the heel and
the remainder to the sole. A badly-fitting climbing iron is worse than
useless, inasmuch as it may prove a source of danger. The position of
the teeth should be such that they approximately follow the contour
of the sole and heel of the boot. Above all, it is essential that
the front prongs should be placed well to either side of the toe and
at least level with the tip of the boot, if not actually projecting.
The two prongs at the back of the heel should be similarly placed.
The prongs should be sharp and from 2 in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. in length, and,
to obviate the necessity for frequent re-sharpening and consequent
excessive shortening of the teeth, the use of the climbing irons on
rock should be avoided as much as possible. When the prongs are worn
down to a length of 1¹⁄₂ inches it is advisable to discard the irons
altogether.
Nowadays, almost all climbers take crampons with them even on the
simplest of ice excursions. Few, however, use them to the best
advantage. When traversing across or climbing up a hard snow or ice
slope without irons, the sole of the boot is always more or less at
right angles to the slope. The edge nails on that side of the boot
which is nearest the slope must do all the necessary gripping, and
before the incline becomes so great that these slip, the axe must be
resorted to and steps cut. Most people use climbing irons in a similar
fashion, though, as a rule, the sole of the boot is kept nearer to
the horizontal. In traversing an ice slope in this manner, it is true
that the spikes of the crampons on the side nearest the slope will
grip better than the boot nails alone would do and thus enable one to
postpone the use of the axe. But in climbing vertically upwards only
the two front prongs will bite into the ice, with the possible result
that they may chip it away without securing reliable hold. To get the
best use out of climbing irons, it is necessary to tread with the sole
of the boot as far as is possible parallel to the slope. In this way
all the points will be utilised. So used, sharp, long-toothed climbing
irons will enable one to overcome extremely steep snow and ice slopes
without the need of cutting steps. It is essential, however, that
all members of the party be equally well equipped from the point of
view of climbing irons and skill in using them. The inclusion of one
who is deficient in either respect will make imperative the cutting
of steps where it might well have been avoided. The climbing irons
which Max and I had in 1909 were most defective in design. The teeth
were short, barely one inch in length, and blunt, and the toe and heel
prongs, instead of being level with, or projecting from, the toe and
heel of the boot, came underneath. We were forced, in consequence, to
cut almost as many steps as if we had had no crampons at all. They did
assist, however, in that they enabled us to stand more securely in our
ice steps and obviated the necessity of carefully cleaning out and
making smooth the floor of each step.
At 12.30 a.m., on August 1, 1909, Max and I crept down from our
sleeping bunks and stealthily, lest we should disturb the still
slumbering occupants of the hut, proceeded to light the fire for
breakfast and prepare for our departure. At 1.15 a.m. we were outside
the hut putting on the rope and otherwise ready to move off. The night
was calm. Up the snow slopes above the hut to the Mönchjoch we made
our way, lighted by the fitful glare of the lantern through a black
shadowland girdled by a belt of silver whence, under the brilliancy of
the full moon, the grotesque séracs, like sheeted spirits, kept watch
over the eternal solitudes. Our pace was good, and soon we topped the
Mönchjoch and, stepping from out the shadow, crossed the head of the
Ewigschneefeld. Rounding the corner of the south ridge of the Mönch,
we strode through a glittering fairyland to the music of hobnailed
boots crunching into the hard-frozen snow. On the Jungfrau Glacier,
immediately below the Jungfraujoch, all superfluous baggage was dumped,
to be picked up on the way down to the Concordia hut after the climb.
We fastened on crampons, and were soon climbing up the snow slopes
leading to the Rotthal Sattel, below the final bergschrund of which a
brief halt was called for a scanty meal--a couple of biscuits, which
should, as all climbers know, have been washed down by warm tea.
We had, however, to dispense with the tea; the flask containing it
eluded my grasp and, sliding down the slopes below, plunged into the
black depths of a great crevasse. No loss, they say, is without its
compensating gain; I had now, at any rate, less weight to carry, and
snow would serve almost as well to assuage thirst. The Rotthal Sattel
was swept by an icy west wind, so we raced full tilt up to the summit
and arrived there on the stroke of five, just as the upper edge of
the sun peeped over the horizon. For some moments we stood in wonder
at the daily miracle of dawn as it skimmed from glacier to glacier,
from mountain-top to mountain-top, and stirred the earth to blushing
wakefulness. But all too soon we became aware of a cold wind seeking
its way through our rather light clothing and noticed that our toes
were beginning to lose sensation, our boots being badly fashioned with
low toe-caps. Turning towards the north, we ran down over the Hochfirn
at a breakneck pace, in the hope that hard exercise would chase away
the chill. Along the Silbergrat and down past the Silberlücke the
mad rush continued until, gasping for breath, we gained the shelter
of the Silbermulde. Down the little Silberhorn fresh steps had to
be cut, our old ones having vanished; and, as during this operation
Max had felt the cold again, we ran across the Giessenmulde to the
Schneehorn. Descending the rocks, now almost free from snow, we gained
the Kühlauenen Glacier and crossed it in the direction of the huge
bergschrund guarding the approach to the ice slope leading up to the
Jungfraujoch. We sat down on the lower lip of the bergschrund to rest
before tackling what promised to be the most arduous part of the
day’s task, and also to satisfy hunger with a sparing meal of bread,
chocolate and snow. Max having relieved me of my knapsack which he
packed into his own, we readjusted the climbing irons, taking up all
the slack in the thongs by which they were attached to our feet, and
set off to discover a way across the schrund. Not until we had explored
well over to the left, underneath the great séracs that flanked the
left of the slope up which we intended to cut our way, did the great,
overhanging upper lip of the bergschrund show a hopeful weakness in the
shape of a disfiguring cleft. Notwithstanding this breach, however, a
stiff struggle ensued ere the difficulty was overcome. Driving both
axes to the head into the good snow of the wall of the upper lip,
I clung to them with both hands and, little by little, helped by a
shoulder and a push from Max, pulled myself up with all the strength of
my arms to the top, where I hewed out a large, secure step in which I
was able to stand safely and steadily as my brother made his way up to
me. We were now, however, in the direct line of fire from the séracs
above; so, cutting steps over towards the right until out of harm’s
reach, we turned upwards to face the formidable slope which was to
prove the hardest part of the day’s work.
[Illustration: _Cutting steps over the upper lip of a bergschrund._
_Facing page 76._
]
At first we had only hard snow to deal with, and four or five
well-directed blows with the blade of the axe were sufficient to
produce a good, firm step. We mounted straight upwards, keeping to a
safe middle line between the slopes on the left, which were liable
to be swept by falling ice, and those on the right, furrowed and
scratched by stone-falls from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau.
Many mountaineers, when cutting up ice or snow slopes, favour a zig-zag
course, traversing diagonally upwards, first to one side and then to
the other. Such tactics have their disadvantages. The making of such
a stairway, for instance, involves the cutting of a greater number of
steps, and, in addition, these steps must, in the interests of safety,
be large enough to accommodate the whole foot; while those required if
a vertical route is followed need afford room for only half the foot,
that is, from the toe to the instep. Again, on a zig-zag course, should
any member of the party slip, there is much less chance of arresting
his fall, as the climbers are seldom, if ever, directly below each
other. In the present case, however, we had no choice; any route save
that leading straight upwards would have brought us into danger from
ice on the left or from stones on the right. Already, though only about
fifty feet above the bergschrund, the slope was so steep that it was
necessary always to cut three to four steps ahead of that upon which
one stood. But the hard, firm snow was ideal carving material. Always
using the blade, two good hard blows marked out the base, and a further
two, or at the most three, sufficed to break away the roof and leave a
good solid step.
About one hundred and fifty feet above the schrund, conditions began
to change. The snow gradually thinned out, and the pick of the axe
had to be employed in finishing off the hard ice floor of each step.
Eventually the snow disappeared, exposing smooth, bare ice, translucent
and colourless when seen from close at hand, but faint blue-green
as the glance travelled up the grim slope above. It was the real
thing--an ice slope--a trial of strength to gladden heart and eye.
The pick of the axe now came again into play. To economise labour
and time, I cut large steps for the right foot only. These were deep
enough to accommodate the four front spikes of the climbing iron, and
thus afforded good support for the part of the foot below the ball of
the big toe. By standing on the right foot alone, with the left knee
in the small notches that served as steps for the left foot, I could
work without tiring and in a well-balanced position. The ice was of
the hardest. As many as thirty to forty blows went to the making of
each large step, but a dozen served for the small, rough indentations
into which the two front spikes of the left iron could bite as we
climbed from one right foot step to the next above. Max kept close
behind me; of shorter stature than I, he was kept busy hewing out here
and there additional steps between my rather far apart ones. An hour
went by. Away down at the bottom of the “blue precipitate stair” lay
the bergschrund, but the upper end of the ice slope seemed to be as
far off as ever. Then the ice steepened until it was so sheer that
it was only just possible to retain one’s balance without having to
make handholds. The work was really severe, and great care was needed
in cutting; a single ill-aimed blow of the axe might easily have
destroyed one’s equilibrium. Stones, freed from the grip of the frost
by the warm rays of the sun, hurtled down past us in little avalanches
from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau, or skimmed giddily by, one
by one, within half a rope’s length of us, down the glassy surface
of the wall. Max, who had kept count of the steps since leaving the
bergschrund, helped to mark our progress by announcing their number
as each tenth one was finished. The three-hundred-and-twentieth step
brought us almost level with the snow slopes of the upper surface of
the hanging glacier and its séracs, and, turning towards our left, we
began to traverse over towards it. A small bergschrund was the only
barrier in the way. It proved a difficult little customer, and as a
slip on the part of either was not to be risked, every precaution known
to us was employed to cross it in safety. After making a huge step as
near the upper lip as was practicable, I carved out a knob in the ice.
This done, Max passed the rope behind the knob and thus belayed me
securely while I clambered over the bergschrund on to the hard snows of
the hanging glacier. There I cut two more large steps and, driving my
axe in to the head, belayed Max’s rope over it while he made his way
towards me. Then Max, in his turn, drove his axe in as far as the head
and belayed me as, still cutting steps, I moved over to the less steep
slopes on the left. As soon as the rope was paid out Max followed while
belayed by me in the same manner. After cutting a further hundred steps
or so, the angle of the slope became so much gentler that the climbing
irons alone could be relied upon to bite firmly into the snow.
Difficulties were over. Thenceforward a mere walk up easy snow slopes
led to the gap that lies to the right of the well-known little snow
peak in the Jungfraujoch (11,398 ft.), and at 10 a.m. we gained the
ridge at a point about one hundred and fifty feet higher than the true
pass. Below lay a black speck in the gleaming snow of the Jungfrau
Glacier. It was the little pile of belongings which we had dumped there
in the early morning, and in that dump were cooking apparatus, tea,
sugar, biscuits--everything to gladden the heart of the mountaineer.
For the doubtlessly magnificent view from the Jungfraujoch we had no
eyes. Thirst and hunger hunted us forth. A short glissade down a snow
slope, a little manœuvring that brought us safely across a diminutive
bergschrund, and we were floundering knee-deep through soft, sodden
snow to our provision depôt. There we made our first halt worthy of the
name since leaving the Bergli hut nine hours previously and, at peace
with ourselves and the world in general, enjoyed a well-earned rest
while the cooking apparatus produced the means of ministering to our
more material requirements.
[Illustration: _Evening storm._]
[Illustration: _Morning calm._
_Facing page 80._
]
Soon after 11 a.m. we were heading across the glacier to join the
broad trail leading down from the Jungfrau towards the Concordia hut.
The last lap in the journey proved to be the usual leaden finish to
a golden day. The rucksacks containing our dumped belongings were
unpleasantly heavy; the sun, so longed for in the chill, early hours of
the morning, was now a source of discomfort, and the soft, moist snow
under foot reflected a fierce glare. On nearing the Concordia Platz,
that vast plain of ice, the meeting-place of four great glaciers of the
Oberland, we took off the rope, having left the last of the concealed
crevasses well behind. At 1.15 p.m., after boggling through innumerable
puddles of icy water, we arrived on the rocky promontory on which stand
the hôtel and the two Concordia huts. In all, we had been twelve hours
_en route_.
CHAPTER VI
ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND
With the coming of the Christmas vacation of 1908, Max and I, in
accordance with our well-established custom, returned to Grindelwald.
Having in the preceding summer become more intimately acquainted with
the towering, snow-bound heights at whose feet nestles the winter sport
resort _par excellence_ of the Oberland, short ski-ing expeditions to
the Faulhorn, Männlichen and the other lesser satellites of the great
Oberland giants no longer satisfied us. We were now eager to penetrate
into the winter fastnesses of the glacier regions.
Prior to the advent of skis in Switzerland, winter ascents of
first-class peaks were, as a rule, formidable undertakings. Winter
conditions in the mountains are quite different from those met with in
the summer. Deep snow, often soft and powdery and requiring extremely
careful treatment to avoid the danger of starting avalanches, lies
right down into the valleys. Thus the ascent to the mountain club-hut,
usually a simple matter in summer, is often in the cold season a long
and arduous expedition. Frequently it is impossible to follow the usual
route, and deviations involving hours of fatiguing stamping in snow,
into which one sinks to the knee, or even deeper, at each step, may be
necessary to steer clear of dangerous slopes and gullies. Simple rocks,
when laden with their wintry cloak of snow, become difficult and demand
great care in climbing. The lower reaches of glaciers, snow-free or
“dry” in summer, are in winter clad in a deep, white pall that obscures
crevasses with a covering deceptive and insecure for the human tread.
Higher up, above the hut, differences are not so obvious, though they
are far from non-existent. Cold may be severe. Changes in the weather
seem to occur more suddenly and with less warning. A summer storm in
the high Alps can be serious enough; but it is nothing to the ruthless,
inhuman and deadly force of the elements let loose in winter. The
snow, to all appearances perhaps the same, is yet different. One must
constantly be on one’s guard against avalanches and snow-shields; the
snow bridges across crevasses are deceiving in their massiveness. In
summer, the experienced mountaineer can readily detect the presence
of a chasm in a snow-covered glacier; but in winter he may find his
judgment sadly at fault. These changed conditions have naturally
undergone no alteration with the coming of skis; but skis enable one to
mount long snow slopes and cross wide expanses without sinking deeply
in, and thus, by relieving one of the labours of snow stamping, they
reduce the fatigue consequent upon walking in snow. Also, owing to the
fact that one’s weight is distributed over a much larger area, they
diminish the danger of falling into crevasses. And again, they enable
one to descend snow slopes at a far greater speed and with much less
expenditure of energy than is possible without them.
Christmas festivities and their usual after-effects failed to take
the edge off our mountaineering keenness, and after breakfast on the
26th, Max and I strapped on our skis in front of the Eiger Hotel and
shouldered our knapsacks containing provisions, a rope and an axe each.
Dr. Odo Tauern, an experienced mountaineer and first-rate ski-er,
joined us. He was to accompany us to the Bergli hut where two friends
were due to meet him on the 28th. From Grindelwald we ski-ed down into
the valley, and crossed the Lütschinen stream by the bridge of the
railway connecting Grindelwald with the Little Scheidegg. In winter,
of course, this railway is not open. As a preliminary to facing the
long pull up before us, we fastened on seal-skins under our skis.
These are long strips of seal-skin which one fixes to the skis in such
a manner that the lie of the hairs is such as to prevent one’s skis
from slipping backwards when going uphill. We followed the railway
track, diverging only in one place where it crosses the middle of a
long, steep slope. Here the snow had drifted so that a smooth slope was
left, and no sign of the railway was visible. The snow on the slope
was bad, and thinking it highly probable that the making of ski-tracks
over it would result in the formation of an avalanche, we preferred to
work down underneath the slope and so avoid danger. Before arriving at
the Little Scheidegg, we turned up to the left towards the Eiger and,
mounting steeply, gained the Eiger Glacier station where the tunnel
of the Jungfrau railway begins. Active tunnelling operations on the
railway were then in full progress, and it was our intention to travel
by one of the workmen’s trains to the Eismeer Glacier station, in those
days the most advanced station on the track. As luck would have it, we
just missed the last train and had to spend the night at the office
of the engineer-in-chief, Herr Liechti, who received us with every
possible kindness.
At five o’clock next morning, with skis and other paraphernalia, we
stepped out into the keen, cold air and trundled down to the entrance
of the tunnel. Packed like the proverbial sardines into the railway
carriage with a crowd of marvellously cheerful, Italian tunnelling
workmen, who even at this miserable hour were able to sing their
songs with zest, time passed rapidly enough until the Eismeer station
was reached. Here we were led down a tunnel which broke through the
rock at a point some thirty feet above the snow of the glacier, on
to which we and our belongings were lowered on ropes. Strapping on
our skis, we began to seek a way through the intricate icefall, over
towards the Bergli hut. The ordinary summer route, which Max and I
knew well enough, could not be used; it was far too much endangered by
avalanches. The only alternative was to approach the lower Mönchjoch
and descend to the hut. This involved finding a passage right up
through the icefall, but by keeping close to the wonderful precipices
of the Eiger, so steep that they were almost free from snow, a feasible
way was found. In spite of our skis, it was hard work, so deep and
soft was the snow. As the presence of crevasses in winter is often
so extremely difficult of detection, and a fall into one cannot be
arrested so quickly when on skis as without them, we were roped at
a distance of seventy feet from man to man. In addition, Maxwell,
who brought up the rear, carried a spare hundred-foot rope for use
in case of emergency. Zig-zagging in and out between great pinnacles
of ice, probing with the axe at each step for concealed crevasses,
we had almost passed through the icefall and were not far below the
lower Mönchjoch, when an opportunity of working over to the left,
towards the snow slopes above the rocks whereon the Bergli hut stands,
revealed itself. It was obvious that caution would be necessary in
effecting the crossing, not on account of avalanches or the danger of
treading loose a snow-shield, for the ground was hardly steep enough
for that, but because the new route, instead of leading us at right
angles across crevasses, led in the general direction in which the
crevasses lay; that is, _along_ instead of _across_ them. Using the
axe to discover the whereabouts of crevasses was by no means always
effective; in places the snow was so soft and deep that the axe could
be plunged in right to the head without meeting with the resistance
that betokened the presence of firm, safe snow, or that lack of
resistance indicating the void that meant danger. On this part of
the journey, therefore, we had to rely to a great extent upon mere
external appearances. We had all but gained the slopes just below the
Mönchjoch and above the Bergli hut, when Tauern suddenly broke clean
through a snow bridge. The violent shock of his weight coming on the
rope dragged me backwards on my skis for a yard or two and my brother
forward; thus Tauern had completely disappeared before we could arrest
his fall. Try as we would, we were unable to pull him up. So Max
crossed the crevasse at another point, and together, heaving with all
our might and main, we managed to pull our companion over to one side
of the chasm, and even raise him until his head was almost level with
the edge of the hole through which he had broken. Still hanging in the
crevasse, he unfastened and threw his skis up to us, and also gave us
the much-needed information as to the direction in which the walls
of his prison ran. It was then an easy matter for me to approach the
brink of the crevasse and push the shaft of an axe in underneath the
rope by which Max held Tauern suspended, and thus prevent its cutting
more deeply into the snow. After I had cleared away some of the snow,
leaving a channel, Tauern, aided by the united pull of my brother and
I, was able at last to set foot above ground again.
This is the first and last time that I have seen a man fall into a
crevasse in winter. It is not an experience to be repeated lightly; it
had been by no means an easy task for two of us to get our comrade
out, and had he been unequal to assisting us and not the capable and
ready-witted mountaineer that he is, the task might well have been
an insuperable one. Mountaineers to-day seem somewhat inclined to
under-rate the dangers of falling into a crevasse. In summer, except
perhaps immediately after heavy falls of fresh snow, it should be
possible for a party to avoid this danger altogether. But in winter,
the greatest care and experience, combined with keenness of vision, are
necessary to steer clear of making the acquaintance of the interior of
a crevasse--an acquaintance which may, if one is fortunate, be merely
unpleasant, but is likely to result in very grave danger indeed.[3]
[Illustration: _The Eismeer icefall._
_The Bergli hut stands on the rock ridge to the left centre._]
[Illustration: _Sounding a snowbridge._
_Facing page 86._
]
After Tauern had shaken his clothes as free from snow as possible
and put on his skis, we set off once more. Meeting with no further
adventure, we reached the slopes above the hut. Here we left our skis,
planting them upright in the snow, and then plunged down thigh-deep
to the hut. It was just on nightfall. Being mid-winter, it was not
surprising that the thermometer inside the hut registered 42° F. of
frost. But there was a compensating abundance of wood and blankets.
Like most of the Swiss Alpine Club huts, the Bergli is soundly built
with a view, _inter alia_, to conservation of heat in its interior;
and it was not long after lighting the fire, upon which we placed pans
full of snow to procure water for cooking purposes, that a pleasant,
comforting warmth was suffused throughout the little building. In those
days Max and I rather fancied ourselves as cooks. But Tauern, whose
mountain experience was greater than ours, had stocked his knapsack
with such a supply of well-chosen dainties, forming a marked contrast
to our own stodgy and unromantic though filling and nourishing food,
that there was nothing for it but to come off our pedestals and act as
mere assistants. That evening we enjoyed a wonderful dinner of many
courses. As it was the first really square meal we had indulged in
since leaving Grindelwald, our appetites came well up to scratch. At
peace with ourselves and the world, we presently turned in to sleep.
Being alone in the hut, the supply of blankets was in excess of our
needs; each man slept on three spread on the straw of the bunks and
covered himself with half a dozen more. With the exception of boots
and coats, we slept in our out-door clothes. The warmth inside the hut
lasted until well past midnight; but long before daybreak, in spite
of our many coverings, the cold disturbed our slumbers, and at five
o’clock we were glad to throw back the blankets, all frosted where the
moisture from our breath had condensed and frozen upon them, and get
up and light the fire. After breakfast we thawed our boots against the
stove, and put them and puttees on. Still inside the hut, we roped and
shortly after sunrise set off towards the lower Mönchjoch.
It was laborious work forcing our way up towards the skis, for the
snow was as soft as ever. The day was gloriously fine; the sky was
cloudless; strange, cold, yellowish-green near the horizon, but
deepening to a pale, hard blue overhead. Most of the peaks about us
were already bathed in the warm light of the sun, but we ourselves were
still in the shade. Presently we reached the spot where we had left
our skis. Snow ploughing was at an end; with these useful things on
our feet we no longer sank deeply into the snow and, forging a zig-zag
track, soon arrived at the lower Mönchjoch and into the sunshine--a
pleasant relief after the cold shadow. The bergschrund below the lower
Mönchjoch was choked with masses of snow, and we ski-ed down over it
and across a short slope on to the plateau of the Ewigschneefeld,
stirring up merry clouds of snow dust in our wake. We had planned to
cross the upper Mönchjoch and climb the Jungfrau. But from the lower
Mönchjoch, the presence of fish-shaped clouds behind the Jungfrau and
a fresh and gusty west wind gave warning of a possible change in the
weather. However, we shuffled over the Ewigschneefeld, deciding to
wait until arriving at the upper Mönchjoch before coming to a definite
decision as to further movements. But no improvement in the weather
outlook took place; on the contrary, things had taken a distinct turn
for the worse, and the wind was occasionally strong enough to prove
troublesome by whirling up streamers of snow dust in our faces. To
try the Jungfrau under these conditions would have been unwise; so we
decided to content ourselves with climbing the Mönch. From the upper
Mönchjoch, the most convenient line of ascent to the summit lies over
the south-east ridge. Using skis as far as possible, we mounted until
we reached a point on the ridge where the wind had swept the rocks free
from snow. These were perfectly easy; so gentle was the slope that it
was not even necessary to use one’s hands. Beyond was a snow ridge,
the steeper portion of which was quite simple, though the final part
needed some care in negotiating. It was covered by an immense snow
cornice, overhanging on the right, and, in order to avoid walking on it
and incurring the risk of its breaking away, we had to keep well down
to the left where the presence of ice occasionally necessitated the
cutting of steps. Shortly after half-past ten we gained the spacious,
snow-capped summit of the Mönch. A little way down on the north side,
we found complete shelter from the wind which had now veered round and
was blowing from the south. We sat for a whole hour, feeling none too
warm perhaps, but revelling in the wonderful view spread out at our
feet. A dense, moving sea of cloud, which rose to an altitude of seven
or eight thousand feet, blotted out the plains; and here and there
midst the softly-foaming billows, snow-capped summits, like little
islands, thrust their gleaming heads.
On turning to make our way down again, we found that the wind had
risen and was whipping up into our faces great streamers of snow from
summit and from ridge. The stinging sensation of the wind-driven snow
spicules as they struck the unprotected skin was painful if also
exhilarating, and, retracing our steps as fast as we could, we eagerly
sought the comparative shelter of the upper Mönchjoch. The descent was
without incident, and, after regaining our skis, we sped back with
all haste over the lower Mönchjoch towards the Bergli hut. Above the
hut we espied two strange pairs of skis planted upright in the snow.
No tracks, however, were visible; the wind-blown snow had levelled
them out. We arrived at the hut at 1.30 p.m., an hour and a half
after leaving the summit of the Mönch; and stepping into the pleasant
shelter, were greeted by Tauern’s friends who had come to keep their
tryst with him.
In view of the almost certain approach of bad weather, Max and I now
made the mistake of not continuing our descent to the Eismeer. The
others had ample provisions to tide them over an enforced stay in the
hut, but our own stores were sufficient for only one, or at the most
two, more meals. Loth to leave the pleasant companionship of the others
and the warm, hospitable shelter of the hut, we decided to remain for
the night and go down to the Eismeer on the following morning.
During the night snow fell heavily. Next day, after a belated
breakfast, Max and I, in spite of the fresh snow and the fact that
the weather, though quiet, was still uncertain, decided to set out.
Everything was obscured in mist. Tauern, more aware of the danger of
our plans than we, did his utmost to dissuade us. The thought, however,
that our remaining in the hut would spoil his and his companions’
climbing programme, through unexpected depletion of their supplies,
settled the matter. Max and I put on the rope and, with the others’
wishes for good luck, set off. The struggle up through the soft, deep
snow to our skis, left sticking some two hundred feet above the hut,
was most laborious. Less troublesome was the long traverse towards the
head of the icefall, close under the cliffs of the Eiger. I doubt,
however, if either of us realised the great danger we were incurring
here. Owing to the recent snow fall, it was doubly difficult to
detect the presence of crevasses, and, though we made use of every
precaution then known to us, I have no doubt that it was sheer good
luck that saw us across more than one snow bridge in safety. Had either
broken well through into a crevasse, it is most unlikely that the
other, unaided, could have pulled him out. But fortune was with us.
Notwithstanding dense mists, wind, and lashing snow dust, we kept in
the right direction, and when hard under the cliffs of the Eiger, of
the proximity of which the reflected sound of a shout gave adequate
indication, we turned down through the icefall. Struggling along
through the deep snow had resulted in our underclothing getting wet,
and we began to feel the cold. To add to our discomfort, the descent
of particularly steep pitches necessitated the removal of our skis,
and the continual taking off and refastening of these became a trying
task for the fingers. However, things went passably well despite minor
troubles, and we had almost reached the safe ground below the icefall
when I felt a tremendous wind sweep down upon me from _above_. Next
moment, almost before I had become aware of what was happening, I was
choking for breath in the dense snow dust of an avalanche falling down
upon us from the cliffs of the Eiger. Max was about a hundred feet
behind me at the full length of the rope and, as luck would have it,
clear of the falling stream of dust. He could see me disappear as the
thick snow cloud enveloped me. The snow fell until I was buried to
above my head, and, just as I thought I would be stifled, the avalanche
mercifully ceased. By keeping my hands above me and moving them as if
I were swimming, I had left a sort of funnel through which I could get
some air. Fortunately the snow dust had not packed firmly, and after
herculean efforts I succeeded in twisting my feet loose from my buried
skis and, helped by Max’s pull on the rope, was able to free myself
from the unpleasant situation. As my skis were absolutely indispensable
for the completion of the descent, we had to set about recovering them;
but it was not until we had grovelled for nearly an hour in the floury
snow that they were found.
Five minutes later we stood below the entrance of the railway tunnel.
This, it will be remembered, was separated from the snow upon which we
now stood by a rocky wall some thirty feet high and unclimbable in its
lower part. We shouted ourselves hoarse in an endeavour to attract the
attention of workmen who might be in the tunnel, but all to no purpose.
In the end we had to fall back upon self-help. Taking off the rope,
we made a noose and then set to work to try and lasso a large iron
pin which had been driven into the rock a few feet below the entrance
of the tunnel. Cast after cast failed, each flung wide by the gusts
of an erratic wind. A quarter of an hour at this game showed us that
we had over-estimated our prowess with the lasso; but at last a throw
succeeded. A twitch or two of the rope settled the noose firmly on the
pin, and I then proceeded to try and haul myself up hand over hand; but
the struggle in the avalanche had sapped my strength to such an extent
that I failed miserably. Then Max tried, and after a desperate battle
grasped the pin. As soon as he was up he hauled in the knapsacks, axes
and skis. He next fastened one end of the rope to the pin while I tied
the other about my waist. Then, with Max hauling with all his might,
I struggled up. After a rest, we gathered together our belongings and
walked up the tunnel towards the station. Even now, troubles were not
at an end. The entrance to the station was barred by an iron grating.
Outside was a bell with a polite invitation to ring. We accepted with
all our hearts. But for nearly half an hour we stood there, shivering
in the fierce, cold draught that swept up from the glacier world
without. At last, just when we were beginning to despair of attracting
anyone’s attention, a tunnelling foreman came and opened the gate.
Noticing our plight at once, he led us to the engine house and tucked
us in between two great compressed air cylinders belonging to the
Ingersoll rock-drilling outfit. There we slept, warm and comfortable,
until it was time to descend by one of the workmen’s trains. As night
had fallen ere we arrived at the Eiger Glacier station, it was too late
to continue our way to Grindelwald, but the engineer-in-chief once
again proffered hospitality.
Next morning Max, who had suffered frost-bite in one heel, had
difficulty in getting on his boots; but once this painful task
was accomplished and our skis were strapped on, all went well.
Three-quarters of an hour later we were mounting the slopes beyond the
Lütschinen stream towards Grindelwald, the Eiger Hôtel and comfort.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] In connection with the wearing of the rope on glaciers, attention
should be drawn to the fact that the so-called “middleman noose,” a
knot which is warmly advocated in many quarters, must never be used. It
is a slip-knot.
CHAPTER VII
ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND (_continued_)
In later years we visited many other parts of the Alps on skis; but
it was not until the Easter of 1914 that we returned to the great
glaciers of the Oberland. On April 9, I boarded the continental
train at Charing Cross and, on the following day, joined my brother
in Zürich, where he was completing his studies. My arrival being
totally unexpected, I was indeed fortunate in finding him free from
climbing plans and obligations. Next evening at eight o’clock we were
in Wengen. After dinner, and having written a few letters informing
relatives and friends that we were off for a week’s ski-ing mid the
peaks of the Bernese Oberland, we put on skis and, at 10 p.m., left
the Schönegg Hôtel. The moon shone brightly, and we strode up the
buried railway track through a land of silver dominated by the great
ghostly shapes of that wonderful Alpine trinity, the Eiger, Mönch and
Jungfrau. All shuttered up and deserted were the railway station and
collection of hôtels at the Little Scheidegg--a forlorn colony of the
dead. In the eerie magic of an hour past midnight, we should not have
been astonished had a ghostly throng of perspiring trippers appeared
from nowhere and begun that fight for seats of vantage on the train,
which we had more than once witnessed during the bright sunny days of
a summer season. Braving the possible presence of the supernatural,
however, we paused here to indulge in the infinitely prosaic--a meal
of dry bread and raw bacon fat, our favourite winter tit-bit!
Soon we were off again up the railway track. The snow throughout was
safe and in perfect condition, and at 3 a.m. we reached the Eiger
Glacier station. We saw the engineer on duty, who most kindly undertook
to make the necessary arrangements for a special train to be at our
disposal after breakfast. Unwilling to disturb others, we contented
ourselves with a table each for bed and slept soundly until after
sunrise. The train left just after eight. During the six years that
had elapsed since our last visit, considerable progress had been made,
and the tunnel completed up to the Jungfraujoch. The railway track,
however, was not yet finished, and the walk from the train to the Joch
was no easy matter, as the final section of the tunnel was still in the
rough stage. Thanks to the kind offers of one of the tunnelling foremen
who remembered us from the winter of 1908, we were provided with a warm
meal at a trifling cost.
With the good wishes of all the staff, we stepped out of the tunnel at
noon on the 12th and, descending carefully over a steep snow slope,
crossed a small snow-choked bergschrund on to the Jungfrau Glacier.
Here we put on skis and, leaving the heavy knapsacks to be picked up on
the return journey, headed for the Mönchjoch. We wore the rope, though,
at this time of the year and with the snow in its present condition,
there was no difficulty in detecting the presence of crevasses or
in sounding with the axe and accurately estimating the strength of
snow bridges. The weather was sunny and windless, and, though the
temperature in the shade was far below freezing, we gradually divested
ourselves of coats and shirts and arrived in the lower Mönchjoch
stripped to the waist, but fresh and aglow from the exertion. There
we were accosted by the gentlest of breezes; sufficient, nevertheless,
to persuade us to resume some of our discarded coverings. The skis,
not needed for the time being, were left behind as we turned up the
south-east ridge of the Mönch. The climb up the ridge was as easy as
I have ever known it, so good were the conditions. Along the final,
almost level section, we found the remains of old steps which we at
first followed. Presently, however, we forsook them. According to
our views, they went dangerously close to, and were sometimes even
on, the overhanging portion of the immense cornice which adorns the
crest of this part of the ridge. We preferred to keep well down on the
steep slope to the left, though such a procedure did involve a little
step-cutting. At 3 p.m. we paid our third visit to the summit of the
Mönch. Filmy mists of the kind that the mountaineer usually associates
with fair, settled weather floated up from the north and enveloped us
almost immediately. Despite a fresh breeze from the south-west, they
clung tenaciously about us, completely obscuring the view. For nearly
an hour we waited for things to clear; but in vain. Too chilled to
prolong our stay, we sought warmth in action and turned back towards
the Mönchjoch. As we passed along the highest section of the ridge, I
re-cut one or two of the steps. Suddenly I was startled by a crashing
noise, followed by a thunderous roar, as almost the whole of the
great cornice broke away for a distance of about a hundred yards in
front and fifty yards behind us and fell down in a mighty avalanche
towards the Eismeer. Where a moment previously the view to the left
had been shut off by a steep snow wall, I now had an uninterrupted
survey down the precipice, from the brink of which I was separated by
a distance of only an inch or two. At first we were a little startled
by the suddenness of the happening, but later regarded it as merely
another demonstration of the fact that, if mountaineering is to be a
safe pursuit, knowledge and the exercise of care are indispensable.
Although much of the ridge along which we now had to pass was still
heavily corniced, we had faith in the safety of the tracks we had left
on ascending and, following these, made our way down to our skis.
Strapping them on and coiling up the rope, we skimmed in a sheer
riot of exhilaration down towards the Jungfraujoch, keeping as much
as possible to our previous tracks. It being our intention to make
the Concordia hut our home for the next few days, we recovered our
knapsacks and, at 5 p.m., set off down the Jungfrau Glacier on the last
lap of the day’s journey.
The run down the glacier was somewhat spoilt by the fact that the
weight of our knapsacks rendered crevasse-dodging rather difficult
unless the pace of travel was kept down by frequent braking. Far
from easy to negotiate, too, were the occasional patches of snow,
hard-crusted by the action of the fierce winds that from time to time
sweep up this glacier in winter. It was, however, a wonderful evening.
There was no cause for haste, so we halted frequently to ease our
shoulders of the weight of the knapsacks and to point out to each other
old friends amongst the surrounding peaks. We had last crossed the
Concordia Platz in the summer of 1909. Then we had found it a vast,
almost level expanse of glacier covered with an abominable slush of
snow and water. But now it was in the grip of winter. We ambled and
slid over a dry, powdery snow surface, the soft, fresh breezes of dusk
playing about us and cooling the flush that exercise had called to our
faces. A little, fairly steep slope lay between the edge of the glacier
and the rocks on which the Concordia hut stands. I ski-ed down this
slope and brought up with a Christiania swing; but not in time to
prevent twisting my left ankle against a stone--a painful experience,
though no bones were broken, and, beyond the throbbing pain, I seemed
to suffer no inconvenience. We climbed up the almost snow-free rocks
and, at 7.30 p.m., arrived in the hut. By this time there remained
to us but faded memories of our last meal, and it was not until ten
o’clock that our ravenous appetites were satisfied.
[Illustration: _Cornices on the Punta Margherita._]
[Illustration: _A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge._
_Facing page 98._
]
Next morning, after a night of wonderful sleep, we awoke at 9.30. The
weather was doubtful, with cloudy skies and a gusty wind varying in
quarter from west to south. Shortly before midday, after alternating
between hopes and fears as to the prospects of being able to do
something by way of an excursion, we left the hut, carrying only the
rope and a little chocolate, it being our humble intention to potter
about on the Concordia Platz. However, after putting on the skis,
which had been left down on the glacier, we decided that, though the
clouds and the wind gusts were still as evident as ever, the weather
might hold out sufficiently long to enable us to climb the Ebnefluh. We
crossed the Concordia Platz and, mounting up the main Aletsch Glacier,
eventually turned up the Ebnefluh Glacier and headed almost straight
for the summit of our peak. We were able to keep the skis on until
within a few hundred feet of the top. Had the snow been powdery and
suitable for ski-ing instead of hard and frozen, we might have ski-ed
right on to the summit. At 6 p.m. we had gained the highest point.
The most striking feature of the view from the summit of the Ebnefluh
(13,005 ft.) is the wonderful outlook it affords over the tremendous
precipices falling away to the Rotthal Valley, one of the wildest and
most secluded and, from the climber’s point of view, most interesting
valleys in the Alps.
We had put on the rope on leaving the skis, but even on foot, by
exercising ordinary, reasonable caution, there was no danger of falling
into a crevasse. With the passage from early to late winter, glacier
conditions suffer enormous change. I have previously pointed out how
the winter snows form most unreliable bridges over crevasses and often
mask them so effectively that the vision of even the most experienced
mountaineer is sometimes unable to detect them. But later on, towards
the close of the winter season, usually in March and almost always in
April, the keen mountaineer will never be at fault in this respect.
I am frequently at a loss to explain to a less experienced companion
how this can be. Perhaps long experience in the mountains tends to
develop in one an extra and particular sense which warns one of the
proximity of hidden crevasses; but to those who wish a more scientific
explanation, I would draw attention to the following facts. Towards
the end of winter the snow is more consolidated, that is, packed more
closely by reason of its own weight and the effect of wind. Where snow
is unsupported from below, that is, where it lies over a crevasse, a
slight, sometimes almost imperceptible hollow will be formed on its
surface. These hollows, slight though they be, betray themselves to
the experienced eye by the difference in the shade of the light that
they reflect and thus give warning of the existence of a crevasse.
In the earlier part of the winter, the snow, as a rule, has not had
time to “pack” sufficiently to form such hollows, and the detection of
chasms is therefore immeasurably more difficult. A heated controversy
is now raging amongst ski-ing experts as to whether the rope should
be worn when ski-ing on glaciers in winter. It is by no means easy
for a party roped together to keep the rope taut while ski-ing down
a glacier, without inflicting bad jerks and causing each other to
fall. For this reason the rope is considered by many ski-ers to be an
unmitigated nuisance. Hence the rise of the two contesting parties. To
me, the question does not seem to admit of an answering unqualified
“Yes” or “No.” Owing to the difficulty of sighting crevasses during the
beginning and middle of winter, the wearing of the rope at these times
should certainly be urged, even on the simplest of glaciers. But the
rope must be worn properly, kept taut from man to man; and as one’s
rate of travel is far greater on skis than without, and the difficulty
of holding a man who has fallen into a crevasse is proportionally
greater, there should be not less than a hundred feet of rope between
each member of the party. Later on in the season, an experienced party
may unhesitatingly dispense with the rope on glacier expeditions,
provided that they are not only adept ski-ers with full command of
their skis, but really skilled mountaineers, with eyes open, ever on
their guard against the hidden dangers of the mountains.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, our halt on the top of the Ebnefluh
was a brief one. Within five minutes of leaving the summit we were back
at our skis, rubbing them fondly with grease in anticipation of a swift
run home. With veils of snow dust flying out behind us, we whizzed down
on to the Aletsch Glacier and, half sliding, half shuffling, worked
across the Concordia Platz, arriving in the hut just after nightfall.
On the 14th we were up at the fairly reasonable hour of six, but though
the weather was calm and fine we did not launch out on any ambitious
programme. My ankle, though no longer very painful, was so swollen that
I had great difficulty in getting on my boot. Thinking, however, that
a little exercise would do no harm, we ski-ed up to the Grünhornlücke
and climbed a neighbouring peak called the Weissnollen (11,841 ft.).
What with my ankle and the deep powdery snow, it took us three hours to
plough our way up to the former. The return from the Grünhornlücke to
the hut, however, was accomplished in barely fifteen minutes.
Early next morning, dense mists surrounded the hut, and snow was
falling fast. At 9 a.m. we looked out, to find the snow had ceased
and the mists were being blown away by a fierce north-easter. But we
dallied until the weather became more certain, and at a quarter to
eleven set off for the Fiescherhorn. To climb the Fiescherhorn, it was
necessary to gain the upper level of the Ewigschneefeld above its great
icefall. By keeping to the left bank of the latter, we succeeded in
finding a passage without having to remove our skis; but by the time
the glacier above had been gained, the weather had taken a turn for the
worse, and in the end we had to content ourselves with climbing the
Walcherhorn (12,155 ft.). Skis were kept on right up to the summit.
No view rewarded our labours. Mists clung about us, and a cold wind
hastened our retreat. Through the clouds, keeping to our former tracks,
we ran down to the head of the icefall. Then came five wonderfully
exciting minutes as, in and out of crevasses and séracs, we twisted and
turned and sped, without a halt, out on to the unbroken slopes below
the icefall and down to the Concordia Platz, to reach home in time for
four o’clock tea.
We voted the next day to be one of rest. The strain of manœuvring
through the icefall of the Ewigschneefeld had caused my ankle to swell
up again, and Max was suffering from a cough which made him declare he
felt ready for a coffin. It was beautifully clear weather when we rose
from our sleeping bunks at one o’clock, and the rest of the day was
spent sitting in the sun in front of the hut, Max wrapped up in layers
of blankets in an attempt to sweat out his cold, while I, between meal
times, endeavoured to allay the inflammation of my ankle with frequent
applications of bandages soaked in ice-cold water.
On April 17, we were up before daybreak and left the hut at seven
o’clock, bound for the Jungfrau. Once again a bright sun shone from a
cloudless sky and a dead calm reigned. So warm was it that our progress
was a most moderate one and punctuated by many rests. At one o’clock we
gained the large bergschrund immediately under the Rotthal Sattel and
there left the skis. Fifty minutes later, having mounted for the most
part in perfect snow and having found it necessary to cut only a few
steps, we were on the summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.). It was our
fifth visit to the Queen of the Oberland; she had always received us
well, but never so kindly as on this late winter afternoon of cloudless
sky and total absence of wind. Much though we would have preferred
to dally, our stay had to be cut short; for a deficiency in certain
articles of provisions rendered necessary a visit to the Jungfraujoch
on the way back. Threading a way down on to the glacier and then
mounting a steep little snow slope, we arrived, in due course, at the
tunnel of the Jungfraujoch station where we loaded up fresh supplies,
not forgetting wax for the skis which were no longer slipping as freely
as they should. After re-waxing them, we sped down to the edge of the
Concordia Platz in ten short minutes. The temptation to loaf there in
the sun proved irresistible, and it was not until six o’clock that we
arrived back in our little winter home.
It was our plan to tackle the Grüneckhorn and the Gross Grünhorn on the
following day; a more ambitious undertaking than any we had attempted
this season. The weather was doubtful when we looked out just before
sunrise. A south wind was driving rolling banks of mist up the Aletsch
Glacier, and cloud caps, omens of evil weather, had settled on the
summits of all the greater mountains. By eight o’clock no improvement
had taken place, so we decided to shift our abode and cross the
Grünhornlücke to the Finsteraarhorn hut. An hour later, just as we
were preparing to leave, the north wind at last seemed on the point of
gaining the ascendancy over the south, and the weather took a distinct
turn for the better. We straightway made up our minds to adhere to our
original plan. With a rope slung over Max’s shoulder, and a camera and
a few provisions in my pockets, we ski-ed up towards the prominent gap
in the south-west ridge of the Grüneckhorn. Before reaching it, the
badly crevassed nature of the glacier and the icy condition of the snow
forced us to leave the skis. We put on the rope and kicked a way up
in snow that was so hard and good that we never sank in to more than
ankle-depth. From the gap onwards, we followed a delightful ice ridge
which forced us to a free use of the ice-axe in cutting steps. Knowing
that there was not much time to spare, we worked with a will and,
shortly after one o’clock, gained the summit of the Grüneckhorn (12,500
ft.). The climb from here along the snow-free rock ridge to the summit
of the Gross Grünhorn was child’s play. The weather was perfect; and
no cold wind whipped our faces. We might almost have been climbing on
a fine summer’s day, so warm were the rocks, and so good the climbing
conditions. We sat on the top of the Gross Grünhorn (13,278 ft.) till
well after three. The view from this summit is almost unique. One is
so closed in on all sides by great peaks that, no matter where the eye
roves, it rests on nothing save rock and ice and perpetual snow. No
green valleys suggesting the homes of human folk are there to offer a
contrast to the sterner majesty of nature.
Within three-quarters of an hour of leaving the summit, we were back
on the Grüneckhorn, and there conceived the idea of descending by the
hitherto unclimbed south face, a tremendously steep snow slope through
which rocks jutted out here and there. The wonderful condition of the
snow tempted us to this decision. Under less favourable circumstances,
indeed, such a venture might well have led to trouble. Facing inwards
towards the steep snow, we kicked our way downwards step by step,
surely but quickly, and crossed the bergschrund at the foot of the
slope without the slightest difficulty. Twenty minutes after leaving
the summit, we were back at our skis and a quarter of an hour later had
entered the hut.
According to programme, we were due at the Finsteraarhorn hut on
Sunday the 19th. The barometer had fallen so low, however, and the
weather had become so threatening, that we entertained scant hopes of
being able to carry our projects into effect. We waited till midday,
but no improvement took place; so we packed up to return home via the
Lötschenlücke and the Lötschberg railway. Steering by map and compass,
we crossed the Concordia Platz and mounted the main Aletsch Glacier
through thick mists and gently-falling snow. At four o’clock we left
the Lötschenlücke, having paused at the Egon von Steiger hut, close to
the pass, for lunch. In a few minutes we had run down below the cloud
level. From the ski-ing point of view, the snow was bad, possessing
almost throughout a hard, thick, frozen crust which made it difficult
for one to exert proper control over the skis. The strap of one of
Max’s bindings, cut by the crusted snow, gave way, and replacing it
by a spare was no easy matter, for the narrow little slit in the ski,
through which the spare had to be threaded, was partly blocked with
ice. Lower down the snow was deep and wet and of such a consistency
that we seemed to be running through treacle.
Just before reaching the little village of Blatten in the Lötschen
Valley, we took off the skis and trudged down the long path to
Goppenstein where we caught the train for Zürich, little thinking that
we were turning our backs on the mountains and all that they meant to
us for the next five years.
There is much to be said for winter mountaineering. In summer, if one
wishes to climb the Jungfrau or any other similar mountain, the ascent
of which involves a lengthy walk on snow-covered glaciers, one must
start very early, well before daybreak; otherwise, the sun will have
softened the snow so much that the ascent, and still more the descent,
will be most laborious. On skis and in winter, this nightmare of a
long and wearisome trudge in soft snow hardly exists. The return from
a climb, especially, is a simple and almost effortless affair. Again,
fewer people by far climb in the winter season, and, if one so wishes,
one’s solitude need not be disturbed. Throughout this glorious week in
the Oberland we had had the huts and the mountains all to ourselves.
CHAPTER VIII
A WINTER’S NIGHT ON THE TÖDI
BY MAXWELL B. I. FINCH
Bad weather and unfavourable conditions had too often caused the
postponement of several winter climbs, among them a long-planned ascent
of the Tödi on skis. At length, towards the end of the winter term of
1911, a week-end arrived, sunny and bright, heralding the approach
of spring. On the fourth eager inquiry the Meteorological Office
gave a not too dismal reply, with the result that the laboratories
and drawing-boards of Zürich’s Polytechnic suddenly seemed very
unattractive. The reply came at 11 a.m. on Saturday, March 11. After
rapid preparations and a hurried lunch, a party of five, consisting
of Obexer, Morgenthaler, Weber, Forster, and myself, boarded the 1.30
p.m. train for Linthal. George was unable to join us, being in the
throes of his final examinations. At Zürich-Enge, the first stop of the
train, we were reduced to four, since Forster left us to chase after a
porter to whose care he had entrusted his skis and rucksack, and who,
of course, failed to put in an appearance at the right moment. Just
beyond the village of Linthal, the terminus of our journey by rail,
we put on the skis, the heavy snowfalls of the previous week having
lowered the snow-line far down into the valleys. At Tierfehd, an hour
beyond the village, the road ends. At the foot of the steep path which
leads thence over the Panten bridge we adjusted seal-skins. At 11 p.m.
we arrived at the alp-huts of Hintersand (4,285 ft.), where a halt of
half an hour was made for supper. The following steep rise up to the
Tentiwang showed various traces of avalanches, but was certainly safe
at that hour of the night. Two members of our party were comparatively
inexperienced mountaineers; Obexer and I were, therefore, disturbed
when Weber, one of the two novices, led up this part rather too
energetically, for a killing pace on the first day often means a winded
man on the morrow. At one spot before reaching the Tentiwang pastures,
a short but steep slope of ice-covered rocks cost us much hard labour
and time. We had to replace the skis by crampons, cut steps and finally
pull up rucksacks and skis on the rope.
From the Tentiwang (5,250 ft.) the usual summer route towards the
Bifertenalpeli was chosen, the snow being firmly frozen and quite safe.
Had the snow been unsafe, we should have mounted straight up to, and
over, the end of the glacier which is generally the better and safer
way to the hut in winter. At 3 a.m. we stepped into the St. Fridolin’s
club-hut (6,910 ft.). Nowhere during the whole ascent had a lantern
been required, as the full moon lit up the snows with almost dazzling
brilliancy.
Much snow had to be cleared out of the hut, especially off straw on the
bunks, before it became habitable. The woodshed was choked with snow,
and we had great difficulty in lighting a fire. Unfortunately, none of
us had brought a spirit lamp or cooking apparatus, so it was 5 a.m.,
nearly dawn, when we turned in.
[Illustration: _The Tödi._
“King of the Little Mountains.”
_Facing page 108._
]
Somewhat after 9 a.m. we awoke. Preparations for our departure
proceeded unusually slowly, owing to the trouble again experienced in
lighting the stove. Although it was noon when we at length started
off, we were fully determined to accomplish the climb that day. The
weather was perfect, clear and calm, the temperature being well below
freezing-point. In summer the ascent would take some six hours. We
reckoned rather more now, because in winter one must as a rule follow
a different route, discovered by Mr. D. W. Freshfield, which passes
through the two great icefalls of the Biferten Glacier. Therefore,
allowing eight, or at the outside ten hours, in which to gain the
summit, we counted on re-entering the hut not later than 3 a.m. Even
should this not be the case, the moon would give us ample light till 5
a.m., and at 6 a.m. dawn would follow after a solitary hour’s darkness.
All things considered, we looked forward to the climb in the light of a
pleasant adventure and thanked the fate which had led us into making a
midnight ascent.
Gaily rejoicing in the excellent weather and conditions, we broke
trail in the deep snow from the hut across and up the glacier towards
the Grünhorn icefall. The weakest spot in this obstacle is an almost
crevasseless ledge which commences near the right bank of the glacier
and, sloping towards the walls of the Tödi, leads to the next plateau
of the glacier. Following this line of least resistance, we made slow
but steady headway till close under the greater, steeper, and far more
seriously broken icefall hard by the Gelbe Wand. The year before,
in the spring, without skis, George had led a party up this icefall
without encountering any real difficulty. Some distance below the base,
and in clear view of the icefall, we called rather a lengthy halt in
order to spy out the best line of ascent. After some deliberation,
we decided to deliver an attack more or less at the same place as
last spring. However, from the distance, we had our doubts about one
step, where a wall of upright and partly overhanging ice stretched
right across the glacier. This wall was probably the upper edge of a
bridged-over crevasse and appeared to be some twelve feet high at the
lowest point where we intended to launch our attack. Above it lay a
very steep slope of ice terminating on the lower edge of another great
crevasse. It must have been about 4 p.m. when we tackled the Gelbe Wand
icefall. Using skis, we mounted with little difficulty as far as the
foot of the ice wall; there, however, we had to replace the skis by
climbing irons. A human ladder was out of the question, as the foot of
the obstacle was a none too stable bridge over a crevasse. Deep holds
for both hands and feet had to be cut, as the lower part of the ice
overhung. It was a lengthy proceeding, for the ice was extremely hard
and brittle. Some delicate balancing, aided by a crampon grasped in one
hand, eventually landed me above the wall. On the lower lip of the next
crevasse, behind a fallen block of ice, I found a firm position, whence
the next man could be assisted up on the rope. Rucksacks and skis were
then hauled up, and, finally, already after sunset, the whole party
was gathered above the ice wall which had given so much trouble. On
replacing the skis on our feet, a series of circumventing manœuvres was
necessary to pass over bridges or round huge, open chasms.
Once more a steep slope necessitated the use of the crampons and even
then a few steps had to be cut. The moonlight was ample; the smallest
detail was as well lit up as if in broad daylight. All of us now
looked forward to the march up the gentle slopes of the upper parts
of the glacier, the so-called lower, middle and upper “Boden,” and we
were confident of success. None of us inquired after the time, and no
one even glanced at a watch; our surroundings and the novelty of the
situation were too absorbing. Probably it was well on for 8 p.m. when
the gaunt yellow crags of the Gelbe Wand became visible on our right
above the icefall. Gradually the crevasses became less troublesome,
and soon the lower Boden, a great expanse of gently-rising glacier,
stretched before us, forming a natural line of ascent towards the foot
of the Gliemspforte (10,800 ft.). On approaching the pass we took a
sharp turn to the right, in the direction of Piz Rusein, the highest of
the three summits of the Tödi, and were soon embarked on the ascent of
the steep slopes separating the lower from the upper Boden. Here, where
in summer a regular icefall is sometimes met with, we encountered some
huge crevasses. The skis, however, carried us to the small bergschrund
close under the south ridge of the Piz Rusein. Obexer glanced at his
watch. The moonlight lit the hands at something after 11 p.m. Once more
wearing climbing irons, and leaving sacks and skis by the bergschrund,
we commenced the final ascent over the ridge to the summit. Some
step-cutting was required. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing; the
thermometer hanging from a rucksack marked 30° F. frost. It was after
midnight, during the first half-hour of the Ides of March, when the
great cornice, which forms the culminating point of the Tödi (11,887
ft.), was reached.
Bitterly cold it was; yet the fairy scene below and the feeling of
complete content due to the unconventionality of our success held us
spell-bound for a full half-hour. The valleys were filled with rolling
silvery clouds, above which the peaks of over 10,000 feet in height
appeared as islands in a sea of molten metal. Only the valley of the
Biferten Glacier up which we had ascended was clear and free of mist.
The sky above was cloudless and, owing to the brilliant rays of the
moon, almost pale blue in colour, and not blue-black and starry as an
Alpine firmament should be at night. One fact alone worried us and
finally impelled us to retreat much sooner than we would otherwise have
done; the weather began to take a decided turn for the worse. Through
the Gliemspforte, the lowest gap at the head of the Biferten Glacier,
the mist began to stream in from the Gliems Valley. Evidently it was
rising rapidly, and this was the overflow. On looking closely, the sea
of clouds no longer appeared solid and uniform like a great glacier or
snow field; everywhere it moved, tossed up waves and rollers, breakers
and billows, differing in its dead silence alone from a storm-tossed
ocean.
Before stepping out on to the final ridge we had hardly felt so much
as a breath of wind. On the ridge, however, a sharp south-wester had
chilled us to the marrow, though, apart from its direction, we had seen
little cause for alarm. But now, on the summit, we realised that below
those rolling billows of mist a tempest of unusual degree was raging,
and that we must race for the hut. Even then it might be too late, and
we would have to battle with the unfettered fury of a winter storm.
Back at the skis, Obexer spent a busy and chilly ten minutes hunting
for his watch which he believed he had deposited thereabouts. No luck,
it had probably found a quiet resting-place in the blue depths of a
near by crevasse, and will doubtless some day appear far below at the
snout of the glacier. By the time we had our skis on, the wind had
increased to a staggering gale. The lower Boden was submerged under
fiercely wind-driven clouds of snow, and still more overflows were
leaking from the Ponteglias Valley over the Piz Urlaun, and from the
Rusein Valley through the Porta da Spescha. Evidently we would soon be
well in the thick of the mists where fast running would hardly be to
our liking, so we fixed the climbing irons under our skis. Owing to
the powerful braking-action of the long spikes of these irons, we were
able to cut short the many zig-zags of the way up, and our descending
tracks were consequently somewhat steeper than the ascending. Long
before the middle Boden was regained, we were path-finding in thick,
driving mists where the light of the moon was all but useless. The
storm rose to a shrieking gale, against the thundering gusts of which
we often found it difficult to keep our feet. We kept as close as
possible to the faint tracks of the ascent, which speedily became more
and more dim as the storm ploughed up slope after slope of loose,
powdery snow. Once or twice we hesitated, but always some faintly
visible sign revealed to us our old tracks. On arriving at the middle
of the Boden, the correct turn to the left was duly carried out, and
right glad we were to have the gale now pushing us from behind instead
of throwing us sideways. During the whole ascent and descent between
the great icefall and the summit of the Tödi, we were climbing on two
separate ropes, each about one hundred feet long; in summer forty to
fifty feet between each man would suffice, but in winter, and on skis,
a distance of one hundred feet is indispensable for safety. Before
sighting the upper crevasses of the great icefall, Weber, who was on
my rope, began to show signs of exhaustion. He tripped over the rope
several times and finally succeeded in tangling it so thoroughly round
his skis and feet, that we had to call a halt of some ten minutes to
unravel him. During this process, Weber removed his frozen gloves
and worked at the stiff cord with bare hands. On the greater part
of the descent the two ropes marched side by side, Morgenthaler and
I ahead, as four eyes were better than two in looking out for our
previous tracks. The storm increased in violence. We crossed the
first large crevasses above the icefall in a howling hurricane,
where communication even by dint of shouting from mouth to ear was
barely possible. In the thick mist and driving snow, one end of the
rope was seldom visible from the other. The fiercest blasts had to
be taken stooping low and propped on the ski-sticks, else they might
have thrown us into the cold depths of the yawning, deep blue chasms
which surrounded us on all sides. Under these conditions, questions
began to force themselves upon us. Could we tackle the icefall against
such odds? Could we fasten the stiff, frozen straps of the climbing
irons with our painfully numb fingers? Some of us had already begun to
feel the first pangs of frost-bite; Weber in particular remarked upon
what formerly had been but a pain, but now was an absolute, unfeeling
numbness in both hands. The cold was too intense (over 50° F. of
frost) to risk removing gloves if we hoped to escape being seriously
frost-bitten. Could we, from above, re-cut the steps which had led us
up steep slopes over gaping crevasses? Could we carry our skis and
cling to those steps, all the while buffeted, pushed, blinded and
almost smothered by the storm? And if, in the great icefall, unable to
see the tracks, we should fail to strike the right descent over the
great overhanging ice wall, in many parts over a hundred feet high,
what then? Could we reascend in the teeth of the storm and, trusting to
luck to find the way, force a descent down that precipitous ice-swept
gully, the Schneerunse, probably only to be buried in an avalanche?
For above the roar of the tempest we frequently heard dull rumbles as
ice and snow, crashing down from the cliffs high above, swept through
that gloomy funnel, avalanche upon avalanche. Should we aim to the
left and descend, by the ordinary summer route, the rocks of the
Gelbe Wand hand over hand on the rope, throwing the skis down before
us? Neither hands nor ropes were in fit condition for such tricky
manipulations. Such were the thoughts which, flashing through our
minds as we stood together on the brink of the icefall, gave rise to a
hurried consultation. The result thereof was the unanimous decision to
camp there and then; for, as long as the storm continued to rage with
all its present fury, it would be nothing short of madness to attempt
the descent of the icefall before daybreak. It was about 2 or 3 a.m.,
and the moon was not only behind the cold, opaque and driving mists,
but evidently also hidden behind the crags of the Tödi itself. The grey
shadows of night made the very surface we stood upon uncertain.
Once the decision to bivouac had been definitely arrived at, the next
question was how best and quickest to protect ourselves from the
biting wind. Obexer proposed to dig a hole, but a prod with the axe
revealed ice under a layer of barely two feet of soft, powdery snow
which would not bind together and was continually whirled about by
the wind. Another suggestion was to seek the shelter provided by some
shallow or otherwise suitable crevasse. This was my idea, so I promptly
proceeded to look around for something after the nature of a harmless
crevasse. Hardly had I moved a few feet downwards, when with a dull
thump there I hung, with nothing but empty space under my skis. I clung
to two ski-sticks up to my shoulders in a bottomless crevasse. As I
began hauling myself out by the sticks, Weber noticed my disappearance
and pulled wildly on the rope; an unfortunate move on his part, for
it jerked me away from the sticks and threw me into the crevasse,
where I hung, with my full weight on the rope, some four feet below
the surface. In falling, the sudden jerk of the rope on my ribs winded
me thoroughly. Communication with the others was quite impossible,
unless I could contrive to raise my head to the level of the ground
above. Even the united forces of all three of them could not pull me
up on that rope, for it had cut deeply into the frozen, overhanging
snow edge of the crevasse. To regain my wind and, indeed, to be able
to breathe, I had to force the loop of the rope high up under my
armpits. Then I threw the ski-sticks, which I had firmly retained in
my grasp, up over the lower edge of the crevasse, and one after the
other I unfastened my skis and threw them after the sticks. Propped
with my feet against one wall and my shoulders against the other, I
could now relieve the pressure on my ribs, and was able to sling the
rucksack, on which I carried my ice-axe, off my back. I unfastened the
axe and pushed it into the loop of the rope. Just as I was swinging the
rucksack up to join my skis and sticks, the rope suddenly slackened,
and down I rattled another couple of feet. The poor old rucksack, a
dear friend, failed to gain the safety of the upper world, and fell,
thud--thud--thud, far beyond reach down into the invisible depths of my
grim prison. Gone with it, and most regretted, was one glove which had
frozen to the strap that I had been holding. With my axe I managed to
cut steps up one wall of this troublesome crevasse, knock a breach in
the corniced edge, and work with my head above ground. Then I shouted
to the others, who stood some distance off, to throw me an end of the
other rope. Between us yawned the wide-open mouth of another crevasse
which prevented them from approaching any nearer to me, and it was only
with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded in making my instructions
understood above the roar of the storm. The wind flung wide three
casts of the second rope, but the fourth succeeded. Putting my weight
on this rope, I could pull up the other one, which was buried to a
depth of some three feet into the snow at the edge. A few minutes more
of hard struggling and we were once again united. We no longer felt
inclined to hunt after safe crevasses, especially as the one I had so
thoroughly inspected was full of draughts; indeed, the storm seemed
rather increased when caught between those merciless, blue walls. Under
Obexer’s able direction, the following half-hour was spent busily
digging a ten-foot long and four-foot deep hole in the snow, into which
we laid the skis and then ourselves. Three lay stretched out at full
length, two on the skis, and the top man on those two. Morgenthaler
preferred to sit with his hands round his feet and his head tucked well
in between his knees.
[Illustration: _The Tödi from the Bifertenlücke._
_The dotted line indicates the route followed, and B the site of the
bivouac on the Biferten Glacier._]
[Illustration: _The summit of the Tödi._
_Facing page 116._
]
During the whole trip I had not worn any head-gear, and now all my own
property in that line lay under the glacier. The first few minutes
of inaction revealed two facts. Firstly, for all the protection from
the wind our Palace Hotel, as Obexer named the happy home, afforded
us we might almost as well have camped out on the normal, unprepared
surface; secondly, that my head was covered with an inch of ice and
snow, icicles were pendent from eyebrows and eyelashes, and one half
of my face was dolefully sore as if from commencing frost-bite. So I
borrowed the nearest rucksack and tucked my head into it. The dark
interior was full of snow; but by now I was accustomed to snow, and the
storm at least was outside. Feeling round inside my novel head-gear for
apples, which the owner reported to be there, provided some excitement.
One or two, and much sugarless ice-cream, I found and promptly gobbled.
The gloveless hand found comparative warmth in the pocket of my sodden
jacket.
Long before morning we were all wet through. Every little while the
three who lay full length struggled, wriggled and rolled until top
and bottom positions were exchanged. Everyone continually buffeted,
slapped and shook his neighbours or himself, no one being allowed to
remain silent or motionless for more than half an hour. To beguile the
sleepless hours by songs, jests and yarns was out of the question, as
the storm howled louder than any or all of us together. Morgenthaler
and Weber, unluckily, had only woollen gloves, which were long since
sodden and frozen. Spare socks helped somewhat, but anything woollen
was soon soaked and rendered useless. Consequently, they chiefly
complained of frost-bitten hands. Weber, whose vitality did not appear
to equal that of his companions, required much attention, in spite of
which he at times complained of the attacks of Jack Frost at his toes
and other parts of his anatomy. Yet, all things considered, the time
passed rapidly enough in the bivouac, and not half as unpleasantly as
one might have expected under such conditions. Once the storm tore the
mists apart for a second, and a glimpse of the sharp rock summit of the
Grünhorn to the left served to reassure us as to our exact position.
Later on, towards dawn, I fell sound asleep, only to awake when someone
announced it to be 8 a.m. At first I could not account for the darkness
which surrounded me, then suddenly I remembered my head was in the
rucksack. Outside this “abode à la ostrich” it was broad daylight, but
grey white, and there were no signs of any abatement in the fury of the
storm. I must have slept quite an hour.
We all stood up and stamped about. The storm seemed fiercer than ever,
and in our soaked condition the cold was doubly penetrating. We decided
to attempt further descent on foot, leaving our skis to be recovered
on some later occasion. Ski-sticks were planted to mark the scene of
our camp, then the ropes re-arranged and joined together. The crevasse
I had fallen into had no bridge on the left, so we headed horizontally
to the right. Almost at once the steepness of the ground increased
rapidly, and it was soon necessary to cut steps. When we had advanced
but a few rope’s lengths, it became all too evident that we could not
descend the icefall as long as the storm raged. Every few minutes
terrific gusts would force us to our knees, all but sweeping us off our
steps. So when we came to a fallen ice-block and found a four-foot-deep
hollow in the snow beside it, we decided to camp anew, in the hope that
the gusts were but a final effort on the part of the tempest and sign
of its approaching exhaustion.
Later in the morning, deceived by lengthy pauses between the shrieking
blasts of the gale, we made two more vain attempts to continue the
descent. Soon after noon it commenced to snow very heavily, and we were
glad, for surely now the wind would cease. Shortly after 2 p.m. the
storm was all but a thing of the past. At 3 p.m., satisfied that no
more fierce gusts were likely to surprise us, we resumed the descent
which had been interrupted by a total of nearly twelve hours in bivouac.
Many steps had to be cut, as now all traces of our ascent had
disappeared. It was hard work and cost much time, as all were very
stiff, and none had escaped more or less severe frost-bite. We found
the right way off the ice wall, letting ourselves down by the rope;
but unravelling tangles and loosening knots was painfully hard on our
fingers. Being on foot, we at first thought of returning past the
Grünhorn hut and took a few steps in that direction; but when once
again I made the acquaintance of the interior of a hidden longitudinal
crevasse, the majority voted for the descent by the lower icefall. The
walls of the Bifertenstock were alive with avalanches, invisible on
account of the falling snow and dense mists, but ever crashing over
the precipices and rumbling down close on our right. On the plateau
below the icefall, the mist became so dense that we had to steer for
the hut by compass. After some hours’ vain stumbling round about where
we thought the hut should lie, we found it shortly before 9 p.m. On
the table was a note from Forster, informing us that he had descended
to collect a rescue party. Had we been in anything like undamaged
condition, we should at once have continued our descent down to the
Linthal Valley. As it was, we ate a frugal supper; then slept like logs
till far into the next morning.
On Tuesday, owing to a temporary sleeping fit of our only remaining
watch, we prepared to leave the hut two hours later than we had
intended. Obexer and Morgenthaler started off immediately after
breakfast, in the hope of preventing a rescue party from setting out.
We did our level best to tidy the hut, and then had to spend over an
hour softening Weber’s boots on the stove before he could force his
sorely frozen feet into them. Arriving too late in Linthal to catch
a train home, we passed the night in the comfortable quarters of the
Raben Hôtel. During the evening, the welcome message arrived telling
of Obexer’s success in telegraphically sending a rescue party composed
of members of the Academic Alpine Club back to Zürich, before they had
proceeded beyond Thalwil on their outbound journey.
On Wednesday, at noon, we two arrived at Zürich. Weber went off to bed
at once and was more or less an invalid for the next six weeks. His
hands and feet were badly frost-bitten, the result of wearing woollen
gloves and tight, ill-fitting boots. Thanks to careful treatment,
his hands recovered completely, but most toes of both feet had to be
amputated.
More serious was Morgenthaler’s fate. Nearly all his fingers had to be
amputated at the first or second joint, and the remaining ones will
probably always be stiff. He, also, wore woollen gloves, but large,
loose-fitting ski-ing boots had kept his feet in perfect condition.
Obexer and I suffered no serious consequences. A frost-bitten thumb
worried the former for the next month. I lost a few teeth, and with a
swollen, half-frozen face, hobbled about for a day or two in gouties.
A fortnight later I was able to accompany Forster on a ski-ing trip
over the Furka and Nägelisgrätli up the Oberaarhorn. A month later
Obexer and I climbed Piz Urlaun, revisiting _en route_ the scene of our
bivouac. We succeeded in rescuing in all six skis (unfortunately not
three pairs), two of which were recovered out of a great flat-bottomed
crevasse which had split open just below our camp.
The story of this adventure has a moral; an old moral it is true,
but one that will well bear repeating. In the first place, we should
never have attempted a mountain like the Tödi with companions of whose
equipment and experience we had no knowledge; and, secondly, methylated
spirits and cooking apparatus, warm clothes, loose-fitting boots,
sailcloth gloves lined with wool, and last, but not least, a reliable
pocket barometer which would have warned us of an approaching change in
the weather, are indispensable items of equipment for serious winter
ascents.
CHAPTER IX
THE BIFERTENSTOCK
Far to the north of the main chain of the Alps there lies a range of
mountains crowned by the two outstanding summits of the Tödi and the
Bifertenstock. The former, rising from the lowlands of the Linth Valley
to an altitude of 11,887 feet, is the loftier of the two and justly
gives its name to the group; but the latter far excels it in beauty
and impressiveness, and gives its name to the greatest glacier of the
group, which flows down the deep cleft valley between the “King of the
Little Mountains,” as the Tödi has appropriately been named, and the
stupendous precipices of the north-west wall of the Bifertenstock. The
range is within easy reach of Zürich by rail, and affords climbing of
almost any degree of difficulty, from the simplest of snow trudges to
the most desperately hard ice or rock ascents. Small wonder, then,
that climbers flock hither in their numbers during the week-ends, and
that daily throughout July and August the more accessible club-huts
are crowded to overflowing. The vast majority of these mountaineers,
however, have designs upon the Tödi alone. For hours on end they trudge
up the wearisome upper slopes of the Biferten Glacier to the summit,
whence, after enjoying one of the most wonderful panoramic views in
the Alps, they return contented to the valleys. A few, imbued with the
pioneering spirit, or to whom the spice of danger and the sense of
achievement after hard-fought battles are of stronger allure than the
wonders of the summit view, desert the well-trodden glacier track and
sally forth to grapple with unsolved problems, or problems so seldom
attacked that they are still clothed in the nimbus of the mysterious
and superlatively difficult.
A glance at the three main stages in the history of the exploration
of these “Little Mountains” is astonishingly interesting, not
only for its own sake, but for the light it throws on the trend
of modern mountaineering. The story of the conquest of the range
begins with Pater Placidus à Spescha, a jovial monk and surely one
of the stoutest-hearted men that ever lived. Climbing alone or with
the most inefficient of companions, and inadequately equipped, he
accomplished some astonishing feats, which even to-day would stand well
to the credit of an expert mountaineer. To give the details of his
many conquests and valuable contributions towards the topographical
knowledge of the Bündner Alps, would be beyond the scope of this
book; but as an example of his outstanding perseverance it may be
mentioned that this Swiss priest made no less than six attempts to
reach the summit of Piz Rusein, the highest of the three summits of
the Tödi, and that his last attempt, also unsuccessful, was made at
the age of seventy-two. When we consider that his explorations were
carried out towards the close of the eighteenth and beginning of the
nineteenth century, at a time when the belief had not yet died out
that the mountains were the abode of fearsome and savage dragons, and
when the inhabitants of a secluded valley, such as the one whence this
valiant pioneer hailed, were still ready to condemn as sacrilegious
any unwonted activities on the part of a member of their community, we
are filled with amazed admiration at the intrepidity, resolution and
prowess of this valiant monk. Contemptuous of discomfort and danger,
defiant of criticism and defeat, ever aspiring towards the highest his
little mountain world held forth to him, actuated only by love of the
mountains and a lively, intelligent curiosity as to what secrets lay
hidden therein, without hope of gain, Pater Placidus à Spescha well
deserves recognition as one of the fathers of mountaineering. With the
cessation of his climbing career in 1824 ends the first stage in the
history of the exploration of the Tödi range.[4]
The second stage sees the rise of a protagonist of other mettle, the
chamois hunter, strong, sure-footed, quick to grasp the use of rope and
axe, and possessing valuable local knowledge, but for the most part
lacking in initiative and slow to understand the joy in climbing for
climbing’s sake. He was soon induced by offers of generous payment to
turn guide and place his skill and physical strength at the disposal of
the stranger, whose self-imposed task it was to supply the initiative
in which his employee was deficient and to arouse in him the energy
and will-power without which nothing would have been accomplished.
From 1830 onwards, the summits of the range of the Tödi shared the
fate of mountains throughout the length and breadth of the Alps, and
fell before the onslaughts of parties composed of amateurs aided by
professional mountaineers, or, in short, guided parties. But the
conquest of the last virgin peak still left much work to be done; only
the fringe of the pioneering had been touched, for, as a rule, the
first ascent opened up but one way to the summit, and that usually
the easiest and least interesting. And so it came about that, as the
numbers of unclimbed mountains decreased, the attention of the more
ambitious climber turned towards the discovery of new routes. In the
greater mountain groups of the Alps, success in this new line again
fell almost exclusively to guided parties, the amateur members of
which, generally speaking, continued to supply the mental stimulus,
while the guides, by virtue of their greater climbing ability, superior
physical strength and improving knowledge in all practical matters
pertaining to their new craft, were able not only to help them to
overcome the mountaineering difficulties encountered, but also to
ensure their immunity from the subjective--that is avoidable, given the
exercise of due skill and precaution--dangers inherent in the pursuit.
In the range of the Tödi, however, it was otherwise. After the conquest
of the individual peaks, little was done by way of opening up new
routes, and a period of comparative stagnation set in.
Towards the latter end of the last century, the old style amateur
climber, a true lover of mountain adventure, was rarely seen in this
corner of the Alps. Not that there was any deficiency of climbers, for
even then had appeared the sure signs of the impending deluge. The
little Grünhorn club-hut, the first of many huts built by the Swiss
Alpine Club for the benefit of mountaineers, and which still stands
on a rocky spur of the Tödi hard by the Biferten Glacier, no longer
harboured an occasional party at distant intervals, but was regularly
so overcrowded that a larger hut, the St. Fridolin’s, was built to
relieve the congestion. Whence came these throngs of climbers, and who
were they?
So far the Alps had been almost exclusively the playground of a small,
select circle composed of men of leisure and means who could afford to
pay for the by no means inexpensive services of guides and the charges
for their upkeep while engaged. Within the circle there soon moved
two classes; the first consisted of the real pioneers, true lovers of
mountain adventure, and the second of imitators, who climbed because
climbing was deemed fashionable. In course of time, here and there from
out the ranks of these early amateur climbers would come one or two,
vaguely moved perhaps by the supreme joys that unaided achievement
might bring, to dispense for a space with professional help and climb
“on their own.” From them sprang the modern guideless climber. Rendered
inarticulate at first by the appearance of the new species, it was not
long ere certain members of the climbing fraternity of the day had
collected themselves enough to pour unstinted abuse upon those who
dared to indulge in the new form of mountaineering. They condemned
climbing without guides as suicidal, and therefore wicked and immoral,
and started out to strangle the new tendency in its cradle. They all
but succeeded. Yet one of their strongest contentions, to the effect
that the practice was fraught with undue danger and likely to lead
to unnecessary loss of life, will not bear the cold light of fact;
statistics of mountaineering accidents show, if anything, that the
percentage of casualties amongst the guided exceeds that amongst the
unguided. In condemning climbing without guides, they were attempting
to deny for ever to the youth, who could not afford the luxury of a
guide, the adventure, health and happiness that are to be found in
the mountains, and did their utmost to pinion his wings. Fortunately,
the new movement weathered the storm and steadily pursued its course,
until to-day purely amateur parties completely outnumber the guided.
Nor are the ranks of the guideless recruited solely from those who
cannot afford the expense of guides; on the contrary, many of the old
faith, having once tasted of the more satisfying joys of the new, have
definitely embraced the latter.
The statement has been made more than once, and may even be seen in
print, that the first-class amateur is superior, as a mountaineer,
to the first-class guide. Surely such a statement can emanate only
from those who have no actual, _personal_ experience of the highest
capacities of a great guide. The truth is, that the first-class guides
of the Alps number less than the fingers of one’s two hands, and--let
us be humble--the first-class, British, all-round amateur mountaineers
less than one third of that. The ideal, strongest mountaineering party
would be composed of two or more first-rate guides; but obviously such
a party has no _raison d’être_. The next strongest party, therefore,
would be a combination of first-class guides and first-class amateurs.
Such a party would be able to attack the most difficult mountaineering
problems with the greatest possible prospects of success and a wide
margin of safety. Herein is probably the chief reason why a few
proficient amateurs still endeavour to obtain the services of the few
guides of the highest rank.
With the firm establishment of guideless mountaineering, the
exploration of the range of the Tödi entered upon its last phase.
Diffident of their powers, the new climbers who thronged the Grünhorn,
St. Fridolin’s, and other club-huts were at first content to feel
their feet on the old familiar paths; but soon the more adventurous
began to yield to the lure of the unknown and seek their chosen summit
by hitherto untrodden ways. Almost without exception, the discovery
of every subsequent new route up the mountains of the Tödi group has
fallen to the lot of guideless climbers. To-day, in this part of the
Alps, a guided party is seldom seen, and then, as a rule, only on the
well-beaten track which marks the easiest way up one or other of the
more popular summits. So successfully have these keen young men carried
out their work that the end of the era of exploration in the range of
the Tödi is in sight. Possibilities of new routes still exist, though
it is only too obvious that these will provide climbing of exceptional
difficulty and tax the capabilities of the guideless climber to the
uttermost. Of the few fine problems still awaiting solution, perhaps
the most alluring is the crossing of the Bifertenlücke, one of the
wildest and grandest of Alpine passes.
Early in September, 1913, persistent snowfalls having seriously
impaired climbing conditions in the Mont Blanc group, Guy Forster
and I turned our attention to the range of the Tödi where, thanks
to its position well to the north of the main chain of the Alps and
comparatively low elevation, climbing possibilities were still at their
best and likely to remain so for some time. Our main interest centred
on the Bifertenstock, whose culminating point reaches an altitude of
11,241 feet above sea-level. Belted, as it were, from head to foot
with girdle upon girdle of bronze-coloured rock besprinkled with the
crystal of snow and ice, the Bifertenstock was unique not only in
appearance, but in that its west ridge, which rears itself up out of
the Bifertenlücke towards the summit in a series of huge, precipitous,
even overhanging buttresses, had never suffered the imprint of human
foot. Here was one of the few problems that still awaited the explorer
in the Tödi. More than one party of mountaineers had gone up to the
Bifertenlücke with the avowed intention of climbing this ridge; but the
aspect of the first buttress, a tremendous overhanging corner rising
straight out of the pass, had so successfully repelled them all that no
one had ever even come to grips with it. On September 5, 1913, in the
hope of meeting with better fortune, Forster and I set out from Zürich
to investigate the chances of success. As there is so far no direct
approach from the north to the Bifertenlücke, whence the climb must
begin, we selected as our base the Ponteglias hut which stands on the
southern side of the range.
[Illustration: _The Bifertenstock from the Bündner Tödi._
_The west ridge commences in the Bifertenlücke, just beyond the snow
slope in the foreground._
_Facing page 128._
]
A five-hours’ rail journey _via_ Coire brought us to the village of
Truns in the Rhine Valley, whence professional help in the shape of
a guide assisted in carrying up to the hut our ponderous rucksacks
replete with a full week’s provisions, ropes, spare clothes,
photographic equipment and all the other things that add to the
interest and comfort of life in the solitudes. Towards nightfall, after
a laborious three hours’ walk through the narrow, steep Ponteglias
Valley, we arrived at the hut where our guide, having dumped his load,
was paid off and returned to the village. Plans for the following day
provided only for an ascent of the Bündner Tödi, a little snow-capped
summit to the west of the Bifertenlücke, whence a commanding view
of the west ridge of the Bifertenstock could be obtained, and for a
reconnaissance, at close quarters, of the first great buttress of the
ridge. There was, therefore, no need for an early start on the morning
of the 6th. It was daylight when we arose to cook a breakfast which
proved so much to our liking that we immediately set to and prepared
another even more sumptuous one. At length, in the bright sunshine of
a cloudless day we sallied forth. For an hour we strolled leisurely
up the gently-rising, stone-strewn surface of the Ponteglias Glacier
which reaches from just below the Bifertenlücke to within a few hundred
yards of the hut. At the point where the glacier becomes snow-covered
and crevassed and rises more steeply towards its source, we put on the
rope and steered an uneventful, zig-zag course round the more fissured
zones towards a little scree slope lying just below the Bifertenlücke.
At 9 a.m. we were in the pass, and looking down the breathless
precipice that falls away to the Biferten Glacier. Here we deposited
the knapsacks and, after twenty minutes’ trudge up a broad snow ridge,
gained the summit of the Bündner Tödi.
A careful glance at the west ridge of the Bifertenstock sufficed to
show that the only really crucial sections were the first and last
buttresses. But these two steps, the first rising out of the pass
and the last leading on to the final easy summit ridge, were so
awe-inspiring and immense that they seemed fashioned only for Titans.
The first, in particular, looked absolutely impregnable, and, had the
usual everyday conception of the sporting element been present, there
is no doubt that the betting would have been largely in favour of the
Bifertenstock’s west ridge remaining inviolate. But we were both too
old hands at the game to be dismissed by mere appearances, and returned
to the Bifertenlücke to prepare for a closer examination of the
initial difficulty. Back at the spot where the knapsacks were dumped,
we settled down to a meal and a smoke; and then, as the rock was
limestone, upon which nails can get but little grip, we replaced our
boots by rope-soled canvas shoes and roped on at each end of one of the
two one-hundred-foot climbing ropes. Leaving almost all our kit behind,
we moved up to the attack, Forster armed with the second rope and my
camera and I with a _piton_.[5] While still only a short distance
along the narrow but not very steep ridge from the Bifertenlücke, we
found ourselves at the foot of the obstacle, a smooth, perpendicular,
at times even overhanging, corner of rock about one hundred and sixty
feet in height. Further progress along the crest of the ridge was out
of the question. To the right, smooth, vertical slabs crowned by an
overhang and utterly devoid of hand- or foothold, completely excluded
any possibility of climbing on that side. But in the wall on our left
lay the semblance of a chance. It was very steep, indeed beetling in
places; but the rock was not so pitilessly smooth as elsewhere, and it
looked sufficiently broken to afford some hand- and foothold. The route
would lead us on to the face of the giddy precipice that falls away to
the Biferten Glacier over three thousand feet below; but it was the one
possible line of ascent. Forster placed himself securely at the foot of
the great step and, well-braced to hold me in the event of a slip, paid
out my rope inch by inch whilst I made my way leftwards along a narrow,
sloping, terribly exposed ledge.
After working along the ledge for about thirty feet, I saw above me
an ill-defined, shallow chimney which, though overhanging towards the
top, might have afforded some possibility of climbing directly upwards;
but to attempt it seemed likely to prove such a desperate venture
that I decided to keep to the route across the precipice in the hope
of finding a better way up. This further search failed in its object,
and there remained nothing but to go back and try conclusions with
the chimney. First I returned to where Forster was standing, then,
making sure that my shoelaces were tightly tied and the ends well
tucked away, and that the rope about my chest was not so tight as to
interfere with freedom of movement, I returned to the ledge and at 10
a.m. began to grapple with the chimney. Handholds and footholds proved
to be of the minutest, and the rock was unreliable. Every hold had to
be carefully tested before use. Inch by inch, painfully slowly and
exerting every effort of which I was capable, I gained in height. The
upper, overhanging portion of the chimney required an almost desperate
struggle before it yielded, but I was at last able to grasp a large
and firm handhold and drag myself on to a platform at the top. This
platform was none too commodious; about a foot wide and no more than
eighteen inches long, it sloped slightly downwards and afforded room
for only one man. Nevertheless, it gave me an opportunity to stand and
rest while I nerved myself for the next pitch. A little to the left,
a fairly clean-cut chimney commenced, which led up towards and ended
underneath a gigantic, protruding tooth. I thought, however, that it
might be possible to avoid the overhang by leaving the chimney about
half-way up and, by traversing over some slabs to the right, gain
the crest of the ridge of the great buttress at a point where it was
climbable. So I set out to put my idea to the test, but had not gone
far up the chimney before the weight of the rope between myself and
Forster, who was now a good thirty feet below and as much to one side,
threatened to destroy my balance. Returning to the platform, I took in
the rope while Forster climbed up towards me. At the very moment when
he grasped the good handhold and was ready to pull himself on to the
platform, I vacated it and recommenced work on the chimney. We were
now in a situation which should rarely, if ever, occur in mountain
climbing. A slip on the part of either would have involved the fall of
both. There was no projecting piece of rock within reach over which
to belay the rope, neither did the platform on which he stood afford
sufficiently good footing to enable Forster to hold me in the event
of an ill-judged movement or false step on my part. Climbing the
chimney which was already taxing my powers to the full, I should have
been powerless to arrest a slip on my companion’s part. No matter who
fell first, he would drag the other after him. Fully realising the
precariousness of the position, we climbed on, determined not to slip,
and exercising all the care and skill at our command.
On drawing level with the slabs across which I had thought to reach
the ridge, they looked so forbidding that, situated as we were, the
risk of embarking upon them without the safeguard of a belay appeared
too great. So I proceeded farther up the chimney until my way was
blocked by the overhang at the top. Jamming myself securely in the now
narrower and deeper cleft, I took the _piton_ from my pocket and with
the help of a stone hammered it well into a little fissure seaming the
smooth rock wall on my left. Then I unroped, passed the end of the rope
through the ring of the _piton_ and tied myself on once more. It was
a lengthy process, for I had only one hand to spare for the work, but
well worth the trouble, as it put an end to the unpleasant situation
in which we had found ourselves ever since Forster had come up to the
platform. The _piton_ was firm, and it would now be an easy matter for
either of us to hold the other in the event of a slip. After retreating
half-way down the chimney, I worked out across the slabs to the right.
They by no means belied their appearance and afforded most difficult
climbing. But as the rope passed from me up to the _piton_ and then
down to Forster, any tendency to slip could be immediately and easily
checked. Once across the treacherous slabs, a quick scramble up firm
and easy rocks landed me on a spacious platform on the very crest of
the ridge. Glancing upwards, I saw that, in so far as the rest of the
buttress was concerned, all serious difficulties were over.
Forster now prepared to join me. Climbing up to the _piton_, he
unroped, withdrew his end of the rope from the ring and tied himself
on again. He then descended the upper half of the chimney, carefully
negotiated the slabs and climbed swiftly up to me. Together on the
roomy ledge, we yelled ourselves hoarse in giving vent to our hitherto
pent-up feelings and in anticipating the triumph of which we now felt
assured. It was half-past noon; so exigent had been the ascent that we
had taken two and a half hours to accomplish this small section. We
had, however, made up our minds to push on the reconnaissance as far as
the top of the buttress; so, after regaining our breath, we set to to
tackle what remained of it.
The crest of the ridge once again became too smooth and precipitous,
but close to it, on the right, a feasible route could be detected. It
led up steep slabs to the foot of a crack which debouched on the very
summit of the buttress. The rope was all paid out before I had gained
the crack, and Forster had to make his way up towards me. But I had
good standing ground on a fairly wide ledge and could hold his rope
securely. He was about fifteen feet below me and just about to wrestle
with the hardest part of the ascent when, in an effort to improve my
footing the better to cope with a slip, I felt the greater part of the
ledge, which I had hitherto looked upon as solid with the mountain,
break away from under my feet, and a great mass of rock slithered
down the slabs, aiming with deadly accuracy at Forster. Powerless to
move out of its way, he received a glancing blow which inflicted a
deep scalp wound and all but stunned him. Swept out of his holds by
the impact, he was left hanging helpless in mid-air. By all that is
merciful, however, sufficient had remained of the ledge to leave me
with just enough footing to withstand the strain on the rope and hold
Forster up. Blood was spurting freely from the wound in his head, the
extent of the injury was unknown, and no time was to be lost in getting
to a place of safety, where it would be possible to staunch the flow.
Staggered though he was and dripping with blood, Forster still had his
wits about him. As I held his rope taut, he climbed up to me and took
his stand on what was left of the ledge, while I made my way up to the
foot of the crack and, with all possible haste, gained the broad level
platform at the top of the buttress. There he rejoined me. Inspection
revealed the reassuring fact that the extent of his injuries was
limited to the scalp wound, which, however, still bled freely. By means
of a few sheets of paper kept firmly in position underneath a knitted
silken cap, the flow was eventually stopped. Except in its purely
physical result, the little drama had not adversely affected either
of us. Indeed, if there had previously been any doubt as to the final
conquest of the west ridge of the Bifertenstock, there could be none
now. The rough handling had got our blood up, and we felt the ridge was
doomed. For the present we had fulfilled the object with which we had
set out, namely the reconnaissance of the first great obstacle, and
it behoved us to return to the Bifertenlücke where we had deposited
our kits. We did not, however, hasten our retreat; for Forster was
weakened through loss of blood, and, that he might recover his strength
as far as possible, we rested on top of the buttress for over an hour.
Building a cairn, smoking and chatting the while, the time flew past
merrily enough, and at 2 p.m. we turned to face the problem of the
descent.
Exercising the greatest possible care, all went well as far as the
platform whence it was necessary to traverse out across the slabs
leading to the chimney near which the _piton_ was fixed. It was obvious
that the last man down could neither venture across these slabs nor
descend the final, shallow chimney below without the steadying help
of a rope from above. Held firmly on the rope by me, Forster moved
out across the slabs and climbed up to the _piton_, where he unroped,
threaded his rope through the ring of the _piton_, re-roped, and then
descended right down on to the lowest ledge and over to the good
standing ground on the ridge at the foot of the buttress. There he
again unroped and tied the spare rope on to the end of the one passing
through the _piton_ to me. It was now my turn to go down. I crossed the
slabs with due care, but, thanks to the assistance of the improvised
belay, the rest of the descent was a simple matter, and in a few
minutes I had rejoined my companion. I untied myself, and, by hauling
on the spare, the climbing rope was pulled down through the ring of the
_piton_ and recovered. A little later, in the Bifertenlücke, my camera
had made a faithful record of Forster’s blood-bespattered condition.
Our sensational entry into the Ponteglias hut was witnessed only by the
too friendly sheep that haunt the surrounding grassy slopes.
On the following day the weather broke and snow fell. But we cared
little, and time passed pleasantly in the preparation and consumption
of oft-repeated meals. On September 8, the weather was once more fine,
but the desire to be up and doing had to be curbed until the sun should
melt the fresh snow that lay on the Bifertenstock, and yet another
day was spent in cooking and eating, and in frustrating the effects
of over-indulgence with spasmodic bouts of step-cutting practice on
the snout of the Ponteglias Glacier. Towards evening we packed the
rucksacks and made everything ready for an early start on the morrow.
[Illustration: “... _a faithful record of Forster’s blood-bespattered
condition._”
_Facing page 136._
]
At 5 a.m. on September 9, we left the comfort of the hut and in little
more than two hours had gained the Bifertenlücke. Then, exchanging the
heavy mountain boots for rope-soled shoes, we commenced the attack
upon the west ridge in real earnest. Leaving my knapsack and ice-axe
with Forster at the foot of the great buttress, I worked out along the
ledge, climbed up the shallow chimney and, gaining the little platform,
paused to rest after my exertions. Then, being now familiar with the
position of every handhold in the next chimney, I climbed quickly up
to the _piton_, threaded the rope through the ring and crossed over
the slabs lower down to the broad ledge on the right. As soon as I
had firmly established myself, Forster unroped. Drawing the rope free
from the _piton_, I flung it down to him so that he might tie on to
it our knapsacks and axes; the latter were necessary, for it was our
intention to traverse the mountain, descending by the south ridge
and the Frisallücke. The goods were soon pulled up to my level and
removed, and once more the coils of rope swished through the air to
Forster, who again tied himself on and was soon up beside me. From here
onwards, past the scene of the accident to the foot of the last great
buttress, all was plain sailing. Five intermediate steps or buttresses
had to be surmounted. One yielded to a frontal attack; the others were
turned without great difficulty either on their right or left. Twice
we had to take to steep snow, a change of footgear being necessary on
both occasions. At length we stood on the ridge at the foot of the
last buttress, the most formidable barrier remaining between us and
success. The ridge itself and the wall to the left both overhung to
such an extent that they defied attack. To the right, however, the
rocks were less steep and more broken up, and for about one hundred
feet we made our way across them under the great wall of the step. On
attempting to strike upwards, however, we found that we had misjudged
the gradient, and after a stern struggle I recoiled defeated. We then
continued our traverse still further to the right across a series of
smooth, precipitous slabs where, for the second time on this ridge, in
spite of the great length of rope at our disposal, the utter absence of
belays or suitable standing grounds forced us into a situation in which
the protection afforded by the rope was nil, and a slip on the part of
one of us would have involved the destruction of both. Each knowing
that where one could climb the other could follow, and both confident
that neither would slip, we did not dream of retreat. But had we been
at the mercy of a companion who was clumsy and frequently in need of
assistance, even at this advanced stage where we were so near our goal,
we would have broken off the climb. Why, one may ask, not dispense with
the rope altogether in such a situation where it is little more than
a dangerous encumbrance? My reply is a simple statement of fact, from
which each may draw his own inferences. I would prefer not to climb
with the man who advocates such a policy.
Safely over the slabs, we came to the foot of a very steep, shallow
gully leading to a great snow cornice on the ridge above the buttress.
With much difficulty we climbed the first hundred feet and reached a
broad, almost level shelf barely fifty feet below the cornice. A huge
lump of the latter had fallen away, leaving a gap that gave easy access
to the ridge. Between us and the gap lay a stretch of easy, broken
rocks, so, once more changing footgear and donning mountain boots, we
scrambled up and at last stepped out through the cornice back on to the
ridge.
A north breeze, cool and bracing, met us. The snow under foot sparkled
in the brilliant noonday light. The neighbouring peaks stood up bold
and sharp in the clear atmosphere. The sun flooded all with warmth.
It was good to be alive. A last, half-whimsical glance at the little
St. Fridolin’s hut, a tiny brown speck at the foot of the great
four-thousand-foot wall, and we turned our steps along the snow-crested
ridge towards the summit. Chipping a step here and there where the
cornice forced us out on to the steep north flank, we mounted speedily.
One more clamber over a pitch of easy, broken rocks and the fight was
over. At 2 p.m. we stood atop of the Bifertenstock.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Those interested in the exploits of Placidus à Spescha would do
well to consult the articles contributed to the Alpine Journal by Dr.
H. Dübi and Mr. D. W. Freshfield. Mr. Freshfield, the greatest living
British mountaineering explorer, was one of the pioneers of climbing in
the range of the Tödi.
[5] A stout iron pin or nail provided with a ring at one end.
CHAPTER X
MONTE ROSA
Upon a bright summer’s morning in 1911, we[6] lay on the warm rocks of
the Monte Moro, gazing spell-bound at the avalanche-swept slopes of the
greatest precipice in the Alps--the east face of Monte Rosa. Max saw
chances of a grand climb and thought some of the bergschrunds looked
bad; then, turning his attention to more personal matters, proceeded
to indulge in a rigid foot inspection. Obexer could not contain his
enthusiasm and greeted each avalanche, as it swept down the Marinelli
Couloir, with merry song and derisive yells. Case “guessed you’d
have to hustle some in the Rockies to go one better” and, curling up
comfortably on a warm slab, went to sleep.
Perhaps from nowhere else are the impressive beauties and the almost
overwhelming grandeur of the Monte Rosa of Macugnaga to be seen to
better advantage than from the Monte Moro. From the Jägerhorn up the
Nordend, over the Grenz Gipfel, beyond the Zumstein Spitze and the
Punta Margherita down to the Colle della Loccie, the eye travelled on
that still, clear morning along a bewildering succession of clear-cut
snow-crests, aglow and glistening in the morning light, interrupted
here and there by gaunt rock cliffs all dusted with freshly-fallen
snow. Rolling mists obscured the Macugnaga Glacier and gently bathed
the foot of the precipitous slopes and avalanche-seared cliffs that
towered up, tier upon tier, to the support of the summit ridges--a
support seemingly robbed of stability by the clouds that concealed
its foundations; an immense wall perched up above illimitable space
and threatened with imminent dissolution. The trembling, bluish haze
of distance, deepening in hue as the sun’s rays gained in strength,
softened the sharp outlines of the ridges, the harsh contrast between
rock and snow; and, with the thinning of the mists above the Macugnaga
Glacier, cliff and cloud gradually merged into each other. A grand and
glorious sight had now been transformed into a vision, almost ethereal
in its sublime beauty, and into my half-waking dreams there came a
fleeting glimpse of the climber’s paradise.
The moments passed, bringing in their train a multitude of thoughts and
happenings of which the mind, with such happy facility, selects and
stores up none but the pleasant, to serve later as a panacea for all
the evils that beset those of the true faith during their servitude
in the plains. Max had donned his boots, and together we discussed
the problem confronting us. Case stirred uneasily on his rocky couch,
awoke, and joined in the solemn conclave. Then came Obexer, who, with
the optimism of all his nineteen years, pointed out a route leading up
to the rocks of the Grenz Gipfel, to follow which would have led to
certain and sudden death. Detail was lost in the hazy distance, and we
could arrive at no solution of how to avoid the badly-broken belt of
séracs which crowns the rocks of the Imseng Rücken. Avalanches fell
frequently; many, finding insufficient room in the Marinelli Couloir to
contain them in their mad rush towards the glacier far below, plunged
down over the broken rocks of the Imseng Rücken in rolling clouds of
driven snow.
We lunched in Macugnaga. The porter, Alessandro Corsi, the sole
survivor of the ill-fated Damiano Marinelli’s party which was
overwhelmed by an avalanche on the Imseng Rücken in 1881, joined us at
our table with that delightfully unassuming camaraderie which is still
an endearing feature of the natives of the unspoilt valleys of Alpine
Italy. The news of our project spread rapidly, and all too soon we were
forced to beat a hasty retreat up the path to the Belvedère Hôtel, in
order to escape the lively torrent of questions and comments which were
rained down upon us from all quarters. But it was only another case
of out of the frying-pan into the fire. Long before we found shelter
in the Belvedère, a thunderstorm had drenched us to the skin. Towards
sunset, the clouds lifted from the summit ridges, to reveal a generous
sprinkling of new snow on the upper slopes of Monte Rosa.
After sunrise on the following morning (August 7, 1911), we left our
comfortable quarters and strolled up the Macugnaga Glacier past the
Pedriolo Alp. Here a halt was called to enable Max and myself to
submit to a critical examination the séracs above the Imseng Rücken.
If only possible, we wished to avoid having to find a way through the
lower belt of these grotesquely piled-up pinnacles whose stability
was so obviously doubtful. Apart from this, I was well aware of the
difficulties with which this intricate labyrinth abounded, and of the
loss of time that the overcoming of these difficulties would entail--a
most serious matter on such an expedition as this. From the Imseng
Rücken to the Silber Sattel, the Marinelli Couloir glistened with ice,
and the idea of cutting up its full length was soon renounced. Quite
apart from the volume of step-cutting in promise, the couloir serves as
a huge drainage funnel for the avalanches falling down the walls of the
vast amphitheatre extending from the Nordend to the Punta Margherita,
and to remain in it for hours on end would be to incur too grave
risks. Finally, we decided to try to evade the worst of the séracs by
cutting up the Marinelli Couloir to a point about six hundred and fifty
feet above the head of the Imseng Rücken; then, turning to the left
towards the Punta Margherita, we would grapple with the broken medley
of séracs, ice cliffs and bergschrunds through which a way must be
forced ere the final bergschrund below the rocks of the Grenz Gipfel
were gained. Actually the expedition was carried out in conformity with
these plans, down to almost the last detail; but in the light of later
experience I believe that following the Marinelli Couloir throughout
would have brought us to our goal more quickly and in far greater
safety.
[Illustration:
_R. H. K. Peto._
_The east face of Monte Rosa._
_The summits on the skyline ridge are, from left to right, the Punta
Margherita, Zumstein Spitze, Grenz Gipfel and the Nordend. The
Marinelli Couloir descends from the depression between the Grenz Gipfel
and the Nordend._
_Facing page 142._
]
While the others wandered off at intervals towards the rocks of the
Jäger Rücken upon which the Marinelli hut is built, I remained behind
for some moments to make a few rough sketches and notes which might
serve later to guide our party through some of the more intricate
portions of the climb. Upon rejoining my companions, I found that they
had missed the ill-defined track which leads to the hut; but as time
was our own, and no one evinced a desire to waste energy looking for
anything so elusive as a mountain track, we muddled along contentedly,
always keeping to the northern slopes of the Jäger Rücken. The
steepening rocks were interspersed with abominable screes and slippery
grass, and in due course the inevitable happened, and further progress
appeared to be barred. Closer inspection, however, revealed a long and
narrow chimney of forbidding aspect and furnished with a tremulous
chock-stone. It led upwards in the desired direction towards the ridge
of the Jäger Rücken to our left. A first attempt to scale the chimney
failed, and I beat a retreat to the foot of the stubborn obstacle to
rid myself of the encumbrance of the knapsack and tie myself on to the
rope which Max had meanwhile uncoiled. The second attack met with
more success, and, after a wobbly fight with the unsteady chock-stone
and having run out to the full length of a hundred-foot rope, I found
good standing ground. Those below resolutely refused to be cajoled into
climbing up to me with their lawful burdens upon their own shoulders,
and, in spite of my protests, I was reduced to hauling the knapsacks up
on the rope. The others speedily followed, and in a few strides we were
on the ridge. A moment or two later the track revealed itself, though
somewhat late in the day. The easy going methods of the guideless
climber, who seldom bothers to find the correct way to a hut, and the
last little tussle with the chimney had cost much time; we had been
over five hours on the way, when four hours’ easy going should have
seen us settled in the hut. Now, however, everything was plain sailing,
and the level of the hut was rapidly approached. Just as we were about
to leave the ridge to traverse towards the hut, a large stone--gentle
reminder, perhaps, of what the morrow held in store--hurtled down
through space with a fiendish “whirr-whirr” and crashed into the rocks
a few yards below. This sort of thing was somewhat disconcerting, for
do not the most learned authorities assure the climber that falling
stones are not met with on ridges? Perhaps this was merely the
proverbial exception to the rule; but, not wishing to become embroiled
in a contest with another such exception, we left the ridge and, under
the comparative shelter of some steep rocks, traversed rapidly towards
the hut. At midday we had successfully solved the problem of unlocking
the door with an ice-axe, that most efficient of master-keys.
The Marinelli hut is built against an overhanging rock wall at an
altitude of over 10,000 feet on the Jäger Rücken, a broad and somewhat
ill-defined rocky ridge which, forming the lower boundary of the bottom
half of the Marinelli Couloir, separates the latter from the Nordend
Glacier. The floor space of the hut measures some thirteen by nineteen
feet, of which half is occupied by two bare, wooden shelves which
do duty as sleeping quarters; the other half accommodates a table,
a couple of rough benches and a stove which, for lack of firewood,
appeared to us to be the only superfluous luxury in an interior of
otherwise Spartan simplicity. Eight musty and evil-smelling blankets
which we hung up outside to air and dry, a visitors’ book and a few
dirty pots and pans completed the inventory. The visitors’ book soon
fell into the eager hands of Obexer, and whilst Case and Max busied
themselves with preparations for lunch and struggled with a refractory
spirit stove, he proceeded to pump me dry of all the information at my
disposal which would help him to compile the array of facts entering
into the calculation of what he gruesomely termed “the mortality
percentage of the east face.”
Having done justice to Max’s combined lunch and tea, I wandered over to
the Marinelli Couloir. Case, whose usually somewhat dormant interest in
external matters had been roused to a greater pitch than usual by the
frequent thunder of collapsing séracs and the continuous rumbling hiss
of snow sliding down the couloir, elected to accompany me. Traversing
almost horizontally along a series of broken ledges, we gained the edge
of the couloir in less than ten minutes. About a hundred and fifty feet
above, a low but overhanging buttress jutting well out into the couloir
obscured part of the view. A few minutes’ stiff scrambling, however,
placed us above the obstruction, and we were able to indulge in an
almost complete survey of the whole of the route by which we hoped to
gain the rocks of the Grenz Gipfel.
The warmth of the rays of an Italian sun was loosening the precarious
grip of the heavy masses of fresh snow that had fallen during the
thunderstorms of the two preceding evenings. A steady, unbroken stream
of wet snow hissed rapidly down the deep-cut channels with which the
bed of the Marinelli Couloir is scored. At frequent intervals, larger
masses, often mixed with ice and stones, would break loose, swell over
and out of the channels and, as if impatient of the bonds thrust upon
them by the narrow confines of the couloir, would overflow the Imseng
Rücken and with the reverberating noise of thunder dash down to the
glacier below. Far aloft, gleaming proudly in the brilliant light, a
great ice pinnacle nodded sedately forward, turned slightly round as
if to recover balance, then, dragged down by the irresistible pull of
gravity, crashed and broke into a thousand fragments which bounded
down the great gully in grotesque leaps and jumps. A small cave, close
at hand and opening out towards the valley, afforded refuge from the
onslaughts of the blocks of ice and masses of snow that careered past
within a few feet of us. The whole wall was literally alive with
movement; during our sojourn of fully two hours, five consecutive
minutes never passed without the rattle of falling stones or the mad,
headlong rush of an avalanche.
While I was trying to reconcile the rough sketches made from the
Macugnaga Glacier in the early morning with the foreshortened
appearance the mountain now presented, Max hove in sight, and together
we talked over plans. Finally, it was decided to begin the attack upon
the couloir from the rocks upon which we stood, and then, by cutting
across in a slightly ascending direction, to gain the rocks of the
Imseng Rücken at their nearest point, distant by nearly two hundred
yards. Once on the rocks of the Imseng Rücken, the original plan of
ascent, formulated _en route_ to the hut, was to be adhered to as far
as possible. Two other points were impressed upon us; first, the need
for all possible speed and the avoidance of any unnecessary delay after
having once embarked upon the ascent; and, second, the necessity of
postponing the carrying out of the expedition for one, possibly two,
days in order to give the sun an opportunity of clearing away as much
as possible of the loose, fresh snow which still remained upon the
slopes above.
Meanwhile, the sun had disappeared behind the Punta Margherita. The
chill air of deepening shadows conjured up, by contrast, a glowing
picture of our quarters for the night. Near the hut, hidden under a
stone, a welcome find revealed itself--a few handfuls of wood. A merry
fire was soon crackling and blazing away in the crazy little stove. The
bright flames, the dancing shadows, and the curling wisps of smoke,
supplied the heretofore wanting elements of cheerful warmth that made
the hut a real home.
It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch when the first
sleepy head, with an inquiring eye as to the weather prospects, was
poked out at the door. But August 8 was no exception to the golden rule
of 1911; the sky was cloudless. The day was usefully spent in marking
the best route to the Marinelli Couloir by numerous cairns, and by
prodigious efforts at demolishing our generous stock of provisions.
Towards evening, knapsacks were packed, ropes were laid ready, and the
fit of climbing irons was tested. Not until then did I discover that
Obexer’s irons were only six-toothed, and that the front teeth lay
quite two inches behind the toes of his boots. That meant making deeper
steps, and consequent loss of time.
On August 9, at 1 a.m., under the light of a brilliant moon, we left
the hut. We were roped in two parties. Case and myself led off; Max
and Obexer brought up the rear. All wore climbing irons. We followed
the now familiar route on to the rock promontory jutting into the
couloir. A glance above. All was quiet in the cold night air. A hasty
step in hard-frozen snow, and the attack was launched. Here the slope
of the couloir is about 46°, but the climbing irons gave firm grip
and, ascending slightly, we crossed at the double. Now and again ice
showed through in the beds of narrow, deep-cut troughs, and the axe
was brought into play. Two of these troughs gave trouble. Both were
over twelve feet deep and sixteen feet wide, with under-cut sides.
The difficulty in crossing lay, not in getting on to the floor of
the trough--a jump did that--but in cutting out over the ice of the
overhang on the far side. Beyond these obstacles, steep snow slopes
led to the rocks of the Imseng Rücken where Max and Obexer soon
joined us, little over half an hour after leaving the hut. The rocks,
though fairly steep, are, relatively speaking, not difficult; and,
climbing occasionally to the left, but more often to the right of the
ill-defined ridge, we all indulged in a passion for speed, racing
upwards as fast as heart and lungs would permit. The ridge becomes
narrower higher up, and the rocks gradually merge into a sharp
snow-crest which at first is almost level, but rapidly steepens and
broadens out to lose itself in the slopes which form the southern bank
of the Marinelli Couloir.
According to our pre-arranged plan, a brief halt was called and both
ropes joined together. Meanwhile, the moon had disappeared behind
the Zumstein Spitze, and two lanterns were lighted. We were now at a
height of about 11,500 feet. My watch showed 2.35 a.m.; thus our rate
of progress so far was satisfactory. From this point, however, the
problem assumed a far more serious aspect. The general angle of
the ground was very abrupt, and ice was everywhere laid bare by the
scouring action of untold avalanches. A brief but heavy bout of cutting
landed us on a small island of rocks, a last outcrop of the Imseng
Rücken. Though inclined to be slabby, they were surprisingly easy and
in a few minutes brought us to a steep, bare ice slope. To the left, a
short traverse offered an easy way into the zone of séracs, the route
of our predecessors; but, determined to adhere to original plans, we
faced the slopes leading upwards. The axe rang to the tinkle of falling
ice fragments. Case kept close behind and, with a lantern tied on to
the end of his axe, lit up the ice in front of me. Max hewed staunchly
away at deepening the steps, occasionally cutting additional ones to
suit Obexer’s short legs; for, to save all possible time, the steps
were cut as far apart as was consistent with safety. From far above in
the wild crags of the Nordend came the rattle of falling stones. Down
thundered the avalanche, swelling to a veritable torrent, and poured
through the Marinelli Couloir. Some few boulders, as if possessed
of a more adventurous spirit than the rest, leapt wildly across the
couloir in great ungainly bounds, throwing up thick clouds of snow as
they hurried over the upper part of the Imseng Rücken, which we had
just ascended. No word was spoken; the labour of step-cutting went on
steadily. The slope increased in steepness, until it was only just
possible to cut without resorting to handholds. At last, after gaining
some three hundred feet by the hardest of work, the slope suddenly
eased off, and we found ourselves on an almost level platform at the
foot of a huge sérac. Five minutes’ rest for sorely-tried lungs, and
then onwards once more!
[Illustration: _The Frisallücke._
_The snow slope is intersected by a bergschrund, which in turn is
cut by a trough formed by stones falling from the cliffs of the
Bifertenstock on the left._
_Facing page 148._
]
The first signs of dawn appeared and gradually dispelled the gloom
with which the moon had plunged everything when it had disappeared
behind the ridges high above; but it was still too dark to dispense
with the lanterns. Traversing almost horizontally in the direction
of the Punta Margherita, a series of easy snow ledges, interrupted
here and there by the scoured-out, icy, avalanche-swept channels that
exacted their due toll of step-cutting, led us well into the midst of
the crevasses, bergschrunds and séracs with which this part of the
east wall is so profusely armoured. Avoiding several likely looking
opportunities of once more progressing upwards--for our previous
reconnaissance had convinced us that the only way through the labyrinth
lay close under the steep slopes of the Punta Margherita--we forced a
way across, and sometimes even through, crevasse after crevasse, and
above or below sérac after sérac. At last, after having thus traversed
across almost the whole of the east face, a steep and rickety snow
bridge over a bergschrund of quite unusual dimensions at last gave
access to less steep ground where the climbing irons could find safe
purchase without the cutting of steps.
Meanwhile, it had become light; yet, in spite of all possible efforts
at speed, we had gained a level of only about 12,000 feet. The outlook
was not too good, for there was still much fresh snow on the slopes
above, and, with the sun’s advent, we should be at the mercy of
avalanches until the rocks of the Grenz Gipfel were gained.
Case and Max packed away their lanterns, and, redoubling our efforts,
we set out at a furious pace across the ledge leading to the next
icefall, the weakest point in which was a slope of, as near as we could
judge, 70° in steepness and about one hundred and fifty feet high. At
the first glance it appeared perpendicular, but it was just possible to
stand in shallow steps and cut without having more than occasional
recourse to handholds. Half-way up this exceptionally steep slope, an
irregularity in the ice provided me with a safe footing, so that my
companions were able to follow me up in the very skimpy steps with
which I had been satisfied in the first instance. The remainder of the
ascent of the ice wall was no less severe. Towards the top it became
even steeper. Footholds and carefully cut handholds were necessary to
enable us to reach the gentler slopes of the terrace above. The last
icefall was clearly impassable except on its extreme right, close to
where it adjoins the Marinelli Couloir. We had already realised this
from our inspection from the Macugnaga Glacier two days ago.
[Illustration:
_Photo A. I. I. Finch._
_The Grenz Gipfel._]
[Illustration: _The Val Sesia from Monte Rosa._
_Facing page 150._
]
Striking off in the direction of the Marinelli Couloir, we covered
ground rapidly, though without gaining much height. On arriving at the
very edge of the couloir, we discovered a steep slope of good snow, by
means of which the formidable icefall was easily turned. Cutting up
this slope, we arrived on the last terrace below the final bergschrund.
The only likely bridge over this schrund lay, as we knew, almost under
the Grenz Sattel. No time was lost in making for this point, and
we raced up over the comparatively gentle slopes with a speed that
must have astonished several parties who were warily descending the
Zumstein Spitze towards the Grenz Sattel. These parties were none too
careful in their climbing, and, before reaching the bergschrund, we
were reduced to dodging stones which whizzed past us at an alarming
rate. A most efficient snow bridge helped us across the schrund, and we
proceeded to cut steps diagonally upwards towards the lowest rocks of
the Grenz Gipfel, which lay about three hundred feet above. The snow
soon gave out, and we were reduced once more to cutting in bare ice. We
were still in considerable danger from falling stones which the sun
was loosening in increasing numbers from the Grenz Gipfel. Numerous
parties, spread out over the ridge leading from the Grenz Sattel to the
Grenz Gipfel, also added their little contributions in this respect,
in their eagerness to watch our advance. At 6.50 a.m. we grasped the
warm rocks of the east ridge of the Grenz Gipfel, and, climbing on to
a ledge, we felt, for the first time since leaving the Marinelli hut,
that we were at last in safety. The ascent of the final ice slope had
cost forty minutes. Our pace and the amount of step-cutting had been
so stiff, that I was never so glad to take a rest. However, a few
minutes worked wonders, and, after taking off our climbing irons and
re-arranging ourselves into two parties, Max and Obexer being in one,
and Case and myself taking the lead, we got busy with the last stage in
the expedition--the steep rocks in front of us. We kept to the ridge
itself, only occasionally traversing a few yards to the left. The rock
is good, but the climbing is difficult and strenuous. The whole ridge
seems to consist of overhanging steps, each about ten feet high and
calling for plenty of arm work. By this time, however, we were anxious
to see if we could not establish a record ascent from the point of
view of time. Max and Obexer affected to take things more easily, and,
shortly before we had attained the level of the Grenz Sattel, we parted.
Case shared my eagerness for speed, with the result that in less
than two hours’ climbing we stood on the summit of the Grenz Gipfel
(15,158 ft.). Ten minutes later, at 9.15 a.m., we were prospecting for
a suitable place for a sun bath on the summit of the Dufour Spitze
(15,217 ft.). We had taken just over eight hours from hut to summit. At
a quarter to ten Max and Obexer arrived, and the day was won.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] J. C. Case, F. Obexer, M. B. I. Finch and G. I. Finch.
CHAPTER XI
THE TWINS
When mountains reach an altitude of over 13,000 feet, one does not
usually call them little. But the Twins, Castor and Pollux, are
so overshadowed by their massive neighbours, the Lyskamm and the
Breithorn, that one quite naturally refers to them in terms of the
diminutive. Dwarfed though they be by their mighty surroundings, they
are, nevertheless, every inch great mountains.
CASTOR
On August 15, 1909, H. A. Mantel, a fellow member of the Academic
Alpine Club of Zürich, and I were sunning ourselves on the rocks in
front of the Bétemps hut. Mantel, who had heard much of the joys of
ice-climbing during the last two weeks we had climbed together, was
filled with a keen desire to see for himself if it were really as
superior to rock work as I had made it out to be.
The north face of the Lyskamm was ruled out as being too big an effort
for the initiation of even such a willing proselyte as my companion.
Within easy reach of the Bétemps hut, however, is Castor, the higher of
the two twins and one of the most striking forms of Alpine beauty. Seen
from the north, it is a wonderfully proportioned dome of pure snow and
ice, almost wholly unflecked by rock. The north face of this mountain
had never, as far as I knew, been ascended. Beyond the fact that Miss
K. Richardson with Émile Rey and Bich had descended its upper third or
half in 1890, I had not been able to trace the records of any other
explorers having visited Castor on this side. Long before the chill of
sunset drove us inside the hut, we had decided upon this climb for the
morrow.
Soon after midnight, snow ploughing parties for Monte Rosa began their
usual noisy preparations. We wallowed on in the luxury of superfluous
blankets and straw until 2 a.m., by which time the last party had left
the hut. At four o’clock, our fragile, early morning tempers were being
severely tried by the moraine leading down to the Grenz Glacier. Once
on the glacier, however, the stability of things under foot reasserted
itself, and a brisk, pleasant walk brought us to the foot of the
formidable icefall which separates the Grenz and Zwillings Glaciers.
We attacked the icefall in about the centre of its front and working
steadily upwards and to the right, in a westerly direction, fought step
by step for a way through the intricate mass of crevasses and séracs
which sought to impede our progress. Frequently we were unable to
find snow bridges and had to cross crevasses by descending into them
and then cutting up the other side. At the top of the icefall we were
pulled up short by a final crevasse which appeared to stretch without
a break from one side of the glacier to the other. A little searching,
however, revealed the presence of an extremely unpleasant-looking
bridge which seemed far too heavy for the slender supports by which
it was attached to the two sides of the crevasse. The sun, however,
had just risen, and everything was still well-frozen; so with due
precautions the rickety structure was called upon to lend us all the
assistance in its power. Beyond shedding a few icicles, which went
clinking down into the soul-shattering depths below, the bridge stood
up nobly. We now struck out in the direction of the Zwillingsjoch, as
the gap between Castor and Pollux is called. Gentle, undulating snow
slopes, broken here and there by enormous, but mostly well-bridged,
crevasses, provided easy going. Some of the crevasses in this part of
the glacier were so wide that we had to rope together at a distance
of rather over eighty feet in order to avoid the possibility of both
standing on the same bridge at the same time. A second icefall, tame in
comparison with the first, was passed through without difficulty, and
at 7.45 a.m. we stood at the foot of the north face of our mountain, at
a point due north of the summit.
[Illustration: _A crevasse on the Zwillings Glacier._]
[Illustration: _Castor._
“... a wonderfully proportioned dome of pure snow and ice” ....
_Facing page 154._
]
A halt was called for breakfast, and, after a welcome cigarette, we
put on our climbing irons. The bergschrund, which gaped widely open
to right and left of where we stood, was completely filled with snow
and ice--débris from the avalanches which pour off the north face
through a funnel whose opening meets the bergschrund just here. To
cross the schrund we had to cut steps, as the snow was too closely
packed and hard-frozen to admit of kicking. After cutting some sixty
steps, however, we were able to dispense with the use of the axe and
kicked our way rapidly upwards over steep slopes of frozen snow in
the direction of the north-east ridge of the mountain. This earlier
part of the ascent, for a distance of about a thousand feet from the
bergschrund, was accomplished in a remarkably short space of time, as
we were exposed to avalanches from a tier of ice cliffs that enfiladed
the funnel up which we were advancing. During the latter portion of the
ascent of these slopes, we gradually worked over to the east in order
to find a way round the extreme eastern edge of the ice cliffs. A flaw
in the cliffs, however, absolved us of the necessity of traversing
very far to the left, and we were soon able to strike straight up
towards the diminutive bergschrund which cuts into the north-east
ridge of Castor at a height of about 12,800 feet. Before reaching
this bergschrund, the general slope eased off considerably, and the
snow became powdery and deep. Once upon the gentler snow slopes, the
direction again changed, and we struck out towards Pollux, ploughing
a way slowly through the tiresome snow. In this fashion we arrived at
the bergschrund at a point directly below the north summit of Castor,
and paused for a few minutes’ rest before assaulting the final steep
slopes. So far, Mantel had not been unduly impressed with the supposed
difficulties of ice-climbing, but the very last slope was steep,
and I felt sure that we would meet with ice which would impede our
progress sufficiently to make him alter his opinion. But, once again,
the bergschrund was easily overcome, and, to my disappointment, we
were able to kick our way up beyond it without cutting a single step.
The snow was perfect. Not until we were within a rope’s length of the
north summit did we meet with ice. The slope here was considerable;
but after a quarter of an hour’s hard step-cutting even this final
part of the ascent was accomplished. At 11 a.m. we stood on the north
summit and a few minutes later had crossed the easy snow ridge leading
to the highest point (13,878 ft.), where we arrived in a little over
seven hours after leaving the Bétemps hut. The conditions had been
exceptionally favourable, save in so far as the first icefall on the
Zwillings Glacier was concerned. I have only heard of one other ascent
of Castor by this route, and that by a strong guided party who were in
all, from hut to summit, eleven hours, some eight hours of which was
occupied in step-cutting. This fact shows plainly enough that, with
unfavourable conditions, the climb can be quite a severe and laborious
one.
The day was fine and all but windless. We were in no hurry to get back
to the hut; so, seeking a comfortable perch on the rocks overlooking
the Italian side of the mountain, we indulged in a protracted summit
rest of over two hours.
The descent over the Felikhorn to the Felik Pass was without incident.
Shortly after leaving the pass, the snow became wet and soft, and
being only two, we had to exert great care in picking our way round
the innumerable gigantic crevasses which intersect the upper slopes
of the glacier. With the exception of some on Mont Blanc, I do not
think I have ever seen such huge crevasses as those met with during
this descent. At 4 p.m. we had safely regained our morning track, just
where it emerged from the tangle of the lower icefall of the Zwillings
Glacier. The passage of the delicate bridge, which appeared to provide
the only means of crossing the first big crevasse, was attended with
a certain amount of anxiety; but by crawling on all fours so as to
distribute one’s weight as equally as possible, and otherwise showing
due respect to our decaying friend bridging the gaping depths beneath,
the passage was successfully accomplished. The rest of the work, which
consisted in further following our morning tracks through the maze of
séracs and crevasses leading down to the Grenz Glacier, offered no
serious difficulty. At 5.30 p.m. we were once more back in the Bétemps
hut.
POLLUX.
Liniger, one of the ablest of the younger members of the A.A.C.Z., and
I went up to the Bétemps hut on August 17, 1919, with the intention
of climbing the north ridge of Pollux. Heavy snow had fallen, and the
possibility of carrying out a big climb was out of the question. Not
seeing, however, why this should materially affect our prospects of
being able to get in somewhere or other a good day’s ice work, we had
consulted Dübi’s guide book to the Pennine Alps, to find therein no
recorded ascent of Pollux by the north ridge.
Since traversing Monte Rosa in 1911, this was my first visit to the
Bétemps hut. The hut had been slightly enlarged, but otherwise I found
everything much the same. It seemed almost incredible that eight years
had elapsed since I had last watched the setting sun tinge with red the
summits of that glorious line of peaks which runs from the Matterhorn
to the Weisshorn. Numerous other parties arrived at the hut towards the
end of the day, and, in order not to impede their preparations for a
meal, we turned in to sleep at a fairly early hour.
At 2 a.m. on August 18, 1919, we were up just in time to see the
tail-end of numerous Monte Rosa parties disappear. They took with them
their unsated curiosity as to our intentions, for, having our doubts as
to the possibility of winning through on our climb, we had refrained
from giving them any inkling of our intentions. Shortly after 3 a.m. we
were ready to move off and descended over the moraine on to the Gorner
Glacier, across which we struck in a due westerly direction. Several
times we trod through into concealed pools of icy water and got our
feet thoroughly soaked. It was still dark when we arrived at the steep
moraine which marks the beginning of the north ridge of Pollux; and in
the fitful light of the lantern, the ascent of this moraine, composed
of mud and loose stones poised at an almost impossible angle, was
little short of misery. At last, however, its summit was attained, and
progress became better. Later on, where the moraine fizzled out into
snow slopes, the light of day enabled us to dispense with the lantern,
and we put on the rope. Proceeding up these snow slopes, dodging an
occasional crevasse, we kept steadily on in the direction of the
depression which lies a few yards due north of the first of the three
prominent humps on the north ridge. We stood in this depression at 5
a.m. and immediately began the attack on the steep ice bulge which
defends the approach to the next hump.
At first we mounted rapidly over fairly steep slopes covered with
excellent snow. These, however, gave out as the slope increased,
and we were reduced to cutting in bare ice. This proved to be of an
extraordinarily tough consistency. It was dark grey, at times almost
black in colour, and frequently the only result that a blow from
the axe accomplished was to make a small hole, from which the pick
tenaciously refused to be removed except at the cost of much twisting
and pulling. In all, we had to cut about one hundred and sixty steps;
but, for the reasons I have mentioned, progress was inordinately
slow. Towards the top of the slope, we were able to save much work by
making use of the irregularities in the sides of a crevasse which cut
vertically into the ice. Once above the steeper portions of the slope,
good snow led up to the summit of the middle hump (nearly 12,000 ft.)
which we reached at 7.15 a.m.
The third hump is about six hundred feet higher up, and the ridge
connecting it with the point on which we now stood was in part heavily
corniced. We therefore kept fairly well to the west of the ridge, but
had to pay dearly for doing so; there was a great accumulation of new
snow, and the work of stamping was heavy.
By 8.30 a.m. we had passed round and slightly below the third hump,
and gained the foot of the final slopes into which the north ridge of
Pollux broadens out ere it reaches the summit. The next obstacle in our
way was an extremely unpleasant-looking bergschrund surmounted by an
enormously steep ice wall some seventy to eighty feet in height. At a
first glance, it appeared doubtful as to whether this obstacle could be
overcome, so we wisely decided to call a brief halt in order to recruit
our strength.
At 8.45 a.m., leaving my knapsack with Liniger and taking in exchange
his axe, I started out to see what could be done with our formidable
antagonist. By standing on the lower lip of the bergschrund and pushing
both axes up to the hilt into the good snow on the other side, I was
able to haul myself across and kick a somewhat precarious foothold.
Still making use of Liniger’s axe as a handhold and cutting steps
with my own, I succeeded in securing a better purchase on the steep
slope leading upwards from the upper lip. The angle of this slope was
certainly over sixty degrees; yet, in spite of this, it was hung with
vast quantities of dry, powdery snow. To obtain a foothold without
first sweeping this away and then cutting steps in the ice below, was
impossible. To the right, a few yards higher up, a flake of ice had
become partially detached from the wall, and, after gaining this, I
was able to find sufficiently good standing ground for Liniger to
follow. The next hundred feet consisted of perfectly straightforward
cutting, though the ice was still very steep and covered with masses
of soft, new snow that had to be swept down prior to the hewing out of
each step. The cold was considerable, and Liniger began to complain of
losing sensation in his feet. For my part, I did not suffer from cold,
as I was wearing Norwegian ski-ing boots, inside of which were three
pairs of thick woollen socks. Frost-bite would have been a most serious
matter at this point of the climb, so we made every effort to gain the
gentler slopes at the foot of the final wall below the summit. At 10
a.m. we reached these slopes which stretch in the form of a terrace
almost across the whole of the north face of Pollux. Firmly digging
in the axes and belaying our ropes round them, we sat down and, after
removing Liniger’s boots, proceeded to inspect the damage, if any. To
our relief, animation was restored by vigorous and prolonged rubbing,
and we replaced his sodden socks with a dry pair which he was fortunate
enough to have in his knapsack.
The weather, which up till now had been clear, began to assume a
doubtful aspect. A westerly wind was sweeping masses of cloud towards
us from the Breithorn, and occasionally we were enveloped in mist. As
neither of us knew anything whatever about the descent of Pollux, it
was clear that we had no more time to lose. Liniger took the lead and,
dashing furiously ahead, kicked his way up the final slopes, until
bare ice breaking through the snow rendered this method of progress
no longer possible. Once more the interminable step-cutting became
necessary. A small bergschrund was passed almost without its presence
being noticed. The final slope is steep and consists of pure ice, but
we found it covered by the same incohesive masses of new snow which
had so impeded our progress lower down. Liniger worked valiantly, and,
in spite of the circumstances, we made comparatively rapid progress.
Long before reaching the summit, we were shrouded in driving, clammy
mist, and the cold became bitter. It was not until 12.30 p.m. that we
eventually reached the top (13,432 ft.). We had been almost nine and a
half hours on the way, of which time little more than half an hour had
been spent in resting. But we were by no means out of our troubles.
Having got up, it now remained to be seen how we were to get down.
Neither of us had any desire to return by the way we had come, for
the idea of a descent of the last formidable bergschrund in doubtful
weather was not exactly to our liking. We knew that a comparatively
easy line of descent lay down a ridge somewhere to the south-west of
the summit; but the difficulty was how to find the beginning of this
ridge in the intense mists. However, it was no good remaining on the
summit itself and waiting for the mists to clear; there seemed no
prospect of that happening within a reasonable time. Taking a compass
bearing, therefore, I set off in a south-westerly direction, with
Liniger bringing up the rear. It was impossible to survey the slopes
for more than a yard or two ahead, and, after having descended some
distance in this manner, we gave up the search for the south-west
ridge and, turning due west, gained some rocks which, as it transpired
later, lie on the west face of the mountain. Their appearance was
far from prepossessing. They were extremely steep and slabby, but on
the principle of a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, we
decided to venture down. The rocks did not belie their appearance.
They proved to be difficult and were thoroughly plastered up with ice
and snow. On several occasions we resorted to the use of the doubled
rope. A steep, slabby gully ending in an overhang brought us to the
top of a tremendously steep ice slope, the first sixty feet of which
we descended by means of the doubled rope. Thence, after cutting steps
towards a rib of rocks, we descended this, and, plunging down final
slopes of soft snow, crossed the bergschrund on to the glacier at a
point immediately south of the Schwarztor.
The mists now cleared and revealed to us the west wall of Pollux, down
which we had just found a way. It would be difficult to imagine a more
unprepossessing line of descent, especially when one considers how much
ice and snow lay about on the rocks. However, we had nothing to grumble
about now, as our difficulties were over in so far as getting off the
actual peak was concerned; and, in addition, we had, thanks to the
mist, even descended by a new route! That trouble was still in store
for us we were aware, because we had noticed that the huge icefall
in the Schwärze Glacier was in bad condition. Knowing that we might
experience considerable delay in passing through this icefall, and not
wishing to run the risk of a bivouac, we lost no time in traversing
round to the Schwarztor and crossed over the pass at 3 p.m. The weather
showed distinct signs of improvement, and occasionally we obtained
fitful glimpses of the sun through breaks in the mist. Such breaks
were welcome, for it was sometimes difficult to detect the presence
of crevasses when the sun was obscured. As elsewhere, the glacier was
laden with fresh snow, and frequently we sank in knee-deep. On leaving
the Schwarztor, we descended the glacier practically in the direction
of the Gornergrat and met with no serious opposition until arriving at
the upper edge of the great icefall. An attempt to break through on the
right failed ignobly, and we were reduced to retracing our steps for
some considerable distance. Another attempt was then made, this time
through the centre of the icefall; but, although we managed to make
some headway, a huge wall, from which it would have been impossible to
rope down without sacrificing an axe, again blocked all possibility
of further descent. Once more we were forced to retrace our steps.
Our third attempt proved lucky; we found a way out by crossing a most
unpleasant crevasse and traversing along its lower edge. Finally,
crossing some broken slopes and running the gauntlet of possible fire
from several séracs of doubtful stability, we reached the open glacier.
Passing over this and the moraine on the far side, we soon gained our
tracks of the morning and, at 6.30 p.m., were once more back at the
Bétemps hut.
CHAPTER XII
THE MATTERHORN--A BEGINNER’S IMPRESSIONS
By AGNES ISOBEL INGLE FINCH
The throngs who swarm on the Matterhorn day after day in the summer,
the airy contempt with which some climbers dismiss it as a climbing
proposition, the fact that a clumsy novice like myself has actually
passed over it--these things do nothing to detract from the wonderment
with which I shall always regard the ascent of the most famous mountain
in Europe. I have watched it in its moods of calm and storm, sunshine
and cloud, and, with eyes glued to the telescope, have seen the
braves who callously went to sleep last night in the Schönbühl hut
without the slightest apparent tremor of excitement or expectancy at
what they were about to attempt in the course of the next few hours,
creeping down the slopes in the broad daylight, stepping fearfully
forward, slowly gaining each painful inch. I have looked upon it in
the soft morning light from the dark pines behind the Riffelalp, as
something not of earth, but as it were suspended in the air, splendidly
detached from the lowly haunts of men. And always it seemed to me,
aloof--almost aggressively aloof--and although I knew that it was part
of the ambitious first year’s programme that had been drawn up for me,
I could never imagine myself scaling its precipitous slopes. There
was one point upon which I had made myself perfectly explicit. I was
not going to climb the Matterhorn unless I could do so with zest and
enjoyment. If one respects a mountain, one ought to approach it with
a joyful mind. I was not going to be pulled up the steep pitches till
the cruel rope bruised my waist so that I dared hardly move myself
for days afterwards--a sacrifice that the Matterhorn had apparently
frequently demanded of its votaries. I had myself suffered in likewise
on a defiant little overhang on the Riffelhorn and found the experience
of acting as a sack of potatoes irritating to the temper, painful to
the flesh and thoroughly demoralising. Altogether, when I reviewed my
general conduct on the Riffelhorn, I had little hope for success in the
greater venture.
Nevertheless, on an afternoon in August, 1923, I found myself at the
Hörnli, where begins the climb of the Matterhorn by the Swiss ridge.
The evening meal provided a certain amount of esoteric amusement. Our
table was shared by two stalwart Americans who, regarding us through
immense tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, rushed into a diatribe on
the guideless climber who was evidently the root of all Alpine evils.
Their ideas upon this abnormal specimen of humankind were almost as
profuse as they were fantastic, and their faith in the word “guide”--it
could only have been in the word, for they confessed to being unable
to discriminate between good, bad or indifferent members of the
fraternity--touching to the point of tears. The new light shed upon
my companion, who was, of course, every inch an outlaw, was rather
upsetting, and I began to be very glad indeed of the justifying
presence of Padrun.
Padrun was admirable. He had recognised my husband at Lausanne station
and introduced himself as a guide from the Engadine. No; he had never
climbed round Zermatt, but he would be honoured to accompany us as
porter and to be third man on the rope where madame was middle. He
hoped to learn and one day become a first-class guide. This no mean
ambition and his diffidence regarding his own merits won us at once,
and it was straightway arranged that he should join us later in
Zermatt. He was young and strong, frank of countenance and speech,
good to look upon and always willing. Extremely intelligent and deeply
interested in all mountain lore, his general knowledge of the world of
nature as well as of men was amazing, and the keenness which he brought
to his everyday actions made him the most agreeable of companions. He
spoke English, French, Italian, German, Swiss-German and Romanche--all
well and freely, so that from the linguistic view point alone he was
invaluable to us on our journeyings. But perhaps best of all he was a
very perfect “maid.” At the close of a long, tiring day Padrun would
cheerfully minister to our creature comforts. Without a flicker of
annoyance, he would scour out cooking utensils that ought to have
been left clean; dig round for ice and snow to fill the pan for tea;
light the fire and lay the table, seemingly oblivious to the lack of
civilised amenities; and turn down the rough blanket or mangy-looking
sheepskin with all the _sangfroid_ and care with which Célestine would
have turned down the cool, fine linen and soft, fleecy blankets in
the perfect flat. This seeming disregard of discomfort was merely the
outcome of a common sense philosophy, to which, however, I do not think
I can attribute Padrun’s invariable success in securing a bed for me,
even when a surplus of climbers was already in the hut. That was more a
case of ability to seize the opportunity.
[Illustration: _The Swiss ridge of the Matterhorn from the Matterhorn
hut._
_The dotted line indicates the route._
1. _Site of old Matterhorn hut._
2. _Solvay hut._
3. _The Shoulder._
_Facing page 166._
]
We turned in early. But the presumptuous nature of what I was about to
attempt kept me wakeful; so that at one o’clock I was glad to hear the
voices of my husband and Padrun in low conversation outside as they
made their preparations for our high adventure. I was soon beside
them, ready to move off. The night was beautifully clear, blue-black,
for there was no moon; and the silence was so deep that it almost
made one ache. We roped. My husband, as leading man, carried the only
lantern we possessed. It proved to be a sorry affair, for we had just
passed along the short level ridge to the foot of the obelisk, which
in the darkness looked ten times as large as usual, when the candle
dropped out. We recovered and re-lighted it, and pursued our scrambling
course upwards. The way was easy; countless feet had trodden out what
was almost a path leading along the ridge, or a little below it either
to right or left. Soon the other parties began to follow, and twinkling
lights showed all about the base of the Matterhorn, making it look like
a gigantic Christmas-tree. Holds were always ready where wanted. I soon
began to lose all consciousness of effort, my body felt light as the
cool night air; and feet and hands, as if instinctively, sought and
found hold. We mounted higher and higher--right out of ourselves, so to
speak. There was none of the straining and panting that I had thought
must mark my climbing attempts. Here and there, as we seemed to wind
our way in and out amongst the rocky towers of the ridge, I was aware
of the tingling depth of precipice or chasm, and once I made a false
step and dipped my right foot over into nothingness.
Presently the last of our stock of candles had fallen out of the
rickety lantern, and we went forward in the darkness, lighted by the
occasional flash of an electric torch. This proved troublesome, and was
retarding our progress so much that we were moved to borrow a lantern
from a party of three Swiss boys who, like us, were bound for the
Italian hut.
Thenceforward we climbed comfortably and without haste, until at 3.30
a.m. we arrived at the ruins of the old Matterhorn hut which, built in
1867, two years after the first ill-fated ascent, had afforded welcome
shelter to many of the early conquerors of the great mountain. Situated
in an exposed position on a small ledge at the foot of a great vertical
bluff, it is not surprising that its present state is one of roofless
demolition. We rested here in the gloom for five minutes, then moved
off once more.
The next step was to be the Solvay Refuge. This information was
emphatically impressed upon me; it meant, in reality, that I was
forbidden to linger and watch the dawn come up and chase the night from
sky and hill. In due course we reached the place that is now known as
Moseley’s slab. The historic interest of the Matterhorn is enhanced
beyond that of all other mountains by the fact that so many of its
different features bear the names of the men associated with them;
a story seems to hang to every stone. At the slab, a steep, smooth
pitch where hands and feet and additional effort are all required,
the lantern was extinguished; and I saw that the rock around me and
at my feet was losing its bluish-black tint. But I dared not divert
my attention from the work in hand. To gain the first foothold on the
slab, I had to have a little leverage from below and a pull from above;
my limbs and climbing experience were alike too short to enable me to
reach it unaided. With the exception of this and one other occasion on
the ascent, I managed by myself, if the second person on a rope can
ever truly be said to do so. My previous reading of Alpine literature
had led me to conclude that, in any mountaineering venture, the man
to whom admiration is due is he who is first on the ascent and last
in the descent. On him falls the real work and responsibility; the
others are merely backers-up, adequate or inadequate as the case may
be. While the party is on the move, the leader must never relax even
for a fraction of a second. He must never slip, must always be sure of
himself and never lose his presence of mind. He brings the others up to
him or lets them down while he holds them securely from above. When,
therefore, I remark that I “managed by myself” I mean that, well nursed
from above on a strong leading string, I contrived to lift my feet into
the holds that were obligingly waiting for them. I had also learnt on
the way up to support and trust myself to my arms alone, and swing
myself up on them. An improvement this on my Riffelhorn behaviour. I
could not then bring myself to believe that I could hang on my arms
without their breaking or being pulled out of their sockets. What had
actually occurred, of course, was that I had discovered the use and
strength of fingers.
At about half-past five we reached the Solvay hut. To describe sunrise
on the mountains is a task that must be left to the brush or pen of
the artist. The ordinary mortal must be content to worship before a
sight than which “earth has not anything to show more fair.” Every
mountain-top was on fire, and I chafed at the thought that had we left
earlier, or had I been quicker, we might now have been on the summit
of the Matterhorn knowing what it was to be bathed in the clear,
transparent, rosy glow that, deepening, crept all too swiftly downwards
and disappeared. Half an hour was spent in the refuge, resting and
eating a frugal breakfast; the real banqueting ground was to be the
summit. Just as several others parties were arriving, we resumed our
climb. The ridge proved rather unstable, and great care had to be
taken not to loosen stones. Keeping close together and all moving at
once, we presently reached the Shoulder. Here begin the fixed ropes
which render the climb too easy to the expert but are so useful and
comforting to the tyro. Then came a short stretch of extremely sharp
ridge with an appalling precipice falling away on the right. We were
now moving one at a time, and as I waited while the leader went out the
full length of the rope to find good, firm standing ground, it seemed
to me that I simply could not face the teeth in front, to say nothing
of the giddy drop. However, a party was following close behind us, and
in that party was one of my own sex.
Now to betray “cold feet” in the presence of another woman is out of
the question. So I swallowed hard, sailed in with an affectation of
nonchalance and conquered. Indeed, I believe that the main cause of my
unwonted display of prowess, or rather the absence of my wonted display
of clumsiness, throughout the ascent of the Swiss ridge was the thought
that the girl behind might be watching. It is true that I once looked
back, and found that she was completely occupied with her own doings.
She seemed even more raw at the game than myself. But that was no
guarantee that she wouldn’t find time to criticise.
Just below the last gentle slope leading to the Swiss summit is a
rather exposed bulge. There was no rope, though I have been told
that there is usually one at this spot. I was too short to reach
the handholds and pull myself up so that I could use my knee, and,
disappointing though it was, I was forced to accept Padrun’s proffered
shoulder as a foothold. Thenceforward to the top was a mere walk. The
Swiss summit being too small to meet with our requirements, we took
a quick, dizzy peep over the top into a new country and crossed over
to the Italian summit. Here we found the three Swiss boys who were
to follow us on the descent. We returned their lantern with many
thanks, and seated ourselves on a fairly commodious platform lower down.
[Illustration: _The Swiss summit of the Matterhorn from the Italian
summit._
_The metal cross in the foreground was erected by a party of
enthusiastic Italian mountaineers headed by a priest._
_The summit of Mont Blanc in 1911._
_The partially snowed-up hut seen in the photograph is now completely
submerged._
_A contrast in mountain tops._
_Facing page 170._
]
It was about a quarter to eight; we had been over six hours _en route_,
having taken our time and extracted as much enjoyment out of the climb
as was possible. And now we were to reap at least one of the advantages
of guideless climbing. Our time was our own; there was nobody to hurry
us off to the summit after a cursory glance round at the view. I felt
moved to pity for the girl who had agonised her way up behind me when
I saw her ruthlessly bundled off the top after five minutes’ breathing
space. I prepared to settle myself comfortably for the next hour and,
acting on the assumption that I might never again visit the summit of
the Matterhorn, proceeded to indulge in a process of cramming, mental
and physical. My husband found a comfortable seat for me, which Padrun
padded with knapsacks and coats. They then produced the wherewithal
to appease my voracious appetite. I am not of those who, when above a
certain altitude, lose all desire for food and perfunctorily nibble at
an inadequate morsel of chocolate, nor yet of those who forget physical
needs in the intensity of their emotional delight. Like the Persian,
my paradise is one which caters for the body as well as the soul,
especially after six hours’ scrambling. I clamour for bread, lots of
it, and the thicker the better, and a generous helping of cheese. I was
given what I craved and a thermos of tea, and therewith settled down to
a profound enjoyment of my position and surroundings.
Just how much of the pleasure of being on a mountain-top arises from
the view alone, I have so far been unable to gauge. On a clear day, the
eye can see for a hundred miles, perhaps two hundred miles, in every
direction, and the breath catches at the unexpected width and bigness
of nature and the littleness of the man-made dwellings in the far-down
valleys. From above, the actual beauty of the rolling, snow-white
ranges is, I think, less great than from below. I am of opinion that it
is the feeling that one is actually on top of a peak that causes the
pleasure, or rather elation, that grips one; and that with thick mist
blotting out all view the elation would still exist. One is buoyed up,
away from the earth. It is the same indefinite sensation of pleasant
wonderment that one experiences during the not uncommon flying or
“levitation” dream. One is simply off the earth.
We sat in calm enjoyment of the wonderful panorama. The day was quiet,
the breeze was of the gentlest, the sky of the clearest and bluest, and
the sun was bright and warm. At our feet the mountain sloped steeply
down on all sides. Away below, Breuil lay still asleep; and all around,
range upon range of snow and ice-clad peaks stretched to the far
horizon. It must have been on just such a day that Whymper made his
memorable ascent, and human foot first trod the summit of this noblest
of pyramids.
About a quarter to nine, we began to repack in preparation for the
descent, and by nine were ready to embark upon what I regarded as
the most thrilling part of the day’s work. Padrun went first, I, as
before, was middleman, and my husband came last. At a discreet distance
followed the three Swiss boys who betrayed some little amusement at my
audacity. I thought that the Italian ridge of the Matterhorn was one
long succession of vertical, even overhanging precipices, over which
one let oneself down on ropes. Like most people who have never climbed,
I was possessed of various preconceived ideas regarding precipices, the
chief of which was that I would find being on the edge of one so dizzy
an experience, that I would immediately lose my head and tumble over.
A rather more interesting one was that I would want to throw myself
over! I had often when on top of high sea cliffs, watching the waves
splash and whiten against the rocks below, been strangely conscious
of the uncanny lure of depth. Though I had not been unaware of the
presence of appalling steepnesses while ascending the Swiss ridge, I
had neither suffered from vertigo nor evinced the slightest desire to
fling myself into space. I had not had time. My faculties had been
concentrated on what was immediately before and above me, and not on
what was behind and below. Precipices were part and parcel of the
mountain, and to act like a fly on a wall seemed the most natural thing
in the world. It is not to be supposed for one moment that I could walk
along the edge of a house roof and escape disaster!
Padrun went forward, and soon came his shout, “A fixed rope!” He
lowered himself over, out of sight. I waited for his signal. “All
right!” Cautiously I approached the brink and peered over. I must
confess to a shock. Padrun was standing below me, grinning cheerfully
on what seemed a most inadequate platform for one pair of mountain
boots, let alone two. He assured me, however, that there was room and
invited me to “come along.” From the rear came an order to the same
effect. I was greatly troubled. How to lean down on the edge of nothing
and catch hold of the fixed rope was a difficult problem. My feet were
dreadfully far off. But the plunge had to be taken. I suppose I must
have turned face in towards the rock, kneeled down and lowered myself
on my arms until I had slithered far enough over to be able to grasp
the rope--a pleasantly thick one it was! I scraped for footholds and
found them at distressingly long intervals, so that practically all
the time I was hanging on my hands. I had not yet learned to shin down
a rope, sailor fashion, using feet as brakes. I was, of course, held
securely from above on the Alpine rope. My nurse was conscientiousness
itself, but the Alpine rope looked terribly puny, and I was not quite
convinced that, if I released my hold on the fixed rope, the other
could stand my weight. All manner of interesting information as to the
strength and breaking strain of an Alpine rope had been vouchsafed to
me, but I was sceptical. So I clung as if for dear life with my hands.
Presently I joined Padrun on the little shelf, and, as soon as I had
made myself secure, he went down the next pitch. “All right!” I passed
the word up to my husband, who came down at an amazing speed as I took
in his rope. Then he once more let me down to Padrun. And so it went
on. I meant to count the ropes on the Italian ridge, but failed to
carry out my intention. They seemed innumerable. In time the strain
on my arms began to tell, and the friction was beginning to tear the
skin off my hands, but still I could not be induced to trust to the
climbing rope and permit myself to be lowered over. Finally, however,
came the last straw that broke down the barrier of distrust. Half-way
down one very long rope, my outraged arms struck work. Willy-nilly, I
was hanging on the Alpine rope like a spider on its thread--and behold!
it did not break under my weight. The pitch was safely negotiated, and
almost immediately afterwards we were at the famous ladder of Jordan.
It was a very pretty ladder with strong rope sides and wooden rungs,
but it hung over a great bulge and dangled in space. Padrun held it as
near the wall at the bottom as he could while I descended face towards
the rock. As I approached the nose, the ladder showed a tendency to
swing away from the rock, and when I actually arrived at the tip, the
space between myself and the wall was disagreeably wide. It was the
most thrilling part of the descent so far, but soon over. From the
spacious platform at the foot, I watched carefully, on the look-out
for the correct way to descend Jordan’s ladder, and I saw that when my
husband reached the tip of the nose, that is, the edge of the actual
overhang, he changed his position and came down on the _inside_ of the
ladder.
[Illustration: _Descending the Italian ridge._
“... a pleasantly thick fixed rope.”
_Facing page 174._
]
All the time since passing the first fixed rope, we had been working
more or less down the face of the mountain. Now we turned slightly
to our right and gained the ridge. On the broad shelf that marks the
beginning of Carrel’s corridor, we rested for fully an hour. It had
been our intention to snatch only a short breathing space, but two
parties were coming up towards us, and, as the ground was loose and
unstable, we waited until they approached. The first was a party of
three, whose feet were continually getting entangled in their rope
which lay in coils between each member and dragged loose stones about
in a most disconcerting manner. It was warm and sunny, we had many
hours of daylight at our disposal--for our destination that day was
only the Italian hut--and the world was beautiful to look upon.
About eleven o’clock we again resumed work on the ridge. The ground was
scaly and unpleasant. Thin, flat flakes of stone slipped out underneath
the feet. Keeping close together we soon arrived at the Col Félicité,
so called in honour of the first woman who reached it; but a more
incongruous name, from the point of view of appearance, could not have
been found. A little later we came to a narrow snow bridge connecting
the shingly slope of the Italian face above with the long level ridge
of the Pic Tyndall. Some fifteen inches wide, the bridge falls away
nearly perpendicularly on either side to a tremendous depth. I could
not help thinking that it would have been much more agreeable if the
approach to the bridge had been level and stable instead of sloping and
loose, and the exit had not been blocked by a little vertical tower
some fifteen feet high over which it was necessary to climb. Padrun
sauntered over as calmly as if he were walking on the finest Roman
viaduct, and scaled the wall of the tower at the other end. It looked
a giddy proceeding. I felt sure that I would wobble to one side or
other, and, despite the fact that I would simply dip for a moment into
space and then be hoisted up on the rope, the demoralising effect would
doubtless be calamitous. However, that “there’s nothing either good or
bad but thinking makes it so” is nowhere so true as on the mountains.
The idea of the venture proved one thousandfold more dreadful than
the actuality. I kept my eyes on the turret a few feet away, and was
clambering up before I realised it. Daring greatly, I paused to look
down, just for the good of my own self-respect. The effect was quite
exhilarating.
Once on the ridge of the Pic Tyndall, the going was easy. A stretch of
snowy crest provided a welcome change. At the farther end of this I
suddenly felt fatigued. Padrun was encouraging. He indicated a great
tower on the ridge. “The hut is just below,” he said. “It will take
only fifteen minutes.” The result was marvellous; the distance did look
short, and my husband, who must have known well enough how deceived
Padrun was, had apparently not the heart to dispel our fond illusions.
So tired was I, that even my scepticism had vanished, and my memory
failed to remind me that ridges have a habit of magically stretching
as you proceed along them. Their ends, like the tops of mountains,
seem to recede as you advance, and indulge in the playful game until
the very last moment. From the Pic Tyndall to the Italian hut took us
almost exactly one and a half hours. Before arriving at the big tower
we left the ridge and descended by an exceedingly long fixed rope well
down into the face on the left, until we found a ledge that led us
again to the right. The slope, known as the “Linceul,” over which it is
customary to make one’s way by cutting a few steps, was devoid of ice,
and a slight deviation from the normal route was necessary. Up and down
we seemed to go, and once round a little natural balcony that hung out
over space but proved not in the least heady. A handrail in the shape
of a fixed rope was provided. Thence onwards the route was well-marked.
Short, helpful ropes led down chimneys and over slabs to the hut where
we arrived at three o’clock.
The hut is small, and we found it already overcrowded. But going
straight down to Breuil was not to be thought of. The two sleeping
bunks arranged one above the other were full of inmates sleeping off
the effects of their labours: most had walked up from Breuil, and were
to return next day. I made up my mind to sleep either on the floor or
sitting by the table; either course, uncomfortable though it might
be, was more enticing than the questionable comfort and warmth of the
sheep-skins that served as bed-linen. Padrun, the indefatigable, set
about clearing a space on the littered table, prior to preparing a
meal. Finding that there was no water in the hut, he picked up two
buckets and went forth in search of ice; something of a quest on the
Matterhorn during last year’s phenomenally fine summer. Meantime, my
husband proceeded to build a fire in the stove and soon had it alight.
Padrun presently returned with a supply of ice. After removing as much
of the superficial lining of the pans as he could, he filled them with
the ice and put them on to boil. The noise of these activities began to
communicate itself to the other occupants of the room, as also did the
dense smoke from the fire. Blowing their noses, coughing and wiping
tearful eyes, sleepily stretching themselves, they slowly forsook their
couches. I put on my snow-glasses to ward off the attacks of smoke
and, having ensconced myself in a corner near the window, interestedly
watched further happenings.
There is no crowd so amusing as a crowd of Italians. Good-naturedly
they jostled each other, all talking at once. A change this from the
last fifteen hours. Mountaineering is almost as silent as whist!
Scarcely a word is spoken while the game is in progress, save as
command or assurance--or when a player is argumentative or more than
usually clumsy, in which circumstances the leader waxes eloquent
indeed! The spirit of emulation was strong within the inmates of the
hut. I watched thirty of them all trying to regale themselves at
once--from Padrun’s precious water pans! Presently my attention became
riveted to one quarter. A youth stood lolling against the door. Every
few seconds he expectorated in the direction of the fire. Fearful, but
undeniably fascinated, I regarded Padrun’s cooking-pots. That boy had a
beautiful aim. The pots took half an hour to boil, and during all that
time the water remained undefiled.
We had tea seasoned with loads of sugar and lemon. Then we had soup; at
least, that is what they call the concoction in the mountains. A spoon
will stand upright in it. The chief ingredients are macaroni, chunks
of bread and cheese and a tin of beef. A good chef will make his own
little distinctive additions and alterations. The meal over, I went
outside. Interested as I was in our gaily-chattering companions, it was
scarcely fair to keep a seat that another hungry being would welcome.
Besides, the atmosphere within was stifling; the window was closed and
the fire smoking as furiously as ever. Without was the sweet cool
mountain air and the silence of open spaces, broken only by the roaring
of the stone avalanches that made all the south face of the great
mountain alive.
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn from the Dent d’Hérens._
“... it stands utterly alone, ... surely the most wonderful mountain in
the world.”
_Facing page 178._
]
Dusk fell. Padrun came out and fetched me. Would I like to lie down
and rest? He had obviously seized an opportunity! The idea of the bunk
and the sheep-skins was no longer so repugnant, for I was very weary.
I stepped inside. Padrun had found a place for me in the lower bunk,
and begged me to accept his coat as covering. Sleep was out of the
question. The incessant talk and bustle precluded any idea of such a
thing; but just to stretch out and relax every muscle was sheer luxury
of feeling. About ten o’clock the entire family was abed. The floor
space was all utilised, likewise the little loft where the wood was
stored. I lay all night long in the same position--on my right side,
and so squeezed up against the wall of the hut that I dared not budge
an inch for fear of bumping my nose. The breadth of my “bed” could not
possibly have exceeded nine or ten inches. But I slept.
About half-past two next morning, movements were heard in the bunk
above, and once more the bulk of the inhabitants yawned their way out
of bed. At half-past five no one had left the hut, so that all shared
the excitement that followed. A terrific cracking followed by a mighty
roar was heard. Flying missiles struck the walls and roof of the hut.
Tearing its way down towards the glacier was a huge mass of rock which
must have weighed some fifty tons. The whole of the slab on the lower
side of the first rope immediately above the hut had detached itself
from the parent mass.
When the excitement had died down, the first party began the descent
towards Breuil. Others followed, and by seven o’clock the hut was empty
except for ourselves and a party of two young Swiss boys and their
guides, who had made the ascent of the Zmutt ridge on the previous
day. Both parties agreed to wait until the last Italians were well
out of sight. We would then go down, keeping as close together as was
possible on account of loose stones. We breakfasted and left the hut at
eight. The party of four went first. They descended quickly and soon
outpaced us, so slow was I. As my arms still ached from yesterday’s
exertions, the idea of more fixed ropes was not exactly pleasing. They
were very short, however--all but one, which was sixty feet in length,
but, mercifully for me, knotted. The experts found the knots a bane
and a hindrance to shinning down; but to me they were an unqualified
boon. They prevented my hands from slipping and furnished me with an
occasional rest. Soon we were on the wide, slabby ridge once more, and
descending with as much speed as my presence and the necessary care
would allow. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a loud shout from my
husband, “Falling stones!” Now teaching, common sense, to say nothing
of life in London during the war, all told me that when missiles fall
from above the decorous thing to do is to take cover. But curiosity
proved stronger than common sense or teachings. I sat down and stared,
fascinated by the two immense blocks surrounded by smaller satellites
that came whirring relentlessly down towards us. I saw my husband make
himself as small as possible on the slab. Padrun went down on his knees
and hid his head, ostrich-wise, in a most inadequate hole. His bulky,
nobbly knapsack, bristling with two ice-axes, stuck up in the air--a
fair target for any missile. I was busily engaged calculating what the
effect on Padrun would be of the impact of a boulder upon the spike
of one of the axes, when I heard an agonised warning from my husband,
and at the same time received a jerk on the rope about my waist which
effectively laid me low. The spectacle Padrun presented proved too
much for me, however, and I lay there shaking with laughter, totally
heedless of the danger to which we were undoubtedly exposed. The rocks
passed over us; we were unscathed. Some fifty feet farther down, they
crashed explosively into the ridge and, their number increased a
hundredfold, resumed their mad course. When everything was quiet again
above, we moved off with all speed and presently arrived at a fairly
well-defined track over scree slopes which led on to the Col du Lion.
Thence skirting for some distance round the base of the Tête du Lion,
the path brought us down the so-called Grand Staircase to the green
pasture-lands above Breuil.
Something made us stop simultaneously and look back. Mists concealed
the mountains; but through a little circular rift in the clouds,
immeasurably far above and seemingly overhead, appeared a patch of blue
sky and a dark, irregular dome-like shape. “See where you have stood,”
said my husband proudly. Then only did I realise that what I saw was
the summit of the Matterhorn. Inexpressibly awed, I turned towards the
valley.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MATTERHORN
Perhaps no other mountain in the Alps, or for that matter in the whole
world, can make such an appeal to the eye as the Matterhorn. This
appeal is not merely one of beauty and boldness of form, but also
one of position. The Matterhorn has no neighbours in close proximity
to invite comparison; it stands utterly alone--a great, dark, rocky
pyramid with sides of tremendous steepness, and towering up towards
the heavens from out a girdle of glistening séracs and snowfields. It
was one of the last of the great summits of the Alps to succumb to the
onslaughts of man, and the terrible tragedy whereby four of the seven
men who were the first conquerors lost their lives on the descent is
still fresh in the public memory.
The summit of the Matterhorn consists of a narrow, almost level, rock
ridge, about two hundred and fifty feet in length. The northern end of
this ridge is called the Swiss summit, and the southern the Italian
summit. In the former converge the Swiss and Furggen ridges and in the
latter the Italian and Zmutt ridges. The first successful ascent of the
Matterhorn was made by the Swiss ridge. Here the climbing is nowhere
really difficult until one is above the level section lying immediately
below the summit and known as the Shoulder. Beyond the Shoulder,
the rock is steep and difficult, and would demand great care and
climbing skill were it not for the fact that this part of the ridge is
festooned with stout ropes, thanks to which the most inexperienced and
untalented of climbers can be dragged in safety to the top. The second
ascent of the Matterhorn was carried out over the Italian ridge. The
climbing here is more difficult than any met with on the Swiss ridge;
and though, even here, the rock is nowadays decorated with a profusion
of thick ropes which enable many to climb it who would otherwise not
even dream of attempting to, there are still unroped sections of such
difficulty that the Italian ridge is unquestionably a harder climbing
problem than the Swiss. Of the other two ridges of the mountain, the
Furggen ridge, though it has been climbed, is in sections so exposed to
falling stones that it cannot be regarded as a justifiable undertaking.
But the Zmutt ridge is a sound climb and has the distinction of being
the only really practicable route to the summit which is devoid of the
artificial aids of fixed ropes and chains. Both the Swiss and Italian
ridges of the Matterhorn were climbed in 1865, but it was not until
many years afterwards that the summit was gained over the Zmutt ridge.
In September, 1879, two of the strongest climbing parties that have
ever been known in the Alps at last succeeded in opening up what is
to-day the finest line of approach to the top of the Matterhorn. The
first party consisted of the late Mr. A. F. Mummery, with the guides
Alexander Burgener, Johann Petrus and A. Gentinetta; the second, of Mr.
W. Penhall with Ferdinand Imseng and Louis Zurbruggen. Mummery’s party
followed the ridge almost throughout, but Penhall climbed for the most
part on the Tiefenmatten face, that immense series of cliffs enclosed
between the Zmutt and Italian ridges, reaching the ridge only at a very
elevated point.
After crossing Monte Rosa from Macugnaga, Case, Obexer, Max and I
arrived at the Monte Rosa Hotel in Zermatt, where we were welcomed
by two old members of the Academic Alpine Club of Zürich, Ernest
Martini and Val Fynn. The latter suggested that we should join forces
and make a combined attack upon the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn,
descending via the Italian ridge to Breuil. Coming as it did from Fynn,
probably the most experienced and best guideless climber the Alps have
ever seen, the suggestion was received with enthusiasm; and, on the
evening of August 12, 1911, the six of us berthed down together in the
Schönbühl hut which lies far up in the Zmutt Valley, at a distance of
about three and a half hours from Zermatt.
At one o’clock next morning, under the guidance of Fynn who had
reconnoitred the preliminary part of the route on the previous day, we
descended over the loose blocks of the moraine below the hut on to the
glacier, and made our way across towards the great shut-in basin of the
Tiefenmatten Glacier which lies at the foot of the Zmutt ridge. Keeping
far over to the right so as to avoid the crevasses of the icefall, we
gained the basin, whence we were able to work round in a wide curve
towards the cliffs below the lower, snowy section of the Zmutt ridge.
Soon we were climbing up the rocks and, passing by two little walls
of stones, possibly the remains of Mummery’s bivouac, we reached the
snow slopes above. The snow was good and well-frozen, and we were able
to kick steps up on to the ridge which we struck just above the lower
end of the prominent snowy section. The ridge was not steep, and the
snow was in excellent condition. Kicking steps, we made good headway.
The snow ridge finally merged into a crest of broken rocks up which
we scrambled, to arrive at a deep gap beyond which towered several
grim _gendarmes_ or rocky teeth. It was six o’clock, and, though our
progress had been anything but hurried, we were nothing loth to
making breakfast an excuse for a halt. The early morning sun, weak
though its rays were, helped to take the edge off the knife-like
northerly breeze. Nevertheless, we were glad enough when Fynn,
reminding us that the real part of the day’s work was now before us,
gave the order to prepare to move off.
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn from the Stockje._
_The Tiefenmatten face is enclosed by the Zmutt ridge, seen on
the left, and the Italian on the right. In the foreground is the
Tiefenmatten Glacier._]
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn at sunset._
_Facing page 184._
]
We roped in two parties; Fynn, Max and Obexer on one rope, Martini,
Case and myself on the other. Our commander-in-chief, bent on putting
the younger recruits through their paces, detailed Max and myself
as leaders. We on our part were only too eager to obey, and, as
soon as all was in readiness, we climbed down into the gap. Despite
appearances, no difficulty was encountered; the three prominent teeth
in the gap were easily circumvented. By the time that we had passed
the third, the sun disappeared behind the mountain, and for the first
time the cold really made itself felt. A few days previously, a violent
thunderstorm had deposited a sprinkling of snow, and the steep rocks
now before us were still white and partly glazed with a thin veneer of
ice. Under these circumstances we considered it advisable to forsake
the backbone of the ridge and traverse out for some considerable
distance into the huge and precipitous gully falling away to the
Matterhorn Glacier. The work now demanded great care, for, owing to the
absence of jutting out bits of rock over which the rope might have been
belayed, a slip would have entailed grave consequences. We all felt we
could trust each other, however, and without anxiety we pursued our
course, cautiously plying the axe to clean out the snow and ice from
every hand- and foothold, until we at last reached some good broken
rocks which, though steep, led us without much difficulty back to the
ridge. We were now far above the teeth. For a short time the ridge was
adhered to, but once again it became steep, and a treacherous layer
of ice on the rock, masked by a covering of snow, drove us once more
out into the gully on the left. The rock here was very steep, but more
broken up. To even matters up somewhat, however, snow filled up the
interstices. It was extremely cold for midsummer, but, owing to the
steepness of the gully and the tricky nature of the work, gloves could
not be used, as they interfered too much with one’s grip on handholds.
For the second time that day we were climbing under conditions where a
slip on the part of one man would have involved all his comrades on the
rope in destruction, and we could not afford to make mistakes. Fynn’s
cheery voice exhorting us to “take our time and put hands and feet down
as if the Matterhorn belonged to us” supplied extra encouragement,
if indeed such were necessary, to do our best to show a master in
mountain-craft that the younger generation were eager to emulate.
Up and up the gully we climbed, and, as we rose, it became steeper and
steeper, until the man below saw nothing but the nailed boot soles
of the man above. Snow choked all cracks and crannies and concealed
handholds, but fortunately the rocks were free from ice. Carefully
scraping and kicking, we cleared the snow away, and at last, just as my
bare fingers had become so cold as to be devoid of feeling, I scraped
out a channel in the little snow cornice crowning the exit of the gully
and stepped back on to the crest of the Zmutt ridge. Here at last was
good standing ground. The ridge was fairly broad. Behind us stood a
prominent rocky tower; in front the ridge led up towards the summit. On
the left, flanking the great gully by which we had ascended, was that
tremendous overhang on a branch on the ridge, which has been so aptly
called the “Nose of Zmutt.” The sunshine on the ridge was welcome
indeed after the chill hours spent in the shade. During the intervals
in a course of energetic exercises designed to restore circulation and
warmth to feet and hands, we ate a second breakfast. Again, however,
the north wind cut short our stay, and at eight o’clock we prepared
for the final section of the climb. Given normal conditions, two hours
might have sufficed to see us on the summit. As things were, however,
five hours were needed, in spite of the fact that from here onwards
we climbed as fast as we could go with safety and without resting. We
attempted to follow the ridge, but in a short time great steep steps,
which occasionally were overhanging and from which gigantic icicles
depended, forced us off the crest, this time out to the right towards
the Italian ridge. Hitherto, though we had undoubtedly surmounted two
pitches requiring care and delicate handling, and the work as a whole
had been far from easy, the task which now confronted us was an even
more serious one. I gathered the impression that under favourable
conditions the ground over which we were now to pass would have been
perfectly straightforward and by no means difficult. As it chanced,
however, fresh snow lay about everywhere, and, more pernicious still,
the rocks were glazed with ice. Shortly after leaving the ridge, we
had to cut steps across a wide ice slope on to a little rib of broken
rocks, the crest of which was ice-free. Viewing the rest of the ground
from this point, I judged it advisable to continue the traverse before
attempting to climb upwards. Fynn, however, who had taken over the lead
of the second party, elected to proceed directly up, although by so
doing he had to climb over more difficult ground. The reason for this
choice was quite simple. There was a great deal of loose rock about,
and, owing to the difficult nature of the ground, it was quite within
the bounds of possibility that one or other of us might start stones
falling. It was in order to minimise danger from this source that
Fynn set himself the more laborious and intricate task of continuing
straight upwards.
[Illustration: “_... that tremendous overhang called the ‘Nose of
Zmutt.’_”
_Facing page 186._
]
After traversing for another hundred feet or so, I appeared to be
almost vertically under the summit. Considering that my opportunity
had come, I struck up over ice-glazed rocks and through ice-filled
gullies; preferably the latter, as the ice, as a rule, was sufficiently
deep to permit the cutting of good steps. Our party soon drew level
with Fynn’s, but could not overtake them, though we were working over
less difficult ground. Steadily and safely, Fynn led his party across
ice-covered rocks which would have taxed the skill of the very best.
For over three hours we fought our way inch by inch, until at last,
almost simultaneously, both parties reached the famous ledge known as
Carrel’s Corridor. This ledge runs from the Italian ridge across the
face of the Matterhorn to the Zmutt ridge. Here our difficulties were
at an end. It is true that the rock wall above the ledge was vertical,
even overhanging, and that below were the slippery slabs up which we
had just come; but the corridor itself was in places almost level and
broad enough to afford perfectly secure footing--a relief after what
we had undergone. The ledge was heavily laden with powdery, incohesive
snow, through which we ploughed, knee-deep, over towards the Zmutt
ridge. Fynn had gained the corridor at a point nearer the ridge than
we had, and presently I saw him disappear round a bold corner of rock.
Obexer and Max in turn followed, and from their lusty yells of joy we
knew that they were back again on the ridge, and all was now plain
sailing to the top. On rounding the corner, I looked out beyond those
grim slopes, the scene of the tragedy of 1865, and espied two parties
making their way down to the Shoulder on the Swiss ridge. Then I looked
up. All was clear. The ridge, though in parts still steep, consisted of
rock which offered a profusion of holds for hand and foot, and, dashing
ahead at a great pace, we caught up Fynn’s party just as they arrived
on the Italian summit (14,705 ft.).
It was one o’clock. With us arrived another, and to us unpleasant,
visitor. Harbinger of ill weather, a dense bank of cloud shut out the
sun and obscured the view. But bad weather or no bad weather, we now
claimed the right to a square meal and a rest. The cooking apparatus
was brought forth, and knapsacks searched for food. Fynn unearthed
a veritable gold mine in the shape of a plum pudding, while Martini
produced that peculiar speciality of Italy called salami, a sausage
whose inside is reputed to be either cat, dog or donkey, or a discreet
mixture of all three. But appetites were too big to be over-fastidious,
and what with plum pudding, salami and other good and solid odds and
ends, to be washed down by generous supplies of hot tea, a feast was
laid which received full justice.
At two o’clock Fynn shepherded us together again, and the descent was
begun. Martini was the only one amongst us who had ever been on the
Italian ridge before, but, as he confessed to a bad memory, I was
deputed to find the way down, while to him and Fynn fell the onerous
post of bringing up the rear of their respective parties. In the dense
fog surrounding us, I was, for a moment or two, at a loss as to where
to seek for the start. Acting on Fynn’s advice to “go to the edge
of the drop,” I stepped out carefully towards the brink of the huge
precipice that falls away towards Italy. Almost at once I saw before me
the bleached strands of a stout rope fixed to a strong iron pin driven
into the rocks. The details of the Italian ridge having been dealt
with in the preceding chapter, it will, therefore, be unnecessary to
repeat them here. Suffice it to say that we descended the frost-riven
rocks and precipices of this magnificent ridge with all possible speed,
goaded by the constant threat of a storm that fortunately never broke.
It was not until we were far below the Pic Tyndall, and had descended
the great rope which enables one to avoid the battlemented crest above
the great tower, that we met with adventure. To regain the ridge
below the tower, a steep ice slope known as the “Linceul” has to be
crossed. On approaching this slope, we sighted a party of four German
climbers, who later informed us that they had already spent two hours
endeavouring to cross. Incapable of cutting steps, they were helpless.
One, however, possessed of more resolution than his comrades, was
preparing to set about making a last desperate effort to cross and,
to assist him in his endeavour, had called upon one of the others
to hold him on the rope. The latter untied the rope from around his
waist and held it in his hands as his companion did his utmost to cut
steps. To us, who came upon the scene at this very minute, the base
object of the second man in untying himself was only too obvious. He
feared that, in the event of the first man slipping, he might not be
able to check the fall, and, tied to the rope, he too might be dragged
down over the precipice. By unroping and merely grasping the rope in
his hands, he would, in the event of a slip proving too much of a
strain on his strength, be able to save himself at the expense of his
comrade, by simply letting the rope go. The mountains are indeed true
and stern testers of friendship, loyalty and courage. On seeing us,
the Germans brightened up. They were profuse in their explanations of
their difficulties and requests for assistance. Both were unnecessary,
especially the former, for we recognised at once the peculiar type
of mountain climber with whom we had to deal. They belonged to a
self-styled group of “guideless” climbers who are singularly deficient
in mountaineering knowledge and ability and many other qualities
besides, which it will not be necessary to enumerate. Their kind are
to be met with everywhere in the Alps. Usually they confine their
activities to the easiest of climbs and snow trudges, where they can
follow unthinkingly in the deep-trodden tracks of previous parties.
Sometimes they venture on expeditions the difficulties of which
are beyond their powers; and, on such occasions, they take care to
follow on the heels of some efficient climbing party, be it guided or
unguided. This is actually what these four men had done. Early that
morning they had started out to follow a guided party up the Swiss and
down the Italian ridges of the Matterhorn. As far as the summit, they
had contrived to keep close behind. The difficulties of the descent,
however, overtaxed their powers, with the result that the guided party
soon far outstripped them, and they were left to their own resources.
Hence the sad predicament in which we found them. It is this special
breed of “guideless” climber, who is guideless only in that he does not
himself engage and pay for the services of a guide, that has in the
past done so much to bring discredit upon guideless climbing proper.
The man who professes to be a guideless climber should avoid frequented
routes and has no right to embark upon an undertaking to which he is
not fully equal, no matter what the circumstances may be.
Fynn sent on my party to cut the necessary steps across the Linceul,
while he, with the assistance of Max and Obexer, carefully nursed the
four incompetents over to the safe ground beyond. Soon afterwards we
passed the ruins of the old Italian hut and, descending some steep
slabs by means of a long fixed rope, arrived at the Italian Club Hut
at 6.30 p.m. It was filled with climbers intending to make the ascent
on the next day, and, as the four rescued men were clearly incapable
of proceeding farther that evening, we had to make up our minds to
continue the descent, in order that they might find room for the night.
We carried on past the Col du Lion, down the Grand Staircase--those
easy, broken rocks south of the Tête du Lion--and gained the meadows
above Breuil just after nightfall. We boasted only one lantern amongst
us. Fynn carried it and unravelled the vagaries of a twisting track
leading down towards the far off, beckoning hôtel lights. At ten
o’clock, twenty-one hours after leaving the Schönbühl hut, tired but
happy, we made our way through a throng of inquisitive holiday makers
to the dining-room of the Jomein, and were soon bringing such hearty
appetites to bear upon the good food provided that the brows of even
our worthy host rose high with astonishment.
CHAPTER XIV
THE DENT D’HÉRENS
One of the younger generation of mountain climbers once complained
bitterly to me that there were no new climbs to be done in the Alps,
the pioneers having, in his opinion, with extraordinary thoroughness
and selfish disregard for their posterity, climbed every virgin
pinnacle and explored all climbable ridges and faces. To his surprise,
I replied that our thanks were due to the pioneers, for though some
had no doubt digested much of the grain, the fattest and best grains
remained for the man of to-day who knew where to look. The good grain
that is left can no longer be picked up without trouble. We all know
what faces and ridges of mountains have not been explored, but the
successful climbing of these must be preceded by careful and patient
investigation.
In August, 1911, I enjoyed a happy day of perfect laziness on the
Stockje. My main purpose was to examine the Zmutt ridge, with the
intention of climbing it on the following day. But ever and again my
gaze was irresistibly drawn, as if for relief, from the solemn, dark
magnificence of the Matterhorn to the white purity and graceful curves
of the hanging glaciers of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens; and
I found myself seeking in vain to trace the way by which it had been
climbed. That winter, on searching Alpine literature, I discovered,
with no little astonishment, that the whole vast north face of the
mountain, from the Col Tournanche right round to the north-west ridge,
was every inch of it virgin ground. Here truly was a grain fat enough
to satisfy the greediest appetite, and I made up my mind to secure it.
It was not until 1913 that I had an opportunity of returning to
the Schönbühl hut. From there I set out on a prospecting trip and,
traversing the Wandfluh from the foot of the Dent Blanche down to
the Col d’Hérens, not only succeeded in spying out a feasible way
of conquering the north face of the Dent d’Hérens, but also gained
some insight into the geography of the mountain itself. The peak is a
curiously complicated one, and the errors into which even surveyors,
especially on the Italian side, have fallen, are well-known. The summit
is supported by four ridges--the south ridge which leads down to the
lower Za-de-Zan Glacier, the west ridge to the Tiefenmattenjoch, the
north-west ridge to the Tiefenmatten Glacier, and the east ridge to
the Col Tournanche. The west and north-west ridges meet at a point
less than one hundred feet west of the summit. The north-west ridge,
when seen from the Schönbühl hut, is easily confused with the west
ridge, from which it is actually separated by the steep, glaciated
slopes of the north-west face. The fact that the ice cliffs of this
face seem to be perched on the north-west ridge has probably given
rise to the impression that this ridge can no longer be climbed owing
to the formation thereon of a hanging glacier. In reality the ridge
is entirely free from such encumbrances. Between the north-west and
east ridges lies the north face. The watershed ridge between the Val
Tournanche and the Valpelline does not reach up to the Dent d’Hérens;
shortly above the Col des Grandes Murailles it loses itself in the
southern slopes of the east ridge.
From my point of vantage on the Wandfluh, I saw that the north face
of the Dent d’Hérens carries a huge glacier terrace, or corridor
which, beginning low down near the foot of the north-west ridge,
rises diagonally upwards across the face and reaches the east ridge
just below the great final _gendarme_ east of the summit. It was
perfectly clear that, could this terrace be gained at its lower end
and left at its upper, the problem of climbing the face would be
solved. Despite my conviction that the climb was feasible, however, the
objective dangers--that is, unavoidable dangers from falling ice and
stones--appeared so great that for the time being I gave up all idea of
making the attempt.
During the war a handful of mountain photographs beguiled many a
weary hour, and among them was one of the Dent d’Hérens as seen from
the Wandfluh. I studied this picture intently, and finally promised
myself another look at the mountain as soon as possible after the
war. In 1919, therefore, the Schönbühl hut became once more my base
of operations. I again traversed the Wandfluh and later, by climbing
the Tiefenmattenjoch from the north, was able to inspect more closely
the possible approaches to the lower end of the great ice corridor.
Eventually, in order to obtain a more comprehensive view of the upper
reaches of the corridor, I climbed the Matterhorn. At last, believing
that nothing else would furnish the required information, accompanied
by Mr. Hafers, I made the ascent of the north-west ridge. This climb
showed me that the dangers of the north face were by no means to
be underrated. The whole terrace gathered up much of the rock that
crumbled away from the uppermost slopes of the mountain, and the
approaches to its lower end were not only swept by stones from sunrise
to sunset, but were also defended by frequent falls of ice. Indeed,
real safety there appeared to be none until the east ridge had been
gained at the foot of the great _gendarme_ before mentioned. I retired
discomfited. But the magnet was strong, and, in 1921, having meanwhile
somewhat modified my views as to what precisely constitutes objective
dangers, I returned to the Schönbühl hut, whence a series of visits
to the Pointe de Zinal, the Stockje, and the Tête de Valpelline at
length convinced me that what, in ordinary circumstances, would be a
dangerous climb, could, if tackled properly, be converted into a safe
and justifiable undertaking. The lateness of the season, however,
prohibited my putting any theories into practice, but plans were
maturing favourably. By gaining the lowest rocks of the north-west
ridge, and climbing up either these or the rocks and ice of its north
flank to the level of the terrace, a short traverse over steep ice
would give access to the terrace itself. On account of the frequent
stone-falls which ricochet across the barely emerging rocks of the
north-west ridge when the sun is shining on the highest slopes of the
mountain, this part of the climb would have to be completed during a
cold night, before sunrise. As the ground was obviously difficult, a
moon would be of advantage. Two-thirds of the way along the terrace,
a large bergschrund threatened trouble, but, this overcome, there
seemed to be nothing to prevent one’s gaining the east ridge at the
foot of the great _gendarme_. The whole of the route along the terrace
itself appeared to be swept by falling stones and, in its lower end,
by falling ice; but, owing to the comparatively gentle angle of the
terrace, I believed that stones would be held up in the snow. In 1921,
I also crossed the Col Tournanche and from there received confirmation
of the fact that no insurmountable obstacle barred the exit from the
upper end of the terrace to the east ridge.
[Illustration: _An ice avalanche._
_The height of the cliff down which the avalanche is falling is over
two thousand feet._
_Facing page 196._
]
Unfortunately, in 1922, being busy elsewhere, I was unable to
return to the fray, but in 1923 the long-wished-for opportunity
arrived. Towards the end of July, I set out on a final series of
investigations, determined that they should lead to the conquest of
this great north face. My friend, Raymond Peto, and I climbed the Dent
Blanche, returning by the 1862 original route of Kennedy, leaving
the _gendarmes_ above us, while we traversed back along the snow and
ice-plastered slabs of the south-west face. The ascent was made with
a twofold object: firstly, to get one more thorough insight into the
great terrace of the Dent d’Hérens, and, secondly, to give Peto, whose
maiden climb this was, a chance of finding his mountain legs, it being
my intention that he should be one of my companions on the new venture.
And here I may be permitted a slight digression. I have more than once
been criticised for taking inexperienced people on difficult and what
my critics too readily refer to as hazardous climbs. In reply, I would
point out that a difficult enterprise is not necessarily a rash one,
though it may well be made so if one embarks upon it without thorough
investigation and detailed planning. If, by the simple inclusion
of a beginner in the party, the difficult be transformed into the
hazardous, the reflection is on the capabilities of the leader. Also,
fifteen years of guideless climbing have taught me, _inter alia_, that
in the mountains one must not take one’s responsibilities lightly.
Furthermore, the inexperience of the beginner, who is physically sound
and no coward, is a much less dangerous drawback to the leader of
a party than the argumentative embryo-mountaineer who, after three
or even fewer brief summer seasons spent in climbing, often only
in a secondary capacity, imagines that the mountains hold no more
secrets for him. To the experienced climber who feels that there is
still something new for him to learn, I would commend the tyro as a
companion--for his puzzled, but often fundamental questionings may
suggest a new train of thought or throw fresh light upon what seemed
but the obvious and commonplace.
To return to our problem. From the Dent Blanche I could see that
both the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west ridge and the
one intersecting the snows of the great terrace were of formidable
proportions and likely to give a great deal of trouble. Next day, by
going up the Tête Blanche, I was able to get a better idea of the
ground from the foot of the north-west ridge up to the terrace.
On the strength of the knowledge now possessed, I drew up a provisional
time-table. At midnight we would leave the Schönbühl hut. Going round
the Stockje and passing through the two icefalls of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier, we would reach the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west
ridge not later than 3 a.m. The bergschrund and the difficult ground
above, consisting of ice interspersed with rock, would have to be
tackled in the moonlight, and this would give us time to gain the
lower end of the terrace about six o’clock, before the sun’s rays had
become powerful enough to start stones falling. All would then be plain
sailing until about two-thirds of the way across the terrace, where
the formidable bergschrund would have to be negotiated. Should this
obstacle prove impassable, we could return in all haste to near the end
of the terrace, where, in the shelter of a great ice cliff, it would be
possible to bivouac. In the earliest hours of the following day, the
retreat would be completed _via_ the north-west ridge and the summit.
Should the bergschrund go, however, there would be nothing to prevent
our gaining the east ridge.
These studies of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens had entailed in
all eight visits to the Schönbühl hut of a total duration of nearly
six weeks. Was it time thrown away, or is not mountaineering worth the
endeavour to make it a justified source of intellectual and physical
training, invaluable in every phase of one’s daily life?
On returning to Zermatt we were joined by Guy Forster. The functions
of the various members of the party were easily arranged. Forster and
I were to act as guides and Peto as porter. On July 29, Peto, bent on
sketching, set off once more for the Schönbühl hut, and on the 30th,
Forster and I followed with the necessary provisions, climbing irons,
a one-hundred-foot Alpine Club rope, and a two-hundred-foot cotton
sash-line. The latter might prove useful in the event of a forced
retreat back to the north-west ridge and perhaps also on the terrace.
At a few minutes past midnight we left the hut, telling the caretaker
of our intentions. We crossed the glacier to the Stockje in the light
of a strong moon. Just beyond the ruins of the old Stockje hut, we put
on climbing irons and roped. The first icefall of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier was easily overcome near the left bank. But the second, which
experience had told me was most vulnerable on the extreme right bank,
gave more trouble. Here, close under the Dent d’Hérens, we were in the
shadow of the moon and had to make use of our lantern. For perhaps a
quarter of an hour, while making our way as fast as possible up through
a series of steep ice gullies and crevasses, we were in danger from the
séracs perched on the great cliffs above. Once in the upper basin of
the glacier, we ascended the slopes, bearing to our left round towards
the foot of the north-west ridge, and eventually arrived on the lower
lip of the bergschrund which defends the foot of the ridge. The spot
was strange, forbidding. In the gloom, a hundred feet above us, towered
the upper lip--inaccessible. In dark, shining patches the rocks of the
north-west ridge showed through, pitilessly smooth and glazed with a
thin covering of treacherous ice. To cross here was impossible, but,
by working out into the north-west face and following the bergschrund
to where it curves upwards almost parallel with the north-west ridge,
we found a likely place.
The first attempt to get over the bergschrund met with failure. The
bridge selected afforded, it is true, a means of access to the slopes
above, but I quickly discovered that it was too delicate a structure
and preferred to go back to where we could descend a few feet on to
some snowed-up blocks in the steeply rising schrund, whence we could
cut up the vertical other side. I gained the upper lip, but the work
involved was far from easy, and, before its completion, I had to retire
for a rest while Forster improved my sketchy foot- and handholds.
It was then that I took stock of the time: it was four o’clock; we
were an hour too late, and there was nothing for it but to go back.
On Forster’s return, I recommenced work on the ice steps, converting
them into great holes which would be certain to hold out until the
following day. This done, I informed the others of my decision, and,
without a murmur of dissent on their part, we turned back. Instead of
going straight down on to the glacier, however, we worked down along
the lower lip of the bergschrund to some distance beyond the foot of
the north-west ridge, in an endeavour to find another way across which
would give more direct access either to the north-west ridge or to the
slopes leading up to the lower end of the terrace. The search was vain,
and, just as the first red rays of the morning sun touched the summit
of the Dent d’Hérens, we fled towards the Tiefenmatten Glacier from the
stones that were soon falling. No time was lost in hurrying through the
upper icefall--for here safety lay in speed.
That morning, in time for a belated eight o’clock breakfast, three
dejected climbers arrived back at the Schönbühl hut to a welcoming
chorus of “We told you so.” The one crumb of comfort was the word
“Unmöglich,”[7] freely applied by all and sundry to the north face of
the Dent d’Hérens!
In the afternoon the weather changed for the worse. At 11.30 p.m. we
looked out to find rain falling heavily; towards morning it actually
snowed in the vicinity of the hut. It was not until after midday on
August 1 that a strong north-west wind set in and swept away the
clouds--all but the gossamer-like streamers which clung tenaciously
to the Dent d’Hérens and the Matterhorn, and the thick banks of mist
that sought and found refuge from the gale in the grim recesses of the
Tiefenmatten basin. Heavy, new snow had fallen on our mountain, and
great wisps of it were being torn up over the ridges and the slopes of
the north face and borne away on the wind. But the weather was good;
and the new snow, though it would undoubtedly impede us in some places,
would hold loose stones firmly in their beds for long after sunrise and
thus actually render our climb more safe. That night was the coldest I
experienced in the course of the wonderful summer of 1923.
At a quarter to midnight, on August 1-2, we left the Schönbühl hut. The
moon was hidden behind the Matterhorn which was silhouetted against
its light with almost startling clearness, and it was not until we had
gained the moraine of the Stockje that we were able to dispense with
the lantern. Walking rapidly and finding our way through the icefalls
without hesitation, we arrived in the upper basin of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier at a point below the north-west ridge, just where the slopes
steepen up towards the bergschrund. Here, sheltered from the cold wind
behind a huge block of fallen ice, we halted (2.30 to 3 a.m., August
2) to adjust climbing irons, breakfast and rearrange knapsacks. I had
the pleasure of handing mine over to Peto. We re-lighted the lantern
and climbed up to the bergschrund, to find the steps cut two days
before quite usable. Once over the bergschrund a steep ice slope lay
between us and the nearest rocks of the north-west ridge, now about
two hundred yards away. Alpine literature contains many examples of
that looseness of description which permits the raconteur to describe
as ice, a slope covered with inches of good firm snow. But here in
front of us was the real thing. On warm days, water from the ice
cliffs perched on the rocks above flows down over this slope, not in
well-defined channels, but fanwise, so as to leave bare ice. What the
angle of the slope is I cannot say, as I had no clinometer, but where
we cut across, always keeping about a hundred to a hundred and fifty
feet above the upper lip of the bergschrund, it was very steep. Higher
up, the inclination was somewhat more gentle; but for two reasons we
chose to cross the slope at its steepest--in the first place, fewer
steps would bring us to the ridge, and in the second, should stray
stones or odd blocks of ice fall in spite of the early hour and the
intense cold, there would be much more chance of such missiles going
over us than if we were standing on the less steep slopes higher
up. The order of the party was as follows. I led, untrammelled by a
knapsack, Forster came in the middle, and Peto brought up the rear. How
Peto would manage was rather uncertain, as this was his first serious
essay with climbing irons. Forster was to look after both my rope and
Peto’s, and would, in the event of a slip on the part of the latter,
have to hold him--a task of which I knew he was fully capable if only
the steps were well-cut and reasonably large.
Just as we began to cut our way across the slope, a fierce gust of wind
blew out the candle; and henceforth, though it was still rather dark,
for the light of the moon did not reach the secluded spot directly, we
decided to dispense with artificial light. I cut the steps as quickly
as possible without wastage of blows, but very carefully. Always the
same method--left-handed cutting, for we were traversing from right
to left; six or seven medium blows marking out the base, twice as
many heavy blows to break down the roof of each step, half a dozen
dragging hits to make floor and wall meet well inside, a scrape or
two with the blade to make sure that the floor was clean and slanting
into the slope, and another of the many steps was ready. But while I
was steadily cutting out my first rope’s length from Forster, he and
Peto were getting the worst of it in a heated difference of opinion
with the lantern. Now a lantern which is not burning should be folded
up and put away. But this particular sample proved stubborn. Peto’s
struggles to make it behave being unavailing, he very considerately
passed it on to Forster, by which time I was already straining at the
rope to cut a next step. Having only two hands, both of which were
wanted on more important business, Forster thrust the lantern between
his teeth, came up a few steps, and so gave me sufficient rope to
proceed. After a further desperate but vain effort to fold the lantern
up--with the candle still in it!--and handicapped by his limited number
of hands, he at last solved the difficulty by biting the candle in
two, and eventually succeeded in stowing away the very refractory and
useless article in his pocket. From then onwards we really got into
our stride. I worked away in a perfectly straight, almost horizontal,
line towards the rocks of the north-west ridge; my comrades moved
one at a time, Peto evidently enjoying the slope in spite of its
appearance--particularly formidable with darkness surrounding us and
the ever-increasing drop beneath.
It was very cold, and from time to time the fierce gusts of a fresh
wind made us pause in our labours and crouch well down on to the slope
to retain our balance. At a quarter past four, the last step had been
cut, and the rocks of the north-west ridge gained at a point a little
above the bergschrund. We immediately crossed over to the north face
where the rocks were more broken. They were well plastered up with ice
and snow, but nevertheless we all tucked our axes into the rope at our
waists and, with both hands free, moved upwards at a good pace. Our
mode of advance consisted in my going out the full sixty-foot length
of rope between myself and Forster and finding good standing ground or
reliable belay; whereupon the other two, moving together with the rope
taut throughout, would climb up to me. There was much ice on the rocks,
and everything was buried in fresh snow; but I steadfastly refrained
from using the axe, utilising hands and fists to clear doubtful places
and relying as much as possible on the climbing irons. To use the axe
on this kind of ground before it is absolutely necessary invariably
results in the loss of valuable time. We kept to the north side of the
ridge, only twice touching the crest, and, after one and a half hours’
climbing at full pressure, arrived at a point high up above the lower
end of the great terrace, where a feasible way of gaining it at last
appeared. Between the terrace and the rocks of the northern flank of
the north-west ridge lies an immense gully, at the narrowest point of
which we now stood. It was extremely steep, as the ice had run and
formed a sort of bulge. Forster and Peto having stowed themselves
firmly away on the last little island of rock, I started to cut across
the gully. After some heavy step-cutting in extraordinarily steep ice,
I arrived in the middle, only to see, about one hundred feet lower
down, a better means of gaining the terrace. So I returned and, joining
the others, descended these hundred feet and once more set out to cross
the gully. It was not very wide, being only some eighty feet from the
last of the rocks to the terrace itself, but the work was certainly
hard. After about twenty minutes’ step-cutting, I found myself standing
in the bergschrund formed by the terrace and the ice slopes above, and
there Forster and Peto soon joined me.
By following the lower lip of the bergschrund for a short distance,
and leaving it at a point where it curved abruptly upwards, it would
have been possible to make a horizontal traverse of about three
hundred feet across a steep snow slope to where the terrace was more
gently inclined. Unfortunately, owing to the state of the snow, such
tactics could not be indulged in. The slope was heavily covered with
an accumulation of new snow, much of which had fallen down from the
steeper slopes above. The old snow underneath had a smooth surface and
was hard-frozen, and the fresh snow was of that powdery, non-cohesive
quality which already possessed the thin, dangerous, wind-formed crust
so respected by the winter mountaineer. To traverse such a slope
would be simply asking for trouble: there was almost certain danger
of treading loose a snow-shield and being swept down by it across
the terrace and over the cliffs below. The only alternative lay in
descending for a distance of about two hundred feet and then crossing
the slope at its very foot, where it was no longer steep, hard up
against the lower edge of the corridor where it breaks away in the vast
ice cliffs overhanging the Tiefenmatten Glacier. It was here that our
spare rope proved most valuable. We cut out a large block of snow in
the lower lip of the bergschrund and laid our doubled spare rope over
the improvised belay. With Peto going first, we then went straight
down the dangerous slope towards another suitable belay lying about a
hundred feet below and consisting of a large stone which had fallen
from the Dent d’Hérens and was now firmly embedded in the old snow.
By means of this second belay we descended another hundred feet and
then arrived at the very foot of the slope, where its angle eased off
so rapidly that, in spite of the great masses of powdery snow, it was
at last possible to cross, in safety and without fear of loosening a
snow-shield, over to the great terrace.
The angle of the ground where we now found ourselves was
gentle--sometimes no more than 20°; but, under the threat of ice
falling from the hanging glacier above, Forster and I urged Peto, who
still led, to move forward with all haste until clear of the danger
zone. At one place our way passed through an extensive field of
ice-blocks--débris from the cliffs above. That practically the whole
of this particular fall of ice had been arrested on the terrace will
indicate how easy is the gradient at this point. 7.30 a.m. saw us more
than half-way along the terrace at a point where it appears almost
level. We were more or less directly below the summit. Close to the
edge of the ice cliff in which the terrace breaks away, we were at last
in perfect safety. Nothing falling from above could reach us now; for
the gentle slopes of the terrace between us and the final wall of the
mountain provided an efficient trap for all stones tumbling down from
the summit rocks.
It was with a sense of complete security that we sat down to another
breakfast and to enjoy a well-earned rest; for, since crossing the
bergschrund four and a half hours ago, we had been working at high
pressure. The spot must be one of the wildest and most solitary in
the Alps; behind us a rampart of precipitous cliffs, before us at our
feet a few yards of gently sloping snow, then nothing until the eye
rested on the Stockje, a mile and a half distant and nearly three
thousand feet below. Several parties were toiling up the Tête Blanche,
but halted upon hearing our exuberant yells of delight as we settled
down to our meal. It was cold; the wind was still strong and blowing
snow dust about, and, though all wore extra clothing and wind-proof
overalls, we were by no means overburdened with warmth.
Shortly after eight o’clock we again set off. The slopes of the
terrace now steepened up rapidly, and soon we were once more cutting
steps--this time in good hard snow--up to the bergschrund separating us
from the upper end of the terrace. Just before gaining the lower lip,
we heard the rattle of falling stones, and a generous avalanche from
the gully between the great _gendarme_ on the east ridge and the summit
crashed down straight towards us. During one of my reconnaissance
trips, I had watched, through a telescope, stones falling down this
gully and had observed that they were all caught by the lower lip of
the schrund. Indeed, it was precisely this fact that had led me to
the conclusion that the lower lip must protrude very much beyond the
upper which would, therefore, form a serious barrier in our path. On
this occasion, again, every stone of the avalanche was swallowed up by
the bergschrund, without the slightest danger to us. As soon as all
was quiet we resumed work and, on gaining the lower lip, moved down
along it to the left, where it approached more under the upper lip.
The obstacle we now faced was assuredly a difficult one. It appeared
to me that the upper lip could be attacked, with fair prospects of
success, at its lowest part by cutting steps up about twelve feet of
very steep ice and then drilling one’s way through a cornice formed of
hard-frozen snow, some three feet thick, extending from the edge of the
upper lip. An alternative way lay in making a difficult traverse still
farther to the left across the ice face leading to a fault or notch in
the cornice, affording access to the slopes above. At first I chose the
former way. Forster anchored himself well and, holding both my rope and
Peto’s, let us across the débris-choked floor of the bergschrund to the
foot of the steep pitch. I was soon cutting my way up this, while Peto
held me steady so as to avoid the necessity of making handholds. Now
out of arm’s reach, but jammed against the ice by his axe, I began to
drill through the cornice. I succeeded in driving my axe through into
daylight, but only after a great effort, and was forced to return for a
rest. Forster then followed up in my steps, but, not liking the idea of
laboriously enlarging the hole in the cornice, returned to investigate
the possibilities of the alternative traverse to the left. For some
distance, Peto was able to support him with his axe, but for the last
ten or twelve feet Forster had to cut with his left hand, relying on
his right to help him retain his balance. By a brilliant piece of
ice work, he wormed his way through the fault in the cornice out on
to the slopes above. As soon as he had obtained good standing ground
and driven his axe to the head into the snow, I followed quickly, and
together we gave Peto the necessary aid to enable him to join us.
Once more I took the lead. We were now aiming straight for the
eastern extremity of the level section of ridge lying immediately
to the east of the great _gendarme_. Everywhere the ground was so
steep that steps had to be cut, but four or five blows with the axe
were always sufficient, as the snow was hard and of good quality.
To gain the foot of the _gendarme_ over the slopes directly above
us was out of the question on account of the impassability of an
intervening bergschrund. Farther to the east, however, this schrund
was well-bridged, and we crossed without difficulty. Here the snow
changed. It was still good, but no longer so hard. Roped on to our
two-hundred-foot length of sash-line, Forster now took the lead and
kicked his way right up on to the ridge, while Peto and I enjoyed a
welcome, if brief, respite from our activities. At eleven o’clock
we were all sitting together on a great flat slab on the east ridge
overlooking the Val Tournanche, protected from the wind and revelling
in the warm sunshine. We had won. From here to the top was merely
a question of time and patience. The great north face of the Dent
d’Hérens, which had so long been spoken of as “unmöglich,” had this day
at last suffered defeat, and many were the shouts of triumph hurled
down at its hitherto hidden recesses. In the simple amusements so dear
to the mountaineer, a whole hour was spent at this delightful spot.
We ate, sunned ourselves, and drank in the beauties of the marvellous
view. I will not expatiate thereon, but will content myself with paying
tribute to the Matterhorn which, seen as we saw it that morning, must
surely be the most strikingly wonderful mountain in the world.
At noon, having discarded our climbing irons, we again roped, Forster
leading, I coming as second man, and Peto, as before, bringing up the
rear. Making our way up a steep snow ridge, followed by a vertical
chimney--which, thanks to liberal handholds, was not difficult, though
somewhat strenuous--we had soon covered the distance of about eighty
feet that had separated us from the east end of the horizontal stretch
of ridge, and now overlooked the uppermost snows of the Za-de-Zan
Glacier, from which we were divided by less than two hundred feet of
easy scree slopes. Early in the day we had noticed the formation of
fish clouds, and from here saw that Mont Blanc was “smoking a pipe.”
The weather was obviously breaking; but, provided no time was wasted,
we counted on its holding out long enough to enable us to finish the
ascent. The horizontal stretch of ridge, despite the fresh snow that
was lying about, gave no serious trouble, and soon we were at the
foot of the great _gendarme_. It was plain that the latter, even in
the best of circumstances, would prove a stubborn customer if tackled
directly over the ridge. For the sake of economising time, therefore,
we moved out on to the south side, and for more than two hours were
kept fully occupied on slabby rocks, where the handholds tended to
slope downwards. Had the ground been dry, the climbing would probably
have been fairly easy; but to-day ice and new snow were everywhere.
Forster, free from the burden of his knapsack, which now graced my
shoulders, was in his element. Our pace was not rapid, because the
conditions rendered it advisable to move only one at a time, and the
rock, apart from being glazed with ice, was so unreliable that great
care was necessary. At last, shortly before drawing level with the
summit of the _gendarme_, a scramble up some particularly nasty slabs
brought us on to a buttress of blocks where we were able to climb
together. Forster dashed away in great style. We regained the ridge at
the lowest point in the slight depression that lies between the summit
of the great _gendarme_ and that of the mountain itself. From there the
climb along the final ridge was pure joy. Nowhere did we meet with the
least difficulty. The rock was extremely good and wind-swept free from
snow. The ridge was very narrow--in places even sensational. Sometimes
it hung over to one side, sometimes to the other, and once it actually
assumed a mushroom-like appearance and overhung on both. Our pace was
furious, and Forster’s exclamations of delight at the splendid
climbing quite invigorating.
[Illustration: _The north face of the Dent d’Hérens, showing route
followed._]
[Illustration: _Back at the Schönbühl hut after the climb._
_Facing page 210._
]
At 3.15 p.m., fifteen and a half hours after leaving the Schönbühl hut,
we passed over the little snow-crest which forms the summit of the
Dent d’Hérens. We did not halt; the weather was too menacing, and it
behoved us to get off the mountain as quickly as possible. Just beyond
the summit, we again altered the order of the rope--Forster retained
the lead, Peto came next, and I brought up the rear. After a short,
easy climb down the steep but firm rocks of the little summit cliff
overlooking the north-west face, we struck a well-trodden track in the
scree slopes, and passing down these and two ice slopes--the first
a short one, the second long enough to induce us to put on climbing
irons--we reached a point on the west ridge whence a convenient descent
could be made over broken rocks towards the Za-de-Zan Glacier. With
the exception of one chimney, which might well have been avoided, all
was easy going until, at the foot of the rocks, we had to descend a
little ice slope and cross the bergschrund below it. The deep snow
covering the ice slope was in a parlous condition, and Forster had to
cut well into the ice beneath in order to obtain secure footing. As
luck would have it, we chanced to strike the best place to cross the
bergschrund; for the misty haze now obscuring the sun also hid detail
to such an extent that, until we were actually on the bergschrund, it
was at times hard even to detect its presence. The usual sort of little
zig-zag manœuvre by means of which the weak points in the bergschrund’s
defences were connected up, saw us safely over on to the soft snow
slopes below. We had no difficulty in getting through the first small
icefall to the Za-de-Zan Glacier, though at one place we had to descend
into a crevasse and make our way up the other side in order to effect a
crossing.
Passing close under the Tiefenmattenjoch, a long tramp in soft, wet
snow brought us to the edge of the lower icefall. Having been through
this fall in 1919, I now went ahead. But, failing to keep sufficiently
far to the left, I did not succeed in finding the quickest way through,
with the result that, to escape from its clutches, we finally had to
resort to the spare rope to descend a bergschrund which must have been
nearly fifty feet high. From there onwards all was plain sailing. A
glissade and a gentle walk over the nearly level basin of the glacier
led to the top of the moraine, whence, free from the sodden rope,
we plunged down towards the corner of the west ridge of the Tête de
Valpelline, at the foot of which stands the Cabane d’Aosta. The ten
minutes’ uphill walk to the hut was, for three weary mountaineers, as
hard a pitch as any they had tackled that day. The hut was none too
tidy, but we had food and, some kindly climbers having provided us
with sufficient wood, we were able to cook quite a passable meal. The
weather did not actually break that evening, but the whole sky was
filled with dense masses of cloud driven up by the south wind, and we
went to sleep expecting to have a lively time in crossing the Col de
Valpelline on the following day.
Next morning we were under way at 6 a.m., and in less than three hours
had gained the Col de Valpelline. The sky was completely overcast,
and all major summits were hidden in cloud, but we suffered no
inconvenience from mist and, in under four and a half hours after
leaving the Cabane d’Aosta, were receiving the warm congratulations of
the Schönbühl hut caretaker, who had watched our ascent through his
telescope with such assiduity that he had strained his right eye and
was now in a state of perpetual wink!
FOOTNOTES:
[7] “Impossible.”
CHAPTER XV
MONT BLANC
Mont Blanc, 15,781 feet in height, the highest mountain in Europe,
was almost the first of the great Alpine peaks to be climbed. On
August 8, 1786, two Chamoniards, Dr. Paccard and Jacques Balmat,
starting from Chamonix, made the first ascent. Forty-six years later
Balmat was interviewed by Alexandre Dumas, who shortly afterwards
incorporated the Chamoniard’s tale of the conquest of the great
mountain in his _Impressions de Voyage_. And so the name of Jacques
Balmat has come down to fame. To-day Chamonix boasts of two statues to
his memory; while Dr. Paccard is almost forgotten. Yet recent, patient
investigation tends to show with a fair degree of certainty that the
leading spirit, the driving force throughout the wonderful adventure,
was not Balmat, but Dr. Paccard.
As the years passed by it became almost fashionable to climb Mont
Blanc; and to-day the many who make the ascent for the mere sake of
saying that they have stood on the crown of Europe, still follow the
route of the original discoverers in most of its essential details,
except where, in one or two cases, deviations have resulted in
considerable improvement. The ascent of the mountain from Chamonix by
the well-established route is nothing more than a long, uphill walk; a
good, sound walker could go to the summit with his hands in his trouser
pockets, should he feel so disposed. But since Paccard’s day many other
routes have been discovered; and on all of these climbing is, at one
stage or another, necessary. Indeed, some of these routes involve
expeditions which rank amongst the most formidable that have ever been
undertaken in the Alps, or, indeed, in any other mountain range.
The frontier between Italy and France crosses the summit of Mont Blanc.
From the Col de Miage over to the Col du Géant, a distance of eight
miles, the frontier follows the watershed ridge without once falling
below an elevation of 11,000 feet above sea-level; and two routes,
following more or less this frontier, lead to the summit of Mont Blanc.
From the point of view of mountaineering difficulty, neither of these
can be compared with any of the tremendous routes by which Mont Blanc
may be climbed from the south. Nevertheless, both are sufficiently
difficult to safeguard one against monotony, and the scenery on both
is superlatively wonderful. For these two reasons, Max and I chose to
make our acquaintance with Mont Blanc by these frontier or border-line
routes. We planned to go from Courmayeur to the Col de Miage and pass
the night there in the little Refuge Durier. On the following day
we would climb along the border-line, passing over the Aiguille de
Bionnassay and the Dôme de Goûter, and spend the second night in the
Vallot Refuge (14,350 ft.) within an hour and a half of the summit.
Next morning we would pass over Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit, whence,
deviating from the border-line, we would visit Mont Blanc de Tacul,
and finally make our way across the Géant Glacier to the Col du Géant.
Three days would elapse between our departure from Courmayeur and
our arrival at the Rifugio Torino on the Col du Géant; but, lest bad
weather should delay the carrying out of our projects, we bought in
provisions for five, or at a pinch six, days. Thus our knapsacks, which
contained in addition to the food, a cooking apparatus, camera and
large supply of films, climbing irons and two one-hundred-foot ropes,
were far from light.
From Courmayeur the first three hours of the journey to the Col de
Miage lead one along the carriage road and mule track which winds
through the Val Veni round the southern foot of Mont Blanc. As mules
are readily obtainable in Courmayeur, Max and I strolled forth
unburdened from the village after an early lunch on August 25, 1911.
Leaving knapsack, coats and axes to a mule-driver and his faithful
animal, we marched gaily along the broad path with the tremendous
cliffs and fantastic, jagged outline of the Peuteret ridge towering up
before us, luxuriating in the freedom of shirt sleeves and the even
more unwonted freedom of unladen shoulders, and revelling in the happy
lot of the mountaineer. Dawdling, however, we were not permitted to
indulge in; for the mule, like others of his species in Courmayeur,
seemed eager to get to his journey’s end with all possible speed, and
it was only by the simple stratagem of inviting his driver to drink a
glass of wine at the little Cantine de la Visaille that we succeeded in
snatching a rest.
Farther on, where the immense, frontal moraine of the Miage Glacier
advances into and, indeed, almost across the bed of the valley, the
path steepens up; but though the mule walked as fast as ever, we
kept pace in comfort, for the sky was rapidly becoming overcast, and
an invigorating coolness had taken the place of the hitherto close
and oppressive heat. Passing by the little Combal lake formed by the
moraine damming the stream, its black, sunless waters whipped into a
semblance of life by fitful gusts, we turned off to the right along a
dwindling track. Here we dismissed the mule and his driver and, after
collecting firewood for use in the hut, settled down to a meal to gain
strength for the long walk in front of us. At 4 p.m., a few heavy
drops of rain from the lowering sky stirred us up, and, shouldering our
cruelly heavy and distinctly awkward burdens, we climbed up the steep
flank of the moraine and gained the gently-rising, stone-strewn surface
of the Miage Glacier.
White wraiths of mist, sinking from the black thunder-clouds that
overcast the sky, settled over the tops of the magnificent mountain
walls which enclose the glacier. Our loads were oppressive, and, though
we struggled with them to the best of our powers, our pace was slow and
rests were frequent. At twilight, even the foot of the slopes below
the Col de Miage were still far distant, and dense masses of cloud
were rolling down across the col towards us. Realising what a drag our
knapsacks were, we decided to change our plans and make for the Dôme
instead of the Miage hut. We knew that darkness would be upon us long
before the former were gained, but, in spite of that, we felt certain
of being able to find it. After passing below the icefall of the Dôme
Glacier, we turned to the right towards the foot of the Aiguilles
Grises ridge. An inky blackness had already blotted out all surrounding
details before the rocks were reached; but, on lighting the lantern, we
were delighted to find a well-marked track leading up in the desired
direction over steep screes. We were now really tired, and halts to
relieve our shoulders from the depressing weight of the knapsacks were
frequent. During such enforced respites from our labours we consulted
the map and were able to form a fairly good idea as to where to look
for the hut. At ten o’clock, just before the thunderstorm burst, we
found it at last, though not without some searching.
Though tired, we were ravenously hungry, and had energy enough to
prepare a good, square meal. Through the little window we saw frequent
lightning flashes, and the sharp crack that followed within a fraction
of a second of each flare told us that we were very near the centre
of the storm. After dinner we ventured without to see what were the
prospects for the morrow. Snow was falling, and the atmosphere was
charged with electricity. Holding up my hand and spreading out the
fingers resulted in a curious noise as of the tearing of linen, and,
in the darkness, from each finger-tip issued a blue stream of light.
The chimney pipe of the little hut stove was thrown into relief by an
aureole of bluish light, especially intense at the top. It was evident
that the storm had come to stay for the night at least, and that, with
snow falling at its present rate, there was little chance of being able
to continue the climb next morning. I must confess that the prospect of
a day’s rest was anything but displeasing.
The sun was high in the heavens when we awoke on the morning of the
26th. The weather was perfect. All signs of the storm had been swept
away, except for the abundance of new snow which, on the rocks round
the hut, was already yielding to the warm rays. Mont Blanc, a mountain
of quite different aspect on this southern side, is built up of great
rock buttresses, separated from each other by steep and narrow glaciers
which frequently break into formidable icefalls. Our original plan of
following the border-line from the Col de Miage we had naturally set
aside, but from the scenic point of view we did not expect the route
now proposed, _via_ the Aiguilles Grises to the Col de Bionnassay and
thence along the border-line, to be one whit inferior. The afternoon
and evening of that welcome rest day were mostly spent in consuming
our supplies of firewood and demolishing all the weightier articles of
food. In those days Max and I were unduly addicted to the delights of
tinned peaches!
By three o’clock next morning we had breakfasted and were preparing to
leave the hut. Wearing climbing irons and roped together, we crossed
over a snow slope and gained the Dôme Glacier. As our destination that
day was the Vallot Refuge, only some three thousand feet higher up,
there was no call for hurry. This was a blessing, for, though we had
done our best to cut down the weight, the knapsacks were still much
heavier than one is wont to carry on a long climb of this nature.
Early in the year the ascent of the Dôme Glacier is usually devoid of
difficulty; but towards the end of the climbing season one’s progress
is likely to be somewhat hampered by huge and inadequately bridged
crevasses. In 1911, however, despite the fact that the summer had
been so hot and fine, we nowhere met with serious obstacles, though
occasionally a more than ordinarily large crevasse demanded a little
thought and care before it could be successfully negotiated. At sunrise
we had gained the uppermost basin of the Dôme Glacier, and, turning
round to the left, we cut steps up a steep ice slope, eventually
climbing the rocks of the Aiguilles Grises ridge to the south of the
highest point on the ridge. The rock was good, and we topped the
highest Aiguille at 7 a.m. The day was wonderfully clear and free from
haze, so that we could look right out into the lowlands of Savoy. The
Aiguilles de Trélatête, which rank amongst the most beautiful mountains
in the Alps, stood boldly up to the south. A north breeze, bringer of
settled weather, blew with somewhat chilly force and hunted us forth.
[Illustration: _Mont Blanc from the Dôme hut._
“... great rock buttresses separated by steep glaciers.”
_Facing page 218._
]
From the Aiguilles Grises we walked in comfort along a broad, almost
level snow ridge, which later became more narrow and inclined until,
just before reaching the point where it meets the border-line ridge,
it was so steep that the use of the axe was necessary. Once on the
border-line, a wonderful vista down into the Bionnassay Valley
opened out. The ridge was narrow and often corniced, but free from
difficulty. Soon it steepened and broadened out and wore a thick
covering of fresh snow through which we toiled knee-deep. To the right
of the ridge the snow was in bad condition, and any attempt to stamp
out steps started avalanches which slid with hissing sound down to the
Dôme Glacier below. Therefore, we kept either to the left of the ridge
or on the crest itself, where progress was simple, if laborious and
thirsty. The loss of moisture by profuse perspiration, however, was
readily compensated for by eating snow--an excellent means of assuaging
thirst. At length the ridge was transformed into a great plateau, over
which we gained the summit of the Dôme de Goûter and looked down into
the Chamonix Valley. In accordance with our usual custom, we fed, and
then, spreading out our belongings in a wind-sheltered spot on the
snow, lay down on them and went to sleep in the warm sun.
At midday we packed up and descended a gentle snow slope to the Col de
Goûter, where the well-trodden track of the ordinary Chamonix route
was joined. A little later we arrived at the Vallot Refuge. The Vallot
Refuge stands at an altitude of about 14,350 feet above sea-level on a
tiny island of rock cropping out from a vast surrounding wilderness of
ice and snow. It consists of a little wooden hut divided into the two
compartments that fulfil the simple requirements of the mountaineer,
namely a “kitchen” and a “bedroom.” It was in a bad state of repair;
the wind whistled through numerous cracks in walls and roof; and the
door was too damaged to permit of its being closed, so that quantities
of snow had drifted within and the floor was deeply covered with ice.
The stove was degenerate and useless; the blankets were full of ice
and fouled with the filth and offal that likewise covered the floor
and formed the contents of the only saucepan which the hut boasted. It
was altogether a disgusting state of affairs, and, as we were to pass
the night here, Max and I set about making our quarters habitable.
Blankets were thoroughly shaken and spread out in the sun and wind.
With our axes, the snow and refuse was scraped out and the ice chipped
away from the floor. Some of the worst cracks and holes in the wall we
stopped with snow. Two hours’ hard work wrought some slight change, and
the hut looked tidier and more wholesome. Since then, I have been, in
all, five times at the Vallot Refuge. On each occasion it bore a closer
resemblance to a pigsty than a place designed for human habitation.
There is, as far as I can see, no excuse for this. Climbers using
the refuge should have no difficulty in leaving it in a presentable
condition. As it is, its usual loathsome state bears eloquent testimony
to the all-round inferiority of many of those who climb Mont Blanc from
Chamonix. To leave mountain huts and refuges clean and tidy is the
duty of all guides; but the onus of seeing that this duty is properly
performed rests with their employers. The ultra-fashionable world that
nowadays throngs Chamonix and “climbs” Mont Blanc simply because it is
“done” apparently leaves all sense of duty and propriety far below the
snow-line.
It was past 3 p.m. before we were satisfied with the result of our
labours, and from then until sunset a succession of meals--lunch, tea
and dinner--was prepared on our little spirit cooker. All water had, of
course, to be obtained by melting snow; but this had been anticipated,
and our supplies of methylated spirit were ample. The breeze dropped as
the afternoon wore on, and at times we felt almost hot as we sat in the
sun in front of the refuge.
Bedtime came with the sharp night chill that follows the setting of
the sun. There were plenty of blankets, now dry and comparatively
clean, to keep us warm, and we slept well; only occasionally awakening
at the sound of the wind as it whistled through the chinks and shrieked
past the walls of the refuge. Next morning, at 5 a.m., we started to
dress, that is, to put on our boots. This took some time as the uppers
were frozen stiff and had to be nursed against our chests until they
were sufficiently pliable. Breakfast was not a success, at least in
so far as cooking operations were concerned. During the night, snow
dust had been blown into the spirit-burner which, inside the draughty
hut, had no chance to burn itself dry. In the end we made shift with
raw bacon fat, bread and jam, and munched snow in lieu of drinking
coffee or tea. At 6.30, having folded up the blankets and cleared up
generally, we put on the rope and climbing irons and moved off.
A deep-trodden track in the snow, the trail of fashion, led up easy
slopes on to the crest of the border-line ridge. Always keeping to the
ridge and walking at a good, steady pace, we continued our uneventful
journey. No miseries of mountain sickness such as so often attacked
the early climbers of Mont Blanc, and to which many still seem to
succumb, disturbed the monotony; no blood gushed forth from our ears,
nor did we even suffer from lack of breath. Before 8 a.m. we stood
on the summit (15,781 ft.). The little refuge erected here a year
or two previously was all but buried beneath the snow; part of the
roof and a chimney alone remained visible.[8] The day was perfect,
cloudless and exceptionally clear. There is, amongst its neighbouring
mountains, none to challenge the superiority of Mont Blanc. From its
summit one looks down upon Europe, hill and plain. The sea of ice-clad
peaks surrounding it are so much lower or so far off that they appear
immeasurably below one. Whilst engaging in the delightful pastime of
recognising old mountain friends in the distant ranges, we brought
the spirit cooker into action and prepared a belated brew of tea. The
match with which we lighted our cigarettes needed no shielding, and
its faint blue smoke drifted lazily skywards, so still was the air as
we sat and basked in the warm morning sunshine. Such was our first
kindly reception by Mont Blanc. Since then I have stood four times on
the summit; twice surrounded by cold, clammy mists, once chilled to the
marrow by a fierce north-west wind, and once to be driven down fighting
for foothold in the teeth of a snowstorm such as is seldom experienced
in the Alps.
Our stay on the summit lasted but an hour, for the major portion of
the day’s work, namely the descent _via_ Mont Maudit and Mont Blanc
de Tacul, lay in front of us. With France on our left and the great
precipices of the Brenva falling away to Italy on the right, we
descended the hard-frozen snow of the broad ridge. Passing a little
outcrop of rock, now plastered up with wind-driven snow, we arrived at
the top of a rather steep ice slope--the Mur de la Côte. One of the
worst accidents in the history of mountaineering occurred not far from
here in September, 1870. Eleven people were caught by a snowstorm.
Instead of fighting their way out of its clutches, they sat down to
wait until it passed. All were frozen to death. In a snowstorm on the
mountains, as in war, safety lies in action. It is far better to do
something, even if it be the wrong thing, than do nothing but sit and
wait.
With our sharp, long-pointed climbing irons, the Mur de la Côte was
descended without the cutting of more than a few steps. Below it, easy
snow slopes led down to the Col de la Brenva, the broad depression
between Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit. Beyond this, a succession of
trackless snow fields and slopes, sometimes almost level, at other
times fairly steep but never steep enough to demand the use of the
axe, provided such easy going that we were able to devote much of our
attention to the beauty of the surroundings. A pathway fit for the
gods, this wonderful border-line ridge whence the eye may travel beyond
the snow-free mountains of Savoy to the rolling blue hills of the
Jura, or up the tremendous ramparts of the Brenva face and along the
magnificent sweep of the Peuteret ridge to the heavily corniced summit
of Mont Blanc de Courmayeur. We paid but a brief visit to Mont Maudit
(14,669 ft.), a little rock pinnacle just emerging from the snow; and,
after a glance over the great precipices above the Brenva Glacier, we
turned down the snowy ridge which falls away to Chamonix, to seek a
means of descent into the depression between Mont Maudit and Mont Blanc
de Tacul. At first the ridge was a slender snowy crest on which the
snow was in splendid condition, but later the rocks emerged. As these
were good and never difficult, we were once again, while climbing, able
to devote much of our attention to the view. Mont Blanc showed up to
wonderful advantage, an enormous snowy dome, the brilliance of its wide
flanks almost entirely unrelieved by the darkness of rock. Far below
lay the valley of Chamonix, its detail filtered softly through the
grey-blue haze of a fine summer’s day. Beyond the Buet and the lesser
mountains of Savoy, the gaze roved over a purple mistiness shrouding
the Lake of Geneva, to the sombre wooded curves of the Jura. On our
right were the tapering spires of the Chamonix Aiguilles and the wider
snows of Mont Blanc de Tacul, our next objective.
After descending the ridge for some considerable length, a fairly
broad, snowy saddle, the Col Maudit, was reached. To the right a
rather steep, but to all appearances short, ice slope fell away
towards crevassed snow slopes, down which we felt sure of finding a
convenient way. After once more donning climbing irons--for they had
been taken off on gaining the summit of Mont Maudit--Max took charge
of my knapsack, while I set to work to cut the necessary steps down
the slope. The ice rapidly steepened but merged into snow, too hard
to kick steps in, but ready to yield a secure step for two, or at the
most three, blows of the axe. Noticing that the slope did not run out
directly into the snowfields below, we suspected the presence of an
intervening bergschrund of more than ordinary proportions. Our surmise
proved only too true. Within a quarter of an hour of leaving the Col
Maudit, we foregathered in a large step hewn out just above the upper
lip of a great bergschrund which gaped to right and left with never a
sign of a snow bridge within reach. The lower lip was at least fifteen
feet below where we stood, but as the schrund seemed to be at its
narrowest here, it was obviously the most suitable place to effect a
passage. Three ways of doing this suggested themselves: to jump down
the fifteen feet, to cut out a belay in the snow and rope down, or to
use one of our axes as a belay. On reconsideration, the second and
third courses were discarded; the one because it was getting late in
the day and the time necessary to hew out a suitable belay would be
considerable; the other because it would mean the sacrifice of an axe.
So we decided to jump. Leaving my axe and climbing irons with Max, I
screwed up my courage and leapt wildly out into space, to strike with
my feet into the deep, soft snow below the bergschrund with such force
that I was almost submerged, and snow found its way into my clothing
in a most disconcerting fashion. Then came Max’s turn. He first threw
down the axes, climbing irons and other paraphernalia. Then, while
I trained the camera on him, he jumped and landed with such a thud
that he likewise was almost buried in the powdery snow. After a rest
and a meal to soothe shattered nerves, we gathered up our belongings
and commenced stamping down towards Mont Blanc de Tacul. Crevasses
and ice cliffs enforced a zig-zag course and deep snow made the work
toilsome, but we forged steadily ahead, leaving a deeply-furrowed trail
in our wake. Passing beyond the depression between Mont Maudit and our
objective, we finally mounted up gentle snow slopes and a few simple
rocks to the summit of Mont Blanc de Tacul (13,941 ft.), and thus
gained our third mountain-top for the day. The view from here was one
of the most striking of the marvellous series of changing panoramas
which marked this trip. The great rocky buttresses and escarpments of
the precipitous south face of Mont Maudit, seamed with appallingly
steep ice-filled gullies, the shimmering ice cliffs of the Brenva face
of Mont Blanc, and the bold yet almost unearthly graceful outline of
the Peuteret ridge formed a peerless picture of nobility and majesty.
[Illustration: _Descending Mont Maudit._
“... a slender snowy crest.”]
[Illustration:
_Aiguille Noire de
Peuteret._
_Dames
Anglaise._
_Aiguille Blanche
de Peuteret._
_Col de Peuteret._
_Mont Blanc de
Courmayeur._
_Mont Blanc._
_The Peuteret ridge from the Col du Géant._
_Facing page 224._
]
It was two o’clock. To judge from what could be seen of the snow
slopes leading down to the Col du Midi, where we intended to spend the
night, no serious difficulty appeared to be in store for us. We had,
therefore, time to spare; so, while the spirit cooker did its work,
we dozed and sunned ourselves on the sun-warmed rocks of the summit.
At 4 p.m., though loth to leave, we packed up and tramped off in the
direction of the Aiguille du Midi. The slopes became steeper and were
covered with great quantities of fresh snow. Here and there a crevasse
or minor bergschrund had to be negotiated, but all went well. We had
descended a considerable distance, and could already overlook the
greater part of the easy, almost uncrevassed slopes leading into the
Col du Midi, when an immense bergschrund pulled us up short. The upper
lip was fully fifty feet above the lower. Tracks leading up to, and
then retreating from, the lower lip were visible. A party of climbers
had evidently quite recently sallied forth from the Col du Midi to
climb Mont Blanc, but had been repelled by the formidable obstacle
which was now causing us no little concern. A search to the left
revealed nothing of value. To work out to the right would entail much,
and perhaps purposeless, step-cutting. So, without more ado, we hewed
out a huge step as close to the upper lip of the schrund as possible,
cleared away the snow from a suitable spot, and worked away at the
ice underneath until a great projecting block had been formed. Over
this improvised belay we laid the middle of the only spare rope, and
shinned down it. With this the last of the difficulties was overcome.
We plunged knee-deep down gently inclined slopes, whose snows, almost
unbroken by chasms, waxed softer and wetter as the Col du Midi was
approached; and at 6 p.m. we were shaking free from dust and filth the
torn remnants of what had once been blankets in the little Col du Midi
refuge.
Next day, after discovering a new and rather difficult route up the
Aiguille du Midi (12,608 ft.), we tramped wearily across the vast,
white expanse of the Géant Glacier to the Rifugio Torino. There we
saw the first human being we had set eyes upon since bidding “adieu”
to our mule-driver on the Miage Glacier. For five whole days we had
roamed over the lonely snows of Mont Blanc without meeting a single
fellow-creature. In our daily life we jostle each other cheek by jowl;
and sometimes it is good to be alone.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] To-day (1924) no building or structure of any kind mars the
sweeping majesty of Mont Blanc’s snowy dome.
CHAPTER XVI
MONT BLANC FROM THE SOUTH
It is a curious fact that, to this day, the southern slopes of Mont
Blanc rank amongst the least frequented districts of the Alps. Mr.
James Eccles who, with Michel and Alphonse Payot, first climbed Mont
Blanc from the south, over forty-four years ago, remarked in a paper
read before the Alpine Club, “It is singular that, notwithstanding
their close proximity to a good mountaineering centre, the glaciers
of the south-western end of Mont Blanc have been, compared with other
parts of the chain, so neglected by Alpine climbers.” Of the Brouillard
and Fresnay Glaciers, the serious explorers of which may almost be
counted on one’s fingers, Eccles’s words still hold good.
In its general outline, the geography of the southern slopes of Mont
Blanc is simple enough. The western and eastern boundaries are,
respectively, the Brouillard and Peuteret ridges, which converge in
Mont Blanc de Courmayeur. The region enclosed by these two colossal
ridges is bisected by the Innominata ridge, on either side of which a
glacier flows down from Mont Blanc; the Brouillard Glacier between the
ridge of the same name and the Innominata ridge, the Fresnay Glacier
between the latter and the Peuteret ridge. Both glaciers are remarkable
for their steepness and the extent to which they are broken up. From
source to snout, the Brouillard Glacier forms an almost uninterrupted
icefall, the Fresnay Glacier even more so: indeed, from afar the
latter resembles the tumbling, foaming crest of a storm-tossed wave.
To the south of the Innominata lies a third glacier, the Glacier du
Châtelet, but compared with the other two, it is insignificant in size
and gentle in slope. All three ridges rise from the Val Veni in the
form of great bluffs and cliffs. These, in the case of the Brouillard,
soon narrow down to a well-defined ridge which, unbroken by any really
prominent feature, rises steadily up to the two summits of Mont
Brouillard (13,012 and 13,298 feet respectively). A gentle dip leads
farther to the snowy Col Émile Rey (13,147 ft.), out of which steep
cliffs, constituting a somewhat badly-defined ridge, swing themselves
up to the Pic Luigi Amadeo (14,672 ft.), whence a long ridge rising at
a comparatively gentle angle culminates in Mont Blanc de Courmayeur
(15,604 ft.). From beginning to end, the Brouillard ridge forms a vast
crescent; curving north-north-west in its lower half, it veers towards
the north-north-east in its upper, and terminates almost due north of
its source in the Val Veni. The precipitous, rocky south-eastern flank
of the ridge between the Pic Luigi Amadeo and Mont Blanc de Courmayeur
constitutes the uppermost portion of the south face of Mont Blanc.
Totally different in character is the Peuteret ridge once it has become
well-defined as such in the vicinity of the summit of the Aiguille
Noire de Peuteret, where the two ridges enclosing the Fauteuil des
Allemands converge. Following a north-westerly direction, the Peuteret
ridge carries two outstanding elevations, the Aiguilles Noire and
Blanche de Peuteret, which are separated from neighbouring portions of
the ridge by the deep clefts of the Col des Dames Anglaises and the Col
de Peuteret respectively. Out of the former tower the bold spires of
the Dames Anglaises, enhancing the jagged outline characteristic of the
ridge which, from the Col de Peuteret, in a final stupendous effort,
soars up to Mont Blanc de Courmayeur.
[Illustration: _Mont Blanc from the Val Veni._
_Facing page 228._
]
In the Aiguille du Châtelet (8,292 ft.) the Innominata ridge at first
makes rather a pusillanimous attempt to merit the description, then
becomes lost in broad scree slopes from which emerge two ridges. One
of these flanks the Brouillard Glacier, the other the Fresnay Glacier,
and carries the Aiguille Joseph Croux and the depression called the
Col de l’Innominata. At a point south of the Innominata itself, these
two ridges finally unite, enclosing between their southern flanks
the little Glacier du Châtelet. North of the Innominata, the ridge,
running almost parallel to the Peuteret, dips into the depression
known as the Col du Fresnay. Above the col it rises to a rocky summit
over 13,000 feet high and called Pic Eccles, beyond which lies another
depression, now known as the Col Supérieur du Fresnay, whence, in a
futile attempt to connect with the Brouillard ridge, it rises abruptly
in the direction of a point almost midway between the Pic Luigi Amadeo
and Mont Blanc de Courmayeur and, after a last supreme endeavour to
preserve its individuality in the shape of a huge, precipitous, red
rock buttress, eventually loses itself in the rocky escarpments of the
south face of Mont Blanc at an altitude of about 14,500 feet.
In so far as successful attempts to reach the summit of the mountain
are concerned, the history of the exploration of the south face of
Mont Blanc is soon told. Prior to 1919, only two parties met with
success. On July 30, 1876, Mr. James Eccles, accompanied by the guides
Michel and Alphonse Payot, left Courmayeur and bivouacked on the rocks
of the Innominata ridge, about midway between the Col du Fresnay and
the Pic Eccles, at about 12,500 feet. Leaving their bivouac at 2.55
next morning, they traversed the Pic Eccles into the Col Supérieur
du Fresnay, whence, descending steep rocks and an ice-filled couloir,
they gained the uppermost level of the Fresnay Glacier. Three hours
after leaving their bivouac, they crossed the bergschrund and began
the ascent of the steep slopes of the great snowy couloir, which falls
away towards the Fresnay Glacier from a point on the Peuteret ridge
about 1,200 feet below Mont Blanc de Courmayeur. Taking to the broken
rocks on the left (ascending) bank of the couloir as soon as possible,
they followed these without difficulty to their end. Another bout of
step-cutting then brought them out on to the Peuteret ridge, up which
they arrived on to the summit of Mont Blanc de Courmayeur at 11.40 a.m.
At 12.35 p.m., less than ten hours after leaving their bivouac, Mont
Blanc itself was under foot.
The only other successful expedition carried out before 1919 was that
of Signor Gruber, with Émile Rey[9] and the porter Pierre Revel, in
1880. Leaving Courmayeur on August 14, they bivouacked on some rocks
near the Col du Fresnay. Crossing the col next morning, they descended
to the Fresnay Glacier and worked towards the foot of the great rock
buttress immediately between the huge uppermost icefall of the glacier
and the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret. Late that afternoon, after most
difficult climbing, they arrived in the Col de Peuteret, and thence
followed the Peuteret ridge until nightfall compelled them to bivouac
a second time. They were then about 1,200 feet below the summit. Next
day (August 16), always keeping to the Peuteret ridge and very soon
joining Eccles’s route, they passed over Mont Blanc de Courmayeur and,
four hours after leaving their last bivouac, stood on the summit of
Mont Blanc.[10] This climb is usually referred to as if it were merely
a variation of Eccles’s route. It is true that they have in common the
ascent to the Col du Fresnay and the final 1,200 feet of the Peuteret
ridge, but otherwise the two routes differ to such an extent that
Gruber’s is worthy of being described as a new climb, and it was,
moreover, the first complete ascent of the Peuteret ridge, from the Col
de Peuteret.
For the next thirty-nine years the gaunt ramparts of the southern flank
of Mont Blanc effectively repelled all further assault. It seemed
almost as if the great white mountain had found fresh strength in the
defeats suffered through the hard-won victories of Eccles and Gruber.
It was not that Mont Blanc, during this long interval, remained a
victor through lack of would-be conquerors. All who came were firmly
repulsed. The more fortunate escaped whole in life and limb; from
others the death-toll was ruthlessly exacted.[11]
The spell was finally broken in 1919. On August 20, Messrs. Oliver
and Courtauld, with Adolfe and Henri Rey[12] and Adolf Aufdenblatten,
bivouacked in the Col du Fresnay. The following day they traversed
round the Pic Eccles, close below its summit, and gained the Col
Supérieur du Fresnay, whence they followed the continuation of the
Innominata ridge until, driven over to the left by the vertical, smooth
rocks of its great final buttress, they were forced to climb the rocks
of the south flank of the uppermost Brouillard ridge. This they gained
at a point between the Pic Luigi Amadeo and Mont Blanc de Courmayeur,
but rather nearer the latter. In little over eight hours after leaving
their bivouac, they arrived on the summit of Mont Blanc, having thus
opened a third route from the south.
Early in August, 1921, the fourth successful ascent was effected by
the famous Italian mountaineers Si. G. F. and G. B. Gugliermina and
Francisco Ravelli--names for ever entwined with the history of Mont
Blanc--and a porter from Courmayeur. They followed in its essentials
the route of Messrs. Oliver and Courtauld. Their first bivouac was in
the rocks of the Innominata below the Col du Fresnay, their second at
the foot of the final great buttress of the Innominata ridge, while, on
the descent, a third night was spent in the Vallot hut.
Towards the end of July, 1921, I found myself in Zermatt, without a
climbing companion--a lamentable state of affairs, due to trouble
in Ireland preventing Forster from joining me as had been arranged.
When Oliver and Courtauld arrived with the two Aufdenblattens after a
successful traverse of the Dom from Saas, I was therefore more than
pleased by their kind invitation to join their party. Theoretically, of
course, I had no right to accept this, because I was out of training
and had done nothing beyond walking half-way up to the Schwarzsee.
Getting into training seems to be a spectre which looms large in the
minds of most climbers of to-day. Often I feel impelled to think that,
at all events from the physical point of view and as far as more
youthful climbers are concerned, this fantastic mental conception must
be, to a great extent, the result of auto-suggestion. In spite of a
sedentary occupation, wholly unrelieved by any active form of sport,
I am always ready to start climbing by climbing, and not by indulging
in a ramble. In this instance, moreover, the immediate programme in
view was not too ambitious, our aim being merely to get, somehow or
other, to Breuil. The Col Tournanche was chosen as a pass for the sake
of its novelty, none of us having previously crossed it. Arrived in
Breuil, Oliver and Courtauld went on to Courmayeur, whilst I returned
to Zermatt to bring my luggage round to Courmayeur by rail. A few days
later, we were together on the Aiguille de Tronchey, with a keen eye
to possibilities of a new route up the Grandes Jorasses. The great
south ridge of the latter, however, showed no breach in its formidable
defences, but the Peuteret ridge of Mont Blanc appeared to be in such a
first-rate condition that, could it but be gained from the Brouillard
and Fresnay side, it would almost certainly “go.” Talking matters over
on our return to Courmayeur, we decided to repeat Eccles’s route. The
ascent of the Peuteret ridge via the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret was
ruled out on account of the dangerous condition of the Brenva Glacier
and of the Aiguille Blanche itself--a condition due to the huge fall of
rock and ice in November, 1920.
On the following day, from a point in the road near the second refuge
on the Italian side of the Petit St. Bernard, I carefully examined
the south flank of Mont Blanc. The descent from the Col Supérieur du
Fresnay on to the upper basin of the Fresnay Glacier seemed feasible,
but the bergschrund below Eccles’s great couloir leading up to the
Peuteret ridge appeared most formidable. The rocks showing through
both to the left and the right of the Peuteret ridge, however, seemed
to be as free from snow and ice as they were ever likely to be, while
the ridge itself appeared to carry good snow.
On August 7, we left Courmayeur with four porters and two carriages
bearing our kit, Oliver, Courtauld, and myself as far as the Alpe
du Fresnay, shortly after leaving which we encountered our first
difficulty in the shape of the unfordable torrent descending from the
Fresnay Glacier. By means of two felled trees discovered in a wood
near by, we improvised a somewhat unstable bridge which most of us
preferred to cross on all fours. Alfred Aufdenblatten boldly essayed
to walk across, but not knowing the secret of keeping his eyes fixed
on the bridge instead of on the water, lost his balance and only saved
himself by a wild jump which barely landed him on the far bank. Towards
nightfall we gained the new Gamba hut, situated on the Innominata ridge
a little above the Aiguille du Châtelet.[13]
Next morning we left shortly after daybreak, ascending over the
débris-strewn slopes towards the moraine on the left bank of the
Brouillard Glacier and took to this glacier at an altitude of about
9,500 feet, at the point where the moraine ends and the rocks steepen
up towards the Innominata. The work in front of us now changed
completely in character. Ropes and climbing irons were put on; Adolf
and Courtauld took the lead; Oliver, Alfred, and I formed the second
party; while the porters, roped together two by two, brought up the
rear-guard of our little army.
Our labours began at once. Huge crevasses, the upper lips of which
were often disconcertingly high above the lower, soon forced us out
towards the middle of the glacier, where constant step-cutting was the
rule. Progressing very rapidly, Adolf cut small steps, upon which we
improved, so as to make things easier for the heavily-burdened porters.
After much twisting and turning and some pretty ice work, we reached a
small plateau where the Brouillard Glacier makes an heroic but rather
unavailing effort to be level, prior to indulging in a mad tumble over
a noisy “Heisse Platte.”[14] Here a half-hour halt was called for
breakfast. We could now see right up to the head of the glacier, and
Oliver pointed out to me the line of their ascent of 1919.
The choice of either of two ways up to the Col du Fresnay now lay
before us. We could follow the glacier, keeping more or less in
the middle, or else traverse high up to the right across steep ice
slopes leading down from the ridge of the Innominata. The latter
route bore unmistakable evidence of having been recently swept by
falling stones; débris on the glacier, however, testified even more
generously to the fact that ice also falls, and, in addition, we
could detect an abundance of bridgeless crevasses. We therefore chose
honest step-cutting across the steep ice slopes. All set to work with
a will, and progress was rapid. Dangers and difficulties ceased at a
point somewhat below, and to the west of, the Col du Fresnay, where
the glacier once more interrupts its headlong course to the valley by
indulging in a small snowfield of moderate incline. No difficulty was
offered by the final bergschrund below the col, into which we stepped
at 10 a.m., nearly five hours after leaving the hut.
The Col du Fresnay is a striking view point from which the Innominata
and the Aiguille Noire de Peuteret both show to extraordinary
advantage. The descent from the col on to the Fresnay glacier does not
appear to be difficult, although the rocks are sometimes steep and
certainly rather rotten.
After a rest of an hour and a half we once more got under way and,
climbing up the ridge in the direction of the Pic Eccles, mounted
over a short pitch of steep rock followed by an ice slope where heavy
step-cutting was essential. This slope landed us on another diminutive
snowy plateau, over which we made our way in the direction of the
spur of rocks forming the west ridge of the Pic Eccles, and on which,
after crossing a bergschrund and cutting up an ice slope, we effected
a lodgment. Just as my party gained the rocks, a loud clattering was
heard from the slopes of Mont Brouillard. Quickly pulling out my camera
from my coat pocket, I was in good time to take a photograph of one of
the most gigantic stone-falls I have ever seen. For several minutes
dense clouds of stone dust hung over the track of the avalanche, while
many large blocks swept over the Brouillard Glacier, right across the
line of ascent followed by the brothers Gugliermina on the occasion of
their memorable crossing of the Col Émile Rey.
After a brief halt, for the porters to close up, we commenced our
assault on the rocks ahead. The climbing, though occasionally very
steep, was not particularly difficult, despite the treacherous nature
of the rock and the downward slope of its stratification. Incidentally,
it may be remarked that, though unreliable, the rocks of the Pic
Eccles were certainly the best encountered during the expedition.
Taking the utmost care to avoid dislodging loose stones, which were
sometimes of formidable size, we made our way up towards the summit of
the Pic. When still some distance below it, however, Adolf led out to
the left on the Brouillard side, and after some healthy passages across
ice-filled gullies, we arrived in the Col Supérieur du Fresnay, without
having actually passed over the top of the peak. The rocks on the Mont
Blanc side of the col were gained at 2.30 p.m., and the several members
of the party proceeded to select their couches for the night. It had
been arranged that at this point two of the porters should return to
the Gamba hut, but beyond depositing their loads, they made no attempt
to move; indeed, they even threw out hints about preferring to stay
with us till the following day. The polyglot imaginative eloquence of
Adolf, however, soon persuaded them of the supreme folly of shivering
in a bivouac when the seductive warmth and shelter of the hut were
awaiting them. Their two companions were provided with blankets, as
they were to remain the night and take down the sleeping-bags and
excess kit on the morrow.
[Illustration: _The Innominata from the Col du Fresnay._
_Facing page 236._
]
The Col Supérieur du Fresnay consists of a narrow snow ridge sloping
off abruptly on one side to the Brouillard, and on the other to the
Fresnay Glacier. To the east, beyond the Col Émile Rey we could see a
snow summit, probably one of the summits of the Aiguilles de Trélatête.
The height of our bivouac, therefore, must have been about 13,200 feet.
The great south face of Mont Blanc falls away from the Brouillard ridge
above, in slopes of broken rocks which finally merge into enormously
steep, slabby precipices abutting on the Brouillard Glacier. The eye
could follow the course of this glacier almost throughout its length.
It is so grotesquely broken up that one wonders that it is possible
to thread it. The uppermost basin, still untrodden, I believe, by
human foot, and forming a little, almost level snowfield, is isolated
by one or two formidable crevasses which cut right across the glacier
from side to side. The west face of the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret,
composed almost wholly of dark grey rock unrelieved by scarcely a
single speck of snow, looks practically inaccessible. The route of
the late H. O. Jones,[15] led by Laurent Croux, looks difficult and
desperately dangerous from falling stones. Formerly, the Col de
Peuteret was, so Oliver tells me, a snow-saddle from which either the
Peuteret ridge or the rocks of the Aiguille Blanche could be gained
with comparative ease. Now, however, as a result of the huge avalanche
which fell away from the Peuteret ridge and the col itself in November,
1920, the height of the latter has been considerably lowered, so that
from our bivouac we could see beyond it right down to well below the
summit of the Grand Flambeau. Great bergschrunds now bar direct access
to either the Peuteret ridge or the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret. From
the lower rocks of the ridge itself much has fallen away, and they are
now much steeper. Continual stone-falls, and the liberal traces left by
them about the foot of the ridge, offered ample evidence of its present
unstable condition.
It was impossible to find, or even make, a ledge which would
accommodate the whole party; indeed, none proved wide enough to take
more than one man, so that after each had selected his couch, we found
ourselves well scattered over the mountain side. The two porters found
a berth for themselves at the point where the snowy ridge of the col
abuts on the rocks. My own sleeping place was a level stretch of rock
and snow ridge slightly higher up on the Mont Blanc side of the col,
and on the very backbone of the Innominata ridge. About three feet wide
at the pillow end, but dwindling away to next door to nothing in the
region of my feet, it had the advantage of length combined with the
pleasant uncertainty as to which of the two glaciers, the Fresnay or
the Brouillard, would have the honour of receiving my mortal remains
should I lose my balance. The others deposited themselves on more
or less inadequate ledges on the Brouillard side of the ridge. The
nearest water supply was five minutes’ climbing distance down towards
the Brouillard Glacier. On their journey back, skilfully balancing
well-filled cooking vessels, Alfred and one of the porters (Henri Rey’s
son) performed some choice feats of rock-climbing.
There were still two hours of sunshine due before the last rays
sank behind the Brouillard ridge, and these we utilised by changing
our clothing (a lengthy process, as one hand was usually required
for balancing purposes) and re-arranging knapsacks, all superfluous
equipment being put on one side for the porters descending next
morning. In spite of all my efforts to reduce weight, my burden for
the morrow’s climb proved to be quite a respectable one. In addition
to spare clothing, comprising shirt, storm cap and gloves, I had
climbing irons, two cameras, films for seventy-six exposures in
air-tight tins, and one day’s iron ration for the whole party. This,
consisting of two pounds of chocolate, the same quantity of sausage,
and fifty cigarettes, I had brought with me, feeling confident that the
optimistic Adolf had made no provision as far as food was concerned for
the possible eventuality of our being forced to bivouac a second time.
At half-past four we had a frugal but welcome meal of hot soup. At
five the sun set behind the Brouillard ridge, and the inevitable chill
of high altitude soon making itself felt, one and all prepared for
the night. Alfred and I, finding our ledges somewhat too exposed for
our liking, roped at either end of a sixty-foot rope which we belayed
over a projecting rock. Six o’clock saw us all settled down more or
less comfortably. From all accounts, I seem to have spent the warmest
night, and in view of this a few particulars as to my sleeping-bag may
possibly be of interest. It was home-made: 7 feet long and 3¹⁄₂ feet
wide; it consisted of an inner bag composed of 3 lb. of finest grade
eiderdown, quilted in 1-foot squares into the thinnest procurable
balloon fabric, and an enveloping outer bag of similar material
rendered air-tight and damp-proof by a coating of “Duroprene.” The
total weight was just short of five pounds.
I crawled into my bag. But soon the inevitable stone in the small of
the back, the antagonist of many a nocturnal episode in that wonderful
Odyssey of the climber, _Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers_, began its
insistent ministrations. Unlike the heroes of olden times, however,
I, deeming discretion the better part of valour, not only resisted
the temptation to put the enemy _hors de combat_, but, by the simple
expedient of curling round and clinging fondly to it with my hands,
I made of it a comrade in arms whose tangibility did much to dispel
the feeling of insecurity born of the airiness of my perch. The last
thing I remember was the crimson glory of the sunset touching the huge
columns of storm-clouds which reared themselves aloft over the Grivola.
I slept soundly. Twice only did I awake; once to find the lower
portion of my anatomy dangling coquettishly over the Brouillard side
of my couch; and again, stirred from a deep slumber by my instinctive
grappling for an elusive handhold, to discover that I had transferred
my legs to the Fresnay side.
About half-past four I was aroused by Adolf, rather blue about the
gills, but cheerful as ever and obviously looking forward to a good
day’s work. He winked portentously, then, with a somewhat vacant stare,
looked out beyond me towards the plains of Italy. Following his gaze,
I soon understood. Over the Paradiso group, vast thunder-clouds still
brooded; the sky was streaked with ominous, long, dark, fish-shaped
masses, and I suddenly became aware that a wind had sprung up and was
blowing past our bivouac in angry, fitful gusts. It seemed almost as
if our climb were going to develop into a race against the approaching
storm. I returned Adolf’s confidential wink in kind as he passed me a
generous cup of hot tea--a luxury which in similar situations, as a
guideless climber, I had always had to procure for myself.
After a quickly-swallowed breakfast, all was bustle in our camp. My
boots, which I had lashed to a rock to make certain of not losing them
(horrible thought!), were easily pulled on, for, though stiff, they
were very large. By 5 a.m. everything was packed, sleeping-bags rolled
up handy for the porters, and, roping in the same order as yesterday,
we began the descent on to the Fresnay Glacier. This led down a steep
couloir over extremely rotten rocks. The danger of inadvertently
loosening stones was so great that we gave Adolf and Courtauld time to
get round a corner out of harm’s way before beginning our own descent.
Once past the uppermost portion, the slope of the couloir became more
reasonable, and we were able to work down over a rib on one side till
we reached a point a little above the head of the uppermost icefall
of the Fresnay Glacier. Our way to the upper basin of the glacier led
across a steep, ice-clad couloir followed by an ice slope which bore
palpable signs of being frequently raked by falling stones and ice.
Before we were ready to proceed, however, a stone-fall of generous
proportions clattered down into the couloir, isolated pebbles following
at odd intervals. Nothing daunted, Adolf, the neatest, fastest, and
most powerful step-cutter it has ever been my good fortune to see at
work, banged away across the danger zone in great style. The descent on
to the Fresnay Glacier occupied, in all, barely an hour. Besides the
extreme rottenness of the rock, we had met with no real difficulty and
were well satisfied with our rate of progress.
Threading our way through a maze of ice blocks, remnants of icefalls
from the huge bergschrund above, we crossed the basin, veering round
and up towards the bergschrund at a point almost immediately below
the rocks flanking the western bank of Eccles’s great couloir. The
previous evening we had decided that of the only two possible ways of
surmounting the obstacle, this was the safer. The alternative lay in
crossing the bergschrund far over towards the Pic Eccles, at the only
spot where it was more or less adequately bridged. But this would have
entailed hours of step-cutting across the stone-swept slopes above
the schrund before Eccles’s couloir could be gained. At the point of
attack a flake had become partially detached from the bergschrund,
and Adolf and Courtauld made rapid headway to the summit of the flake
which was, unfortunately, about twenty feet short of the top of the
schrund. Seeing that further operations promised to take time, we
ensconced ourselves comfortably down below, while Adolf brought his
wits to bear upon the solution of the problem of overcoming twenty feet
of practically perpendicular ice. He was half-way over the obstacle
when he encountered a bulge which threatened to come perilously near
destroying his balance. But the last ounce on the right side was
supplied by Alfred’s ice-axe, after we had hurriedly joined Courtauld
on his somewhat unstable perch. After that all was easy, at least as
far as the others were concerned, for they seemed to find no difficulty
in gaily walking up Adolf’s well-cut steps. But what with a knapsack
on my back and a camera in my coat pocket, I found more than a little
trouble in balancing myself round the bulge. This obstruction, in all
sixty feet high, having been negotiated, a steep slope, sometimes snow,
sometimes ice, intervened between us and our next objective, the rocks
on the west bank of Eccles’s couloir. We mounted quickly, for scarcely
a step needed to be cut, thanks to the plentiful pock-marks made by
falling stones. On reaching the rocks, we found them almost unclimbable
in their lower portion and were forced out towards the middle of the
couloir--a procedure which necessitated the crossing of a deep ice-clad
stone chute. Thence we climbed over a small island of rocks all but
submerged in ice, from the upper end of which we were able to traverse
back and finally gain the rocks on the west bank of the couloir, at a
point where they were broken up and obviously easy to climb. None too
soon, however, for hardly had the last man reached dry land when a
stone-fall clattered down the couloir behind us.
It was 8.30; we had been nearly three and a half hours under way and
for the best part of the time working at high pressure. On looking
up towards the Peuteret ridge and Mont Blanc de Courmayeur, it
appeared as if we had left all real difficulties behind us, and the
optimists of the party prophesied being on the summit within a couple
of hours. So, though the weather was fast becoming worse, we settled
down light-heartedly to a second breakfast. The iron ration sausage
was produced and attacked with gusto; though of the same breed, it
differed distinctly from the ordinary salami, which to me is somewhat
reminiscent of cat and dog. Whatever its constituents may have been,
it went down well, being as savoury as usual, but less salted and not
so highly spiced. We allowed ourselves half an hour’s grace, then
stowed away our climbing irons and started up the rocks. They proved
to be easy, though most unreliable. Here and there ice, covered more
often than not by bad snow, took time to negotiate, but on the whole we
made rapid progress. Shortly after ten we gained the end of the rocks;
slightly below us and to the right was the point where the snowy upper
half of the Peuteret ridge begins. A little snow slope brought us out
on the ridge itself, but not without free use of the axe. The snow was
deep and very bad; it lacked cohesion and concealed hard ice. Working
along slightly on the Brenva side of the ridge, we at first found snow
just sufficiently good to bear our weight in kicked steps, but in less
than a rope’s length it had become so bad that it had to be cleared
away before the climbing irons would bite into the ice underneath. The
spikes of my irons, fully three-quarters of an inch longer than those
worn by the others, proved their value here. By merely stamping, I
could force my foot far enough through the snow to grip the ice below.
This was one of the several occasions arising on this expedition where
the presence of an indifferent ice-climber would have proved not only
troublesome but a real danger to the safety of the party, by causing
the loss of much valuable time. After progressing in this manner for
about a hundred yards, we got tired of threshing down the execrable
snow which seemed to get worse as we gained in altitude. Within easy
reach both to the left and the right were rock ribs which offered a
less tedious means of advance. A traverse of about thirty yards across
the steep western flank of the Peuteret ridge brought us on to one of
these ribs, the rocks of which soon showed themselves to be exceedingly
rotten. Once more the climbing irons were removed and placed in our
knapsacks. Oliver, at this point, had the misfortune to lose his axe;
he placed it on a ledge, where it lost its balance and fell down in a
few stately bounds towards the Fresnay Glacier. It was while watching
the axe disappear that I realised for the first time the enormous
general steepness of the ground upon which we were climbing.
[Illustration: _The Aigulles Blanche and Noire de Peuteret._
_From a point on the Peuteret ridge about 1,200 feet below the summit
of Mont Blanc._]
[Illustration: “_A traverse of about thirty yards across the steep
western flank of the Peuteret ridge._...”
_Facing page 244._
]
It now looked as if rocks could be followed practically all the way
to the summit--a relief for which we were duly thankful, having had
quite enough of snow. There was some difference of opinion as to the
best line of ascent up these rocks; but, on the whole, there seems to
have been little in our respective choices, for Adolf and Courtauld,
whose route converged with that of our party from time to time, always
succeeded in maintaining a lead of one or more rope’s lengths. The
climbing was difficult, and throughout extreme caution was necessary,
on account of the unreliability of the rock. Occasionally, a belt
of almost vertical red rock of a fair degree of firmness would crop
up, but even this was invariably crowned with the rotten, dark brown
variety. Nevertheless, we climbed quickly, for while still six hundred
feet below Mont Blanc de Courmayeur, swirling mists practically
obliterated all view of our surroundings, and it was evident that,
if we were not soon to find ourselves in a critical situation, every
minute gained was precious. The rocks came to an end about a hundred
feet below the summit of Mont Blanc de Courmayeur, and only a slope
covered with the usual pernicious snow lay between us and safety.
Adolf, trusting more to his climbing irons and to gentle treatment of
the snow than to his ice-axe, climbed rapidly up to immediately beneath
the cornice, cut himself a good step, and with a few powerful strokes
hewed a channel through which he was speedily followed by Courtauld.
While we were putting the finishing touches to the donning of extra
clothing, in preparation for the cold weather up aloft, Adolf’s
stentorian voice shouted down a cheery “Come along!” Looking up, I
could just barely make out his well-muffled-up head framed in the notch
in the cornice. Then he disappeared.
At 1.15 p.m. we, in turn, stepped through the cornice on to Mont
Blanc de Courmayeur, to be greeted by a high and chilly wind. Adolf
and Courtauld were already out of sight, though they were certainly
not far away, for the jingling of their axes against the rocks of a
_gendarme_ close by was audible above the sound of the gale. The mist
was so thick that we could not see each other at rope’s length. Adolf’s
tracks led off along the crest of the ridge towards Mont Blanc. Having
painful memories from last year, however, of what this ridge could be
like in stormy weather, I forsook his tracks and plunged down on to
the Trélatête side, in the hopes of there finding more shelter from
the icy blast. In view of Oliver’s axeless condition this involved
step-cutting; but, on looking back after having cut about twenty steps,
I saw him coming along as nonchalantly as if he were on a London
pavement, so immediately gave up further cutting and relied upon
climbing irons alone. In this way we skirted round the bases of three
or four rocky outcrops and regained the ridge at about its lowest point
between Mont Blanc and Mont Blanc de Courmayeur.
A little farther on we found the other two, who were inclined to
mistake a small snowy hump for the summit of Mont Blanc. To avoid the
wind, we now crossed over on to the Brenva side of the ridge and,
traversing diagonally upwards, found tracks leading up from the Mur de
la Côte. These were followed to the summit where we arrived at 1.45
p.m., having been eight and three-quarter hours under way from our
bivouac.
The state of the weather precluded descending by either the Rochers or
the Dôme route, and we contented ourselves with going down directly to
Chamonix. Being the only member of the party with first-hand knowledge
of the Grands Mulets route, I was deputed to show the way. The descent
was uneventful, except for Oliver’s spraining his ankle, and for the
fact that my pigheadedness in refusing to follow the tracks brought us
out to the Pierre à l’Échelle, which route, I have since learnt, has
been recently discarded in favour of the Montagne de la Côte.
This narrative would be incomplete were it brought to a close without
expressing my admiration for the professional members of the party.
Adolf and I were not unknown to each other, for twelve years ago, on
a stormy September day, we had stood together on the summit of the
Lyskamm. Since then he has joined that select coterie of first-class
guides whose number can be counted on one’s fingers. He has climbed
Mont Blanc by nearly every conceivable route and thus knows the
mountain better than any other living guide. I need say little of his
prowess either on ice or on rock; he is first-rate on both. Last,
but not least, he is an excellent companion, ever eager to be doing,
and ready to put every ounce of energy into any problem upon which
he embarks. Alfred, who was serving only the second season of his
apprenticeship, is fast following in his brother’s footsteps. He too
will, sooner or later, become a first-class guide. Four Courmayeur
porters accompanied us up to the Col Supérieur du Fresnay. They carried
heavy loads, but through all the trying situations that arose, they
preserved their good humour and determination. Their conduct was
admirable.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Émile Rey was one of the finest of Alpine guides. He lost his life,
in 1895, through a slip while descending the easy rocks at the base of
the Aiguille du Géant.
[10] An interesting inscription, written by Signor Gruber and giving
brief details of this formidable expedition, may still be seen
pencilled on a beam in the Dôme hut, _via_ which the party returned to
Courmayeur. From the general tone of this inscription, short as it is,
can be gathered the strong impression which Mont Blanc had, on this
occasion, made upon all members of the party.
[11] In 1874 Mr. J. G. Marshall, with the guides Johann Fischer and
Ulrich Almer, fell into a crevasse on the Brouillard Glacier. The two
first-named were killed.
Professor F. M. Balfour and his guide Johann Petrus lost their lives in
1882 while attempting to repeat Signor Gruber’s ascent.
[12] Sons of Émile Rey.
[13] The original Gamba hut stood on the Fresnay side of the
Châtelet-Innominata ridge. In the winter of 1919-20, however, it was
wrecked by an avalanche, and from the débris was constructed the
present hut which stands on the ridge itself about ten minutes above
the old site, at approximately 8,300 feet.
[14] The rocky bed of a glacier sometimes becomes so steep that the ice
falls away and exposes the rock underneath. As the ice at the top of
such a rock slope partakes of the continual downward movement of the
glacier, it is continually breaking away and crashing down the rock to
the continuation of the glacier lower down. Swiss guides call such a
place “Heisse Platte,” _i.e._ “hot (or lively) slab.”
[15] Professor and Mrs. Jones and their guide Truffer were killed in
1921 while climbing the Mont Rouge de Peuteret.
CHAPTER XVII
TWO CHAMONIX AIGUILLES
North-north-east of, and near to Mont Blanc, is a compact group of bold
buttresses and ridges supporting a multitude of dark rock pinnacles
whose slender spires seem close against the sky. These are the Chamonix
Aiguilles. The conquest of the more important of these bold granite
towers was largely due to the inspiring energy and determination of the
late Mr. A. F. Mummery, one of the greatest of bygone mountaineers. For
devotees of rock-climbing pure and simple, the Aiguilles of Chamonix
are a veritable paradise, for they form one of the few mountain groups
in the Alps where the rock is so firm and reliable that one can
climb for hours on end without encountering a single loose stone or
questionable handhold.
Rock-climbing, particularly on good, sound rock, has never held any
great charm for me. I have always regarded it as but one of the
simplest, most easily learnt and less important branches of a wider
art, and, as it is met with on almost any big snow-and-ice expedition,
I have never felt disposed to go out of my way in search of it for its
own sake. It was not until the close of the summer season of 1910 that
my friend, Ph. Visser, induced me to launch out on an expedition where
rock-climbing was avowedly the main attraction.
THE REQUIN
The Dent du Requin, one of the more popular of the Chamonix Aiguilles,
is a bold, rocky tower rising to a height of over 11,200 feet from
one end of the long ridge which falls away from the Aiguille du Plan
towards the east. Early on the morning of August 29, we left the
Montanvert in two parties, the first consisting of Mr. Lugard and his
guide, Joseph Knubel, a rock-climber of great distinction hailing
from St. Nicholas in the Zermatt Valley, and the second of Visser
and myself. Following the customary route towards the Col du Géant
as far as the great icefall of the Géant Glacier, we made our way up
unpleasantly steep screes to the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, over whose
much crevassed surface we eventually gained the southern slopes of the
ridge connecting the Plan with the Requin, at a point where broken
rocks gave easy access to the crest. Six and a half hours after leaving
the Montanvert, we arrived at the point on the ridge known as the
Shoulder, and the Requin appeared in full view. I must confess to a
feeling of disappointment; it was obvious that there could not be more
than an hour’s difficult climbing. The six and a half hours’ ascent
from the Montanvert had been tiring and utterly devoid of interest in
the mountaineering sense, except for the comparatively short passage
over the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, and I failed to see how one hour’s
rock-climbing could merit such a tedious approach. Knubel, who had
already made several ascents of the peak, now went ahead with Lugard
and, climbing without difficulty, arrived at a gap in the ridge just
below the lower end of the immense and partly overhanging chimney
that cleaves the Requin almost from head to foot. At the foot of the
chimney, a steep slab falls away towards a ledge which Knubel and
Lugard gained by the use of the doubled rope. Visser and I followed,
retrieving the rope after reaching the ledge. Then, mounting a series
of short, very steep chimneys, we arrived on a broad platform.
Henceforward, working spiral-wise, we climbed to the summit. The
climbing was difficult throughout, but it was always perfectly safe.
The holds were everywhere extraordinarily reliable, and it was probably
this selfsame reliability and the fact that a party preceded us all the
time that made the Requin, as a climbing proposition, seem hopelessly
dull and monotonous. Only now and again when one’s eye travelled down
the tremendous precipices to the gloomy, shut-in basin of the d’Envers
du Blaitière Glacier, did one become conscious of one’s airy position
and feel the vivid sense of exhilaration that every real mountain climb
provides almost throughout.
[Illustration: _Chamonix Aiguilles and Mont Blanc._]
[Illustration: _Descending the Grépon._]
[Illustration: _A stiff chimney._
_Facing page 250._
]
If the ascent, however, had been weary, stale and unprofitable, the
descent was to provide me with at least one compensating thrill. With
the aid of the doubled rope, the great chimney before mentioned can be
descended, and the dreariness of going home by the same road, as it
were, avoided. Knubel and Lugard led off down the chimney, the upper
half of which is barren of outstanding difficulty. We fixed a doubled
rope, but there was no need to use it. In the middle of the chimney,
however, there is a sloping platform which was plastered with ice;
and below the platform the chimney falls away in a great overhang. We
discovered a rusty _piton_ driven into a narrow fissure in one side of
the crack, but it was very loose. So Knubel hammered away some of the
ice from the platform and laid bare a projecting stone over which he
passed the spare rope. Together we let Lugard down to the bottom of
the chimney. Then came Visser’s turn, and Knubel went next, preferring
to rely entirely on the doubled rope. Having nothing else to do for
the moment, I relaxed, and was absorbing the view when, by the merest
chance, I happened to glance down at my feet. To my horror, I saw the
rope on which Knubel was now hanging in free air slowly but surely
rolling itself off the belay. Just in time to prevent its slipping off
altogether, I trod heavily on it with my foot. Knubel, all unconscious
of how near he had been to destruction, swung gaily downwards to
the others. Then came my turn. After what I had witnessed, I felt
disinclined to trust myself to the treacherous belay. After some little
delay, during which I was much chaffed by the others, who were unaware
of the cause of my hesitation, I succeeded in jamming the rusty old
_piton_ firmly enough into its fissure to satisfy even my now somewhat
critical ideas of safety; and, passing the doubled rope through the
ring, I shinned down. The climb was over. There remained nothing but
the dreary return to the Montanvert; there had been one thrill, and
that an undesirable one and unshared by my companions. The impression
that survived was one of monotony, and I longed for all the wonderful
variety and wide appeal which makes the real mountain adventure such a
thing of joy.
THE GRÉPON
A gigantic saw set up on edge and crowned by an array of irregular
teeth--such, as seen broadside on from either the Mer de Glace or
the Nantillons Glacier, is the great serrated ridge formed by the
Charmoz and the Grépon. The deep col, or depression, which divides
the ridge approximately in half, bears the composite name of the Col
Charmoz-Grépon. Both of these peaks were climbed for the first time
by a party consisting of Mummery, Alexander Burgener, that Viking of
guides, and B. Venetz, a young fellow who must have been a very active
climber; and all three declared the ascent of the Grépon to be “the
most difficult climb in the world.” The advance which has taken place
since Mummery’s time in modern rock-climbing has robbed the Grépon of
its right to this proud title; but its ascent is still held to rank
amongst the most difficult rock-climbing problems which the climber is
able to find in the Alps or, indeed, in any other part of the world.
The ascent of the Grépon formed the last item upon our programme for
the summer of 1911. Like the Requin, the Grépon is built up of huge
blocks of marvellously firm granite, and, after my experience of the
former, I hoped for little mountaineering enjoyment from the latter.
As far as we could gather, there would be real mountaineering only on
the ascent to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, whence the actual climb starts,
and on the descent from the Col des Nantillons. Several mountaineers,
however, had assured us that rock-climbing was not only more attractive
than snow and ice work but also more difficult. So, desirous of
testing fairly the truth of this statement so far as we ourselves were
concerned, Max and I left the Montanvert at 2 a.m. on September 5,
bound for the _ne plus ultra_ of rock ascents.
If care is taken never to lose sight of it, a path, at first
well-marked but dwindling away to a diminutive track, may be followed
almost on to the Nantillons Glacier, whence the broad couloir running
down from the Col Charmoz-Grépon is reached. The head of this glacier
is enclosed in a cirque of horseshoe shape formed by the cliffs of the
Charmoz, Grépon and Blaitière. In line with the ends of the horseshoe,
the glacier tumbles over a cliff, and the icefall thus formed divides
it into an upper and lower half. We succeeded in keeping to the
Montanvert track all the way to the glacier and, while walking up the
gently inclined snow-free surface of the lower half, had ample time
to study the icefall. It was easy to recognise in a steep island of
rocks lying close under the cliffs of the Blaitière the best line of
ascent to the upper half of the glacier. Below these rocks the ice
steepened somewhat, and a few steps had to be cut before the island
was gained. Once on the rocks the traces of previous climbers were
everywhere in evidence, and we followed a trail of empty tins, bottles
and other leavings of humanity to the farther end of the island, where,
just after daybreak, we roped and embarked upon the glacier. We had
proceeded only a few yards, when we were suddenly brought up short on
the edge of an enormous crevasse which stretched away, unbridged, on
either hand to the bounding cliffs of the cirque. To cross would have
involved hours of hard work and step-cutting, but for the fact that
two ladders tied together and laid across the chasm at its narrowest
point were still in a sufficiently serviceable condition to enable us
to gain the farther edge without trouble. Thence, hastening through a
short zone endangered by the séracs of an ice wall at the foot of the
Blaitière, we gained the middle of the upper basin of the Nantillons
Glacier and proceeded leisurely up the hard-frozen snow to the foot of
the couloir which gives access to the Col Charmoz-Grépon.
The summer having been exceptionally dry and fine, the mountain was
practically free from snow and ice, so we left one of our axes and a
knapsack containing all superfluous baggage at the foot of the couloir,
to be recovered on the descent. In the remaining knapsack we carried
spare clothing, a spare one-hundred-and-fifty-foot rope and a few
provisions, including a can of peaches and a tin of condensed milk
reserved for the summit feast. Camera and spare films were stowed away,
as usual, in my coat pocket. Some little difficulty was experienced
in effecting a lodgment in the rocky bed of the couloir, the glacier
having shrunk away from the rock to such an extent that a rather deep
cleft had been formed. The descent into the cleft was easy enough, but
it was only after a sharp, if short, struggle up a very steep chimney
with unreliable holds on the upper side of the cleft that the broken
rocks of the couloir were gained. Here the climbing was perfectly easy,
though the rock was far from firm, and care was necessary. We climbed
close together on a short rope on account of the many loose rocks,
some of which needed only a touch to start them crashing down to the
glacier. Without meeting with any real obstacle, we mounted rapidly,
keeping for the most part well to the left of the couloir which bore
unmistakable signs of stone-falls. At the point where the couloir
bifurcates, we took the branch to the right. It was much steeper and
narrower than the lower part of the couloir and was partially filled
with ice, but the remains of steps were still fairly well preserved and
needed but little re-cutting. Shortly before 7 a.m. we gained the Col
Charmoz-Grépon. On a little level ledge overlooking the immense and
tremendously steep precipice falling away towards the Mer de Glace,
we found shelter from the icy morning breeze and, warmed by the rays
of the sun, settled down to our first rest and meal since leaving
the Montanvert. Progress had been on the whole leisurely. The climb
had provided mountaineering of the ordinary, everyday kind without
notable difficulty, though, had it not been for the ladders, the large
crevasse would undoubtedly have provided hard work. But it had been
real mountaineering with all its essential variety, now rock, now ice,
now snow; everything had been taken as it came, and, in addition, we
had been almost throughout in, to us, an unknown region of wild and
beautiful scenery. But now from the col onwards, if the information of
others could be relied upon, we should for hours on end be indulging
in nothing more than a strenuous form of gymnastics.
[Illustration: _A sérac._]
[Illustration: “_Two ladders tied together and laid across the
chasm...._”
_Facing page 254._
]
For one whole delightful hour we dallied, basking in the warm sun;
then, deeming it time to begin acrobatic operations, we returned to
the col to have a good look at the famous Mummery crack with which the
climb commences, and which is held to be the most difficult portion
of the ascent. The crack lies on the Nantillons side of the ridge and
is formed by a huge flake of rock which has become partially detached
from the main mass of the mountain. It is about seventy feet high
and almost vertical; indeed, in its lower part it appears even to
overhang slightly. A spacious enough platform at the bottom provides
a good jumping-off place. Leaving my camera and all other impedimenta
behind in the col, I gained the platform and immediately set to work,
while Max, perched on a slender, leaning spire jutting out of the
col, belayed the rope. The crack was sufficiently deep to permit me
to get my right arm into it beyond the elbow, and, though narrow, it
was sufficiently wide to admit my right foot. Left arm and foot sought
and found hold, though minute, on the rough crystalline texture of the
outside surface of the flake. By twisting my right arm or turning my
right boot, either could be wedged firmly into the fissure at will,
and an absolutely reliable hold obtained. By adopting a method of
progression similar to that of a caterpillar, that is, alternately
bending and straightening myself, I rose quickly, passed beyond the
lower overhanging portion, and about half-way up gained a small ledge
on the flake which provided good standing room for the left foot. Thus
far the climbing had been more a question of knack than a trial of
strength, and I looked up at the second half of the crack expecting to
see some hitherto hidden feature that would give serious trouble. If
anything, however, it seemed easier than the part already overcome.
Here and there a stone jammed tightly into the fissure promised perfect
handhold. I rested for a few seconds, then resumed the attack. A little
way above the ledge, both surfaces of the flake became very smooth, and
for the first time I had to struggle really hard; but soon my right
hand gripped the first of the chock-stones, and the remainder of the
crack to within six feet of its top was easily negotiated. The final
wall to the right was studded with plentiful handholds and soon I was
standing on the crowning platform. The ascent of Mummery’s crack had
taken me just over two and three-quarter minutes. While I held his
rope, Max, with ice-axe and knapsack, now climbed over to the ledge at
the foot of the crack. There he unroped and tied on the baggage, which
I then hauled up to my perch. As soon as it was safely stowed away,
I flung the end of the rope back to Max, whose turn had now come. He
clambered up at an amazing pace without even pausing to rest at the
half-way ledge, and was soon beside me on the broad platform, panting
out a scathing criticism on those who dared to compare gymnastics on
rock with the varied difficulties of snow and ice work.
From here onwards the climbing, though almost throughout difficult,
never came up to the standard of that of the crack. Sometimes we
climbed on one side of the ridge, sometimes on the other, and at
times on the crest itself. Belays were in evidence everywhere, and
the rock was uniformly good. Never did we meet with a single loose or
unreliable hand- or foothold. After passing the bold pinnacle which is
the northern summit of the aiguille, we arrived on the great platform
which breaks away in the precipitous, unclimbable wall, called the
Grand Diable, leading down to a deep gap in the ridge. Thanks to
our plentiful supply of rope, this obstacle was easily overcome by
resorting to the time-honoured dodge of roping down. From the gap, a
level ledge known as the Route des Bicyclettes winds along the Mer
de Glace face and enables one to circumvent the ensuing be-pinnacled
portion of the ridge. After some further scrambling we stood at the
foot of the final summit pinnacle. This, a great square-cut tower,
capped by a huge, flat stone and seamed by a formidable-looking cleft,
had been in full view before us ever since passing the northern summit,
and we had already jumped to the conclusion that the way to the top led
up this cleft. As the description of the summit crack given to us, a
few days before, tallied more or less with the fearsome-looking thing
to our left, we decided to disregard an obviously easy ledge running
round to the Nantillons face. It is true that we had been told that
the summit crack was much easier than Mummery’s, and we failed to see
anything easy in the crack before us; also, as it hung right out over
the terrific precipices running down to the Mer de Glace, one would be
in a frightfully exposed position while climbing it. But appearances
are never so deceptive as in the mountains, so I buttoned up my coat,
made sure that the knot fastening the rope about my waist was well
tied and started off. Max had good standing ground and could belay my
rope securely. Once in the crack, the work began in earnest; a very
real earnest indeed, as subsequent events proved. It was wider than
Mummery’s crack, but not wide enough to allow me to get right inside
it; with my left arm and shoulder and leg inside whilst right hand and
boot scraped outside in search of hold, I slowly struggled and fought
my way up. It was most exhausting work. Just below the summit I had to
turn round and get my right shoulder and leg into the crack, and left
leg and arm out; a change of position that was accomplished only after
an almost desperate struggle which robbed me of breath and sapped my
strength to such an extent that, when it came to swinging myself up
over the flat, overhanging summit stone, I found myself unequal to the
effort. I was powerless alike to retreat or advance. Max, however, who
had never for a moment relaxed his attention to my movements, had noted
my dilemma and, with a warning shout that he was coming, hastened to my
assistance, armed with knapsack and ice-axe. With my left hand and my
teeth I took in his rope as he climbed upwards. When his head was just
below my feet, he stopped and jammed himself firmly into the fissure.
With his head as a foothold and a prod from the axe, I received the
extra ounce of steadying support that enabled me to complete the ascent
and haul myself up to the safety of the flat table-like stone that is
the distinguishing feature of the summit of the Grépon. As fast as my
breathless state would permit, I pulled in the rope until it was taut
between us; and a few minutes later, just before midday, Max was seated
by my side.
We were both rather puzzled and not a little humbled. The fierce
tussle which the last crack had demanded, had provided something of a
shock. If this were the sort of thing that most climbers of the Grépon
called by no means excessively difficult and certainly easier than
Mummery’s crack, then it would have to be admitted that rock-climbing
had, indeed, its points, and that we were sadly in need of practice.
A little later, however, the mystery was solved. Going over to the
Nantillons side of the summit platform, with a view to glancing at
the way down to the Col des Nantillons, I discovered a perfectly
straightforward crack of no great length which ended on the easy ledge
that we had previously neglected to explore. There could be no doubt
that we had taken the wrong way up the final summit pinnacle. Several
months later, I learnt that this formidable crack was the famous Venetz
crack, climbed but once before, and that in 1881, on the occasion of
the first ascent of the mountain. To this day the only other ascent
recorded was made in 1923 by a party led by Mr. G. S. Bower. That no
more than three ascents have been made in the course of thirty-two
years is testimony enough to what this crack offers.
[Illustration: _The summit of the Grépon._
_The Venetz crack is the dark cleft which ends under the flat stone on
the summit._
_Facing page 258._
]
Returning to Max, I imparted the reassuring news, but to heedless ears,
for he proved far more interested in plying the usual inefficient
pocket-knife edition of a tin-opener in an attempt to lay bare the
luscious contents of a two-pound tin of Californian peaches. His
efforts were too vigorous and determined for any tin to withstand for
long, and we were soon enjoying a feast of peaches and Nestlé’s milk.
The only thing lacking was snow which was sorely needed, not only to
dilute the somewhat concentrated ingredients of our meal, but also to
assuage the thirst that assailed us. After lunch, following our usual
custom where time was of no vital importance, we settled down to sleep,
not omitting, however, to secure the rope to the summit stone as a
guard against the dangers of rolling out of bed. We found out later
that these simple actions had been assiduously watched from Chamonix
and gravely misconstrued by the many telescope owners who, while making
petty fortunes, had been explaining to their clientèle of trippers that
we were two mad young Englishmen who would certainly come to grief
because we had with us no stalwart guides to ensure our safety. Now,
on lying down to sleep, we suddenly disappeared from their view, and
the rumour at once went round that we had fallen off the summit! Two
hours passed by without our reappearing, and the rumour had deepened
into conviction; even one of our friends in Chamonix had begun to have
fears for our safety. At 3 p.m. we awoke and began to prepare for the
descent. This sudden resurrection put an end to the supposed tragedy,
but henceforward we were not only _fous_ but _absolument fous_, for no
self-respecting Chamoniard has any use for a mountain-top except to
leave it as soon as is decently possible after gaining it. Personally
I love to dally in such places as long as is compatible with safety.
Memories of hours spent stretched out in half-somnolent ease on the
great sun-kissed slabs of summits, in splendid isolation, with the
blue vault of heaven above and the brown-green earth spread out below,
are treasure beyond price, eternally one’s own and never to be lost,
inviolate to the onslaughts of the getting, grabbing world.
The descent on the Nantillons side of the summit was effected without
difficulty, and landed us out on the previously neglected ledge close
to a collection of rope slings indicative of the beginning of the
next pitch. This proved to be a chimney some eighty feet long and
seemingly quite unclimbable, at all events in its upper portion; the
doubled rope, however, solved the problem as effectively as usual, and
we found ourselves on a little platform at the top of an apparently
almost unbroken series of huge precipitous slabs falling away to the
Nantillons Glacier. To descend without an enormous amount of spare
rope seemed out of the question, but, as the edge of the platform on
which we stood was garnished with the bleached remains of two rope
slings, we concluded that it was the usual way down. So Max held my
rope and let me over the precipice. I descended quite a hundred feet,
but no feasible way out revealed itself, and I had to go back. The
return cost us both a stern effort, Max pulling in the rope while I
lent him as much assistance as possible by making what use I could of
the few available holds. Casting round for a way out of the _impasse_,
we chanced upon a boot nail in the bed of a steep but short chimney
leading up in the direction of the ridge. We immediately followed up
this timely clue and gained the top of the chimney, to find, a few
steps farther on, a simple and straightforward line of descent open out
before us. The way led frequently over steep ground, but everywhere
there was a profusion of holds and belays, and the rock still remained
as firm and reliable as cast iron. At half-past four, the Col des
Nantillons was under foot, and the acrobatic part of the day’s work was
over. One could not help feeling that a baboon would have acquitted
himself throughout with much more distinction than any of his human
brothers.
The remainder of the descent was accomplished without incident.
The crevasses near the head of the Nantillons Glacier were readily
negotiated, thanks to reliable snow bridges that obligingly provided a
crossing at the very places one would have chosen oneself. Passing by
the foot of the couloir leading to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, we picked
up the axe and knapsack left there in the morning and then, swinging
round to the left, hurried across the sérac-swept slopes to the great
crevasse. The ladder was still in position, and soon we were on the
little rock island, where the rope was taken off and stowed away.
We had originally intended to make Chamonix that evening; but to do
that now would entail hurry. It was our last day of a wonderful season
of health and happiness-giving adventure in the Alps, and we were loth
to leave the scene. To hasten from the midst of these great towers of
silence and the white purity of the snows they nurse was impossible.
So we decided to pass the night at the Montanvert. Eager to retard
the flight of our little season of freedom, we strolled downwards
with lagging steps, pausing at whiles to drink in the glories of the
mountains as the shades of night closed in upon them.
That evening, after dinner, we sat together, somewhat heavy-hearted, on
the hôtel terrace overlooking the Mer de Glace. The Grandes Jorasses
and the Rôchefort ridge were dimly outlined against the starry heaven.
The Charmoz and the Dru, dark, ghostly pillars almost piercing the
skies, stood, as if on guard, at the portals of that great world of
snow and ice-bound rock where we had found true happiness, and to which
we were now to bid farewell for a space.
* * * * *
It may be instructive to consider in how far a training in British
rock-climbing will help or hinder the aspirant to high adventure in the
Alps or any of the world’s greater mountain masses. To the uninitiated,
mountaineering is the dangerous, foolhardy, yet withal praiseworthy
sport of the superman, heroic of physique and nerve, who gaily struts
along the brinks of, or nonchalantly hangs over, awesome precipices
and, disregarding all moral obligations, continually and with careless
smile fences with death. In short, the untutored idea superficially
conceives of a mountain as a thing of dark, frowning, rocky glories--a
natural stage on which a superior type of acrobat displays his muscular
agility. And so the term “mountaineer” loses its dignity and becomes
synonymous with that of “rock-climber.” But the “white domes of frozen
air” exist outside the poetic imagination, and mountaineering is not
a simple but a complex science, and the proficient mountaineer is not
only a rock-climber, but a snow-and-ice craftsman, an adept in the
use of rope and axe, a pathfinder, something of a meteorologist, an
organiser and, no less important, must have acquired the knowledge
of how to conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance
and cultivate the proper mentality. To what extent can the various
attributes of the composite being that is the true mountaineer be
fostered amongst the crags and fells of the British Isles?
From the geological point of view, the rocks of the Alps may be divided
into two classes, namely silicious rock and calcareous rock. The
mountaineer will further subdivide these two classes into good, bad
or indifferent; thus, in all, the climber in the Alps meets with six
different types of rock. These might be multiplied according to degree,
but for our present purpose such meticulous treatment is needless. As
a general rule, the rock-climber in the British Isles encounters only
the good silicious class of rock. Other classes are to be met with,
but a glance at the list of the more popular and outstanding climbs,
such as those on Kern Knotts, the Pillar Rock, and Lliwedd, would seem
to show that they are more or less avoided. In time, this one-sided
training inculcates bad habits of which the climber does not even know
himself guilty. Of the many types of rock met with in the Alps, the
good silicious brand is the most rare; so that there the knowledge of
the one form and the inexperience of the other forms of rock are likely
to prove quite inadequate, indeed even dangerous, assets. A school that
teaches one to master only the safe is no sufficient school for the
would-be mountaineer, and the British-trained climber will soon find
that he has much to learn of rock-climbing in the Alps.
Again, stone avalanches are unknown in Britain. The only stones that
fall there do so through human agency--the clumsy placing of a foot or
hand, the careless use of the rope--and not through the working of
the natural forces of sun and frost. When and where stone-falls may be
expected to occur is part of the mountain lore that a mountaineer must
acquire, and it will not be acquired, at first-hand at least, on the
Cumbrian or Welsh hills.
It is often reiterated that Great Britain provides climbs of a higher
standard than do the Alps. Disregarding the obvious limitations of the
former (not least of these being that in Great Britain almost all the
difficult climbs are ascents, and difficult descents are neglected),
and the fact that they are, as it were, at the back door of one’s
hotel, whereas the latter are approached only after hours of hard and
fatiguing preliminary work which robs one’s strength of its edge, I
should like to make a few simple comparisons from my own experiences.
One morning in July, 1913, I climbed Kern Knotts crack twice, first
without the rope and alone, then roped and as leader. The niche was
gained by the crack below; the useful chock-stone above the niche was
missing. No shoulder was used. During the afternoon I climbed the
Eagle’s Nest ridge which still ranks, I believe, as one of the most
difficult of British rock ascents. On this climb I trailed behind me a
hundred-foot length of half-inch diameter rope, one end of which was
tied round my waist. Nailed boots were worn on all three climbs. I
came to the conclusion that Kern Knotts crack is shorter, less steep,
requires less skill and knack, and is altogether considerably less
difficult than the famous Mummery crack on the Grépon. It will not for
one moment bear comparison with the Venetz crack on the same peak. The
Eagle’s Nest ridge, though very difficult, is undoubtedly less trying
than the first buttress on the west ridge of the Bifertenstock.
[Illustration:
_Photo A. I. I. Finch._
_Good, sound rock._
_Facing page 264._
]
What are the opportunities in Great Britain for training in snow
and ice-craft? I have met with only five different kinds of snow in
the hills of these islands; and all were good from the mountaineer’s
point of view. The snow was either cohesive or could be made to cohere.
In the Alps I have taken notes of some of the characteristic features
and properties of very many distinct types of snow, the majority of
which called for the exercise of special caution in venturing upon the
slopes on which they lay. Ice is rarely met with in Great Britain,
and then never in sufficient quantity to necessitate the cutting, at
the outside, of more than a few steps--poor practice indeed for the
pitiless ice slopes of the east face of Monte Rosa. Avalanches and
snow-shields are unknown here; in the Alps, especially in winter, and
in the Himalayas at all times, one must be on one’s guard against such
dangers. Ignorance in this respect has been the cause of some of the
most deplorable of mountaineering accidents. Glaciers and crevasses are
non-existent in Britain. In fine, as a training ground for snow and
ice-craft, our homeland hills are useless. To assert what one does not
know is a fairly universal human failing; and there are some British
rock-climbers who contend that snow and ice-craft is no more difficult
than rock-climbing. In reality there is not one of the big snow and
ice expeditions of the Alps that does not represent a far more serious
undertaking, physically and mentally, than the Grépon, Requin or any
other of the better known “crack” rock-climbs. Not only does British
rock-climbing fail to provide the beginner with practice in the use of
the axe for sounding, step-cutting and belaying, but it also fails to
teach him what is almost equally important--how to handle and carry
the axe when it is not actually required. On ninety-nine out of every
hundred scrambles at home the axe is left behind altogether.
Moreover, in the use of the rope, non-Alpine and Alpine practices
vary greatly. Owing to the shortness of climbs in Great Britain, time
is immaterial. Parties move one man at a time. The leader climbs on
ahead, free from the encumbrances of axe and knapsack, until he finds
a suitable belay. The second man follows, likewise unencumbered, as
the leader takes in the rope. The last man sometimes carries a light
knapsack, though I myself have never seen it done, nor do the numerous
pictures of British rock-climbing now before me show any trace of
such impedimenta. Time is too valuable in the Alps to permit of such
tactics except where the difficulties are considerable. In the case of
almost any Alpine expedition, for more than half the time the members
of a party are moving all together; and to be proficient in the use
of the rope means that one must be able not only to move without its
continually getting in the way, but also to look after it and keep
it taut, so as to check a slip immediately, while actually climbing.
Practice in this is necessarily limited in Great Britain. Hence it is
no uncommon sight to see a party of British-trained rock-climbers on an
easy Swiss rock peak, with the rope in loose, untidy coils, catching in
jutting out rocks, dragging about loose stones and generally acting as
a menace to safety. This abuse of the rope is, paradoxically enough,
the outcome of the undeniable virtues of sure-footedness and steadiness
that have been learned on the British crags. The fault does not lie in
the climbers’ incapacity to keep the rope taut, but merely in that,
trusting to their steadiness, they do not bother to do so. I have
observed that many of those who err in the handling of the rope are as
sure-footed as cats.
Route-finding in the Alps, and still more so in the other great
mountain groups of the world, is a matter of prime importance.
Before embarking on an expedition in the Alps, the climber first
makes his choice of mountain, and then, according to the degree of
difficulty desired, chooses the face or ridge by which to gain the
summit. This done, he brings all his knowledge of route-finding to
bear upon the selection of the easiest and safest way up that face
or ridge. Difficulties are avoided as much as possible. The adoption
of bull-at-a-gate methods will lead to much loss of time; and time,
of little consequence in England, is a factor to be reckoned with
seriously in the Alps. Owing to the limited nature of climbs at
home, the reverse practice is adopted. One is taught to look for
difficulties, instead of avoiding them and seeking the line of least
resistance; and the habit thus engrained is apt to persist when
the British-trained rock-climber looks for adventure abroad. The
corollaries are numerous. Those that most concern our purpose are
that he learns on British crags only to a very limited degree how to
conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance or cultivate the
proper mentality. All these things are acquired only in a school of
hardships under physical and climatic conditions that are foreign to
our islands.
Once one accepts the fact that the difference between a mountain and
a crag is not only one of scale, it will be readily acknowledged
that he who disports himself on the latter has much to learn and,
possibly, something to unlearn before he can become a mountaineer in
the full sense of the word. How many of those who have begun their
climbing in Great Britain have accomplished anything of note in real
mountaineering? Rock-climbing is too liable to strangle any innate
aptitude for mountaineering proper, and to restrict achievement in the
wider craft to a level of dull mediocrity.
For those whose ambitions do not soar beyond home, the crags and fells
are a pleasurable playing ground where they may scramble to their
hearts’ content; to those who have well served their apprenticeship in
the wider and loftier playground of the Alps, the homeland hills will
provide useful muscular exercise and plenty of healthy fun; but for
the beginner who aims at being a true mountaineer, the only safe place
within easy reach to learn the craft is the Alps.
* * * * *
On the morning after our ascent of the Grépon, while waiting for the
Chamonix train, Max and I were comparing with the reality M. Vallot’s
well-known, panoramic sketch on the stone in front of the Montanvert.
The first batch of the day’s sightseers had arrived, among them a tall,
faultlessly garbed young lady, who approached and addressed us.
“Say, are you mountaineers?”--evidently having come to the conclusion
at the sight of our heavy hobnailed boots and rather tattered clothes.
“Well--yes,” replied my brother. “At least, we have been doing some
climbing.”
Pointing to the Géant, she inquired:
“Have you climbed that mountain?”
“Yes!”
“And those?” indicating in turn each of the summits of the Rôchefort
ridge.
“Yes.”
Finally, with outstretched finger towards the Dru and a note of
challenge in her voice: “And that one?”
“Yes,” answered Max; adding, “we climbed it a few days ago.”
Stepping a pace or two backwards, the tall, young lady very slowly, but
distinctly, closed the conversation.
“Well, I guess I always knew you English were some story-tellers!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
After our border-line crossing of Mont Blanc, Max and I arrived at
the Col du Géant on the evening of August 31, 1911. There we met a
German climber armed with a letter of introduction from Martini, who
had climbed the Zmutt ridge with us earlier in the season. As our new
acquaintance considered ice-climbing to be a vicious and unpleasant
way of indulging in the delights of the mountains, a traverse of
the Dru was decided upon, in preference to the joys of step-cutting
on the slippery slopes of the north face of the Verte. Accordingly,
after sunrise on the following morning, we set out across the Géant
Glacier towards the Montanvert. Max and I still felt the effects of
our recent activities and were consequently inclined to take things
rather easily. Before arriving at the top of the icefall, however,
our friend’s protests against the slowness of the pace began to take
effect and stung us into something that was very much the reverse of
our previous lethargy, with the result that we worried a way through
the broken icefall with quite a useful turn of speed. Well before
arriving in the thick of the séracs, a puzzled and rather concerned
expression had taken the place of the patronising though kindly smile
with which our companion had blessed the previous labours of his two
young associates. A little later, he fell a victim to the fact that the
size of an ice-step is inversely proportional to the velocity of the
party, and he lost his footing. The rope, however, sufficed to palliate
the effects of the slip, but was quite unequal to the task of stemming
the torrent of guttural language which condemned as reckless the speed
which, after all, merely resulted from the granting of a request! After
discarding the rope on the gentle slopes of the Mer de Glace, a normal
rate of progress was once more reverted to, and, long ere arriving at
the Montanvert, we had all recovered our equanimity.
In the afternoon we left the Montanvert, with three days’ provisions
and two one-hundred-foot ropes. Max and I, as usual, carried heavy
knapsacks and consequently found the struggle with the moraines leading
up towards the Charpoua hut both difficult and unpleasant. Our friend,
however, bounded on far ahead with the agility of a two-year-old.
We were pleasantly surprised to find that the hut was not in the dirty
condition so characteristic of the majority of the club-huts in the
Mont Blanc district, and that it also contained most of those little
things which go so far towards making life pleasant after a harrowing
and steep climb in the heat of the afternoon.
At 4 a.m. next morning we left the hut, taking with us, in addition
to our own two hundred feet of rope, an eighty-foot length belonging
to the hut and kept there expressly for the use of climbers bound for
the Dru, a stake of wood, and only two ice-axes. At 6 a.m., after
having been held up by a rather lengthy bout of step-cutting across
the head of the Charpoua Glacier, we gained the lower lip of the final
bergschrund. This proved to be an extremely difficult customer to deal
with, for the upper lip at its lowest point could only be surmounted
by cutting up an exceedingly steep ice wall of about thirty feet in
height. After the first fifteen feet, only one hand could be used for
cutting, and the work became so severe that a rest was necessary after
practically each step. Max and I took turns at the work, each doing
a step whilst the other retired to the level floor of the schrund to
rest and infuse fresh life into half-frozen fingers. At eight o’clock
we gained the upper lip, but, deciding that too much time had been lost
for us to be able to complete the climb that day without running the
risk of a night out, we drove the wooden stake into the snow and, tying
a doubled one-hundred-foot length of rope to it, retreated down the ice
wall and joined our companion, whom we acquainted with our decision to
retreat, then and there, to the hut.
[Illustration: _The bergschrund below the Dru._
“This proved to be an extremely difficult customer....”
_Facing page 270._
]
No time was lost in preparing for the descent, as there was every
evidence of the head of the Charpoua Glacier being much exposed to
falling stones. My desire that Max, armed with an axe, should bring
up the rear of the party was waived in deference to the wishes of
our companion who assured us that he could hold both of us should
occasion arise. The small, hastily-hewn steps of the morning had become
partially effaced by the sun, and a considerable amount of work was
required to renew them sufficiently well to afford secure footing. Max
followed me, but after a few steps felt so insecure without an axe that
he turned round and warned the last man on the rope to be prepared for
a slip at any moment. Just as I was engaged in cutting a very large and
deep step which would serve as a belay, I heard a shout from behind
and, instinctively guessing that a slip had occurred, quickly braced
myself as firmly as possible against the slope, with the pick end of
my axe pressed well home against the ice. The jerk came, but it was
only a mild one, and the strain was easily withstood. Thinking that
the trouble had now been averted, I was about to look round, when a
second and savage tug came which almost dragged me out of my steps.
This is what had happened: Whilst I was engaged in cutting the large
step, our companion had left the firm footing provided by the level
floor of the bergschrund to make his way down towards Max. Max had then
slipped, and the other had not only failed to hold him but was in his
turn pulled out of his steps. The first pull on the rope was due to the
checking of Max’s slip; the second, and far worse jerk was caused by
our companion’s slip down the steep, icy slope for a distance of nearly
a hundred feet before being held up by the rope. Incidentally, he also
lost his grip upon his axe; fortunately, it slid down towards Max, who
had the presence of mind to seize it. Thanks to this useful effort, the
return of the errant members of the party to their steps was speedily
effected. At half-past nine we were back at the hut and spent the
remainder of the day in a series of repasts and sun baths on the great,
rough, warm slabs near by.
Towards sunset a French climber and two agreeable Chamonix guides
arrived. Their intention was to traverse the Dru, starting with the
little Dru first. The leading guide was inclined to be anxious about
the condition of the bergschrund, but was quite relieved on hearing
that we had left a stake embedded in the upper lip, which would enable
them to rope down over the hindrance without difficulty. We also came
to an agreement whereby axes were exchanged, they undertaking to leave
our axes at the foot of the rocks of the little Dru, and we to leave
theirs at the bergschrund on the way up to the big Dru. Thanks to this
excellent arrangement, we were able to carry out this long rock climb
without being encumbered by axes.
[Illustration:
_Photo T. G. B. Forster._
_Where next?_
_Facing page 272._
]
On September 3, 1911, at 4 a.m., we roped and left the hut. I led,
carrying a spare eighty-foot rope; Max followed, and our companion
brought up the rear, Max and I both being firm believers in what is
still often considered to be a heresy, namely, that on climbs of
this sort the “unknown” element of the party should always be the
last on the ascent, on the principle that it is easier for the dog to
wag the tail than _vice versa_. Shortly after 5.30 a.m. the upper lip
of the bergschrund was tackled and easily ascended by means of our
fixed rope. While the process of cutting steps up the short, steep,
final slope towards the rocks was going on, Max coiled up this rope
and strapped it on to his knapsack. This brought the sum total of the
party’s available rope up to two hundred and eighty feet. On arriving
at the top of the slope, the problem confronted us as to how to gain a
footing on the rocks, for a deep, unbridged chasm separated the snow
from the latter. Finally, I was let down about twenty-five feet into
the cavernous depths below, and by a pendulum process was able to
swing across and obtain a somewhat precarious footing on the smooth
rock. Climbing with no little difficulty up the ice-worn slabs until
about thirty feet above the others, I found secure standing ground
on a spacious platform. The others did not trouble to repeat these
roundabout tactics, but swung straight across on the rope held by me
and soon joined me on my perch. A few yards more of rather difficult
climbing led to steep, but broken and easy rocks, over which rapid
progress was made. Near by on the left, was the somewhat slabby couloir
which leads down from the col situated immediately to the north of the
Dru. None of the party had anything more than a very vague idea of the
best route to be followed, beyond believing that it was unnecessary
actually to reach this col before traversing to the left on to the
rocks of the peak proper. We kept, therefore, a sharp look-out for the
first possibility of crossing the couloir and taking to the rocks on
the other side.
About two hundred feet below the col such an opportunity presented
itself. We climbed across the couloir without much difficulty, and
gained a narrow ledge leading round under an overhanging buttress
towards the foot of a steep slab. The appearance of the latter
was sufficiently forbidding to cause one to hesitate and wonder
whether this could be, after all, the right way; but, as any further
prospecting would have entailed loss of time, we decided to carry on
in the hope that things might improve higher up. As a matter of fact,
although it was not until almost a hundred feet of rope had been run
out that safe standing ground was found, the ascent of the slab was
by no means very difficult, even if somewhat sensational. Thence easy
scrambling led to a broad and well-defined ledge, which seemed to
run without break from the col to a point almost directly under the
summit of the Dru. We followed this ledge without meeting with any set
back. At one point it is interrupted by a deep cleft where we found a
frayed rope, by means of which one could swing from one side to the
other. This is evidently the spot known as “La Pendule.” The cleft
can be crossed without overwhelming difficulty in several places by
the ordinary methods of climbing, but there is no doubt that swinging
across by means of the fixed rope does save time. The process, also,
is quite an amusing one. At a short distance beyond “La Pendule” the
ledge narrowed down, but at the same time the rocks towering above on
our right became more and more broken and were furrowed by a series
of chimneys leading in the direction of the summit ridge. Bearing up
to the right, we came across an old wooden ladder, possibly a relic
of Dent’s first ascent. Soon afterwards, on doubling back a few yards
in the direction of the col, we arrived at the foot of a long and
wicked-looking chimney, several steps of which appeared to overhang.
A closer acquaintance with this obstacle, however, was reassuring.
The chimney was long, and did overhang, but there was such a profusion
of holds in the warm, firm rock that the ascent almost resembled
the scaling of a ladder. Above the chimney, an easy scramble over
huge, rough boulders and broken rocks led on to the ridge. On being
rejoined by Max, I unroped and walked up over the ridge towards the two
enormous rocky teeth which form the summit of the big Dru. An attempt
to gain the summit of the higher tooth from the north failed, but, by
traversing slightly downwards to the left, I reached the foot of a
short gully leading up into the gap between the teeth. A few steps from
this gap placed me on the summit at 10 a.m. The others soon joined me
and ensconced themselves on the lower tooth, more room being available
there than on my perch.
[Illustration: “_La Pendule._”
“... one could swing from one side to the other.”]
[Illustration: “... _A rather steep ice slope--the Mur de la Côte_”
(_p. 222_).
_Facing page 274._
]
The day was cloudless, and there was not a breath of wind. The view
towards the northern slopes of the Aiguille sans Nom was striking. As
if in warning and for our edification, a huge avalanche fell down these
precipices whilst we were scanning them for a possible line of ascent.
The actual summit rest was cut somewhat short owing to the cramped
nature of the seating accommodation; but, on the almost level plateau
from which the cliffs sweep down into the gap between the big and the
little Dru, we discovered almost sufficient room for the laying out of
a tennis court. After an unusually excellent, mountaineering apology
for lunch, I set out to prospect for the best line of descent into
the gap. At one point, almost directly in line with the two summits
of the mountain and on the extreme edge of the plateau, there were a
number of fixed coils of rope hanging round a jutting out rock; but on
leaning as far forward over the precipice as was possible, it seemed
to me extremely doubtful whether we had enough rope to enable us to
descend in safety at this point. Had Max and I been alone, we should
doubtless have slid down the doubled rope without more ado; with a new
companion, however, we had serious doubts as to the prudence of this
method of procedure. It behoved me, therefore, to cast farther around
for an alternative route where the individual roping down distances
were not so great. We had heard vague rumours of the existence of a
so-called “Z” route, but had no notion as to where to look for it.
Prospecting in the direction of the Grandes Jorasses revealed nothing
useful, and I turned my attention to that corner of the plateau from
which the northern precipices of the mountain fall away. Here, a short,
partially ice-clad gully revealed itself. Faint traces of steps were
still clearly visible in the ice, and a conveniently-placed boulder
had a new and serviceable looking sling fastened round it. Not quite
satisfied that this was the beginning pitch of the sought-for “Z”
route, I went back to fetch a rope and to enlist Max’s help in making
a more intimate exploration of the chimney and its hidden secrets.
Securely held by Max, I descended the gully for about fifty feet, and
was then able, just before the gully faded away into thin air above one
of the most appalling precipices I have ever looked down, to step over
on to a small platform situated directly under a huge, overhanging nose
of rock. Crossing this platform in a couple of steps, a clear view of
the rocks leading down into the gap presented itself, and showed that
one, or at most two, comparatively short descents on the doubled rope
would solve any remaining difficulties.
Returning to the foot of the gully, I yelled up the good news to Max,
who went off to fetch our friend and the knapsacks. After sending down
the latter to be stowed away on the platform, Max fixed a doubled rope
to serve as an extra support for our friend’s descent of the chimney.
Securely held by Max’s sturdy grip, and with a little judicious
pulling from below, he was soon down. Max followed, giving a perfect
exhibition of how this sort of thing should be done, and was on the
platform and pulling in the doubled rope almost before our comrade had
realised that he was on terra firma. Twice again we repeated these
roping down tactics over a series of steep slabs, which, however,
could have been descended by ordinary methods of climbing without too
much difficulty. After the last use of the doubled rope, I went on
with a view to saving time by seeking out the rest of the descent into
the gap. This lower part of the wall was easily negotiated by means
of a series of well-defined ledges leading to a final short chimney
immediately above the gap. After passing up this information to Max, I
walked over the broad ridge built up of huge blocks of granite, towards
the summit of the little Dru, and arrived there at 12.30 p.m., just as
the party with whom we had exchanged axes earlier on in the morning
were leaving for the big Dru. After carefully shepherding our companion
down the last chimney above the gap, Max grew tired of slow and careful
methods and completed the descent in great style by a bold glissade
which landed him on all fours in a tangle of rope on the broad back of
the gap--much to our concern, who mistook his voluntarily rapid descent
for the result of a slip. A few minutes later we were reunited on the
spacious and flat summit of the little Dru.
The view I suppose must have been glorious, but, candidly, I remember
little more than the sinking feeling caused by an inspection of the
extraordinary precipices into which the mountain falls away to the
north; and even this keen impression soon had its edge taken off by the
enjoyment of the result of Max’s noble efforts with a tin of peaches,
condensed milk and snow.
At 2 p.m. the pleasant sojourn came to an end, and we embarked on the
descent. The way down was shrouded in complete mystery though, on the
whole, the general opinion of the party inclined to the view that
a bee-line for the Montanvert would give the correct direction, at
all events for the first part of the descent. In any case we felt no
anxiety, for one can do much with plenty of rope. Accordingly, taking
the Montanvert as the objective, we set off, and the fun began at
once. Immediately after leaving the summit, we had to resort to the
doubled rope in order to descend a long and steep chimney which ended
on a ledge of most ungenerous proportions. Our friend here provided a
little thrill. He was half-way down the chimney, with still practically
forty feet to go, when something apparently went wrong, for he turned a
somersault in mid-air and finished up the descent head downwards, with
feet waving frantically in the air and his felt hat floating gracefully
down over the precipices. Max had him secure on the climbing rope,
however, and so he was never in any danger.
It was almost impossible to obtain anything like a clear survey of
the ground ahead, for the general steepness was certainly excessive,
and numerous inconvenient bulges and overhangs hid far too much from
view. After a short consultation, Max and I confessed to one another
that neither liked the appearance of things in general, but as there
were no eager volunteers for climbing back up the chimney that had
just been roped down, it was decided that we should take the chances
of carrying straight on. Steep chimney after steep chimney followed,
and not only did we see no signs of previous descents or ascents, but
the ground became increasingly difficult. Finally, when we had arrived
at a point level with and slightly to the south of the enormous,
slate-grey patch below the summit, which is so prominent a feature
of the Dru when seen from the Montanvert, all possibility of further
descent seemed precluded, and we were forced to realise that the
outlook was somewhat critical. To our left we could see the ridge
over which the correct line of descent must certainly have led, and
we were, therefore, faced with the question of either gaining this
ridge by a most unwholesome-looking traverse, or by retreating back to
the summit. The latter alternative could only be regarded as a very
forlorn hope, and not to be attempted unless the traverse should prove
impracticable. The chief drawback of the traverse was the fact that we
would be able to give each other little or no help or support until the
worst was over. However, it was no good wasting time in indecision. I
have forgotten many of the details of the traverse, but at first it led
across almost vertical slabs by means of the minutest of cracks and
ledges. The climbing was most difficult and, owing to almost complete
lack of belays, somewhat risky. But our companion rose brilliantly to
the occasion and tackled the difficult and exposed slabs in a steady,
sure-footed style and with a complete absence of nervousness. Before
gaining the ridge, the work became less serious. Comparatively broad
and broken ledges separated one tier of slabs from another, and easy
ground finally led round on to the ridge at a well-marked step or
depression a short distance below a prominent _gendarme_ which, I
believe, is known in Chamonix as “le Poisson.”
[Illustration: _On the summit of the little Dru._
_Facing page 278._
]
It was now about 4.30 p.m., and much valuable time had been lost
through this somewhat sensational variation of the descent. It was
still far from easy, even on the ridge, to survey the further line
of descent for any distance ahead. I therefore took off the rope and
went on to prospect, leaving the others to follow. Several times I
got on to the wrong track, but being alone and, therefore, climbing
more rapidly, was able to rectify such errors before the other two
arrived. Lower down, an _impasse_ in the ridge, in the shape of a bold
_gendarme_ followed by a clean and almost vertical cliff, held me up
until Max’s arrival. The best means of circumventing the obstacle
appeared to lie in the descent of a vertical chimney which bore a close
resemblance to Mummery’s crack on the Grépon. It led to a platform on
the northern side of the ridge. We fixed a double rope, and I proceeded
down. A large chock-stone was jammed in about half-way down the
chimney, but as there was no real necessity for making use of it as a
hold, and as it could be easily avoided, I did not attempt to dislodge
it, preferring to let sleeping dogs lie. I sent up word to the other
two, however, to leave it alone lest it should prove to be dangerously
loose. On arriving on the platform, I let go the doubled rope and,
while the second man was preparing to descend, cast round for further
means of escape. The only available route led along a narrow, sloping
ledge running towards the ridge from a point about four feet below the
edge of the platform on which I stood. With the greatest care, most
emphatically urged upon me by the sheerness and depth of the precipices
below, I lowered myself on to the ledge, still retaining a grip in the
numerous small cracks with which the platform was fissured. By taking a
couple of steps and leaning well outwards, it was possible to see round
and beyond an intervening corner of rock towards easy, though exposed,
ground over which the ridge could be regained. Before climbing farther,
I looked up towards Max to give him this information. Our companion was
nearly half-way down the chimney and almost level with the chock-stone.
I was just repeating my warning not to make use of this possibly
insecure hold, when it came hurtling down through space and, crashing
on to the ledge, broke into two pieces. One of them, in bounding out
over the precipice, narrowly missed my head, but the other was more
perfect in its aim and dealt me a clean, knock-out blow on the chest.
The shock caused me to lose hold with my left foot and hand. By means
of the kind of effort that one is able to exert when it comes to making
a bid for life, I was otherwise able to retain my balance. I struggled
on to the platform and lay there absolutely winded, totally unable to
answer any inquiries.
The rest of the route down the ridge promised to be less complicated.
Our companion descended first, whilst I, still sorrowing over bruised
ribs, was tied in the middle of the rope and tenderly nursed off the
platform and round the ledge. Our original order of march was, however,
_pour cause_, soon reverted to. But the day’s troubles were nearly
over. An opportunity of descending from the ridge towards the Charpoua
Glacier revealed itself, and, scrambling over huge glacier-worn slabs
broken up by numerous ledges and chimneys, we presently arrived at the
point, a few feet above the ice, where the other party had left our
axes.
Of the French climbers we could as yet see nothing, but surmised that
they must by now be somewhere in the neighbourhood of the bergschrund
at the head of the Charpoua Glacier. While we were speculating as to
their exact whereabouts, a tremendous avalanche of stones plunged down
from the direction of the Pic sans Nom, swept the rocks immediately
above the bergschrund, and crashed over this and the upper slopes of
the Charpoua Glacier towards the icefall below which we stood. So great
was the volume and impetus of this avalanche, that for some moments
we expected to see the stones fall even beyond our standpoint. Having
the gravest fears as to the safety of the other party, we gave vent to
a series of hefty yells, and were finally reassured by a faint reply
coming from the rocks just above those over which the avalanche had
swept. In continuation of their good fortune, this party later on
found that our axes and the stake of wood, that we had driven into the
snow above the bergschrund, had not been touched by any of the falling
stones, though several had gone very near.
The sun had set, and, as we were without a lantern, there was no time
to be lost in crossing the glacier. The unfriendly, threatening aspect
of the séracs, below which we threaded our way between numerous blocks
of ice and crevasses, also urged the necessity for speed. Once on the
far side of the glacier, the danger from falling ice was past, and a
brief ascent over a diminutive bergschrund and gentle snow slope led
on to the summit of the hump that separates the two tongues of the
Charpoua Glacier, and upon which, somewhat lower down, stands the
Charpoua hut. Shortly after 7 p.m., we entered the welcome refuge.
The other party rolled up soon after 8 p.m. Lured on towards the
Montanvert by visions of civilised luxury and comfort, they hardly
found time to gulp down the cups of tea we proffered. But the visions
proved false, for the local knowledge and lanterns of the guides
fizzled out in the midst of the maze of crevasses of the Mer de Glace,
and it was not until daybreak that they entered the Montanvert.
We, on the other hand, slept soundly, and in the fresh hours of morning
strolled over to the Montanvert, where we arrived in good time for
lunch.
As a climb, the traverse of the Dru is magnificent. Unlike the Grépon
or the Requin, the Aiguille du Dru is every inch a mountain. The rock
varies from bad to good; to get to the rock, good ice work is called
for; and the route-finding is far from simple. Though essentially
regarded only as a rock-climb, it is really an all-round, first-class
expedition.
CHAPTER XIX
TOWARDS MOUNT EVEREST
“To make a determined effort, with every available resource, to reach
the summit” were the instructions with which the 1922 Mount Everest
expedition left England. The personnel was as follows:--
Brigadier-General the Hon. C. G. Bruce, C.B., M.V.O.,
commander-in-chief;
Lieut.-Colonel E. L. Strutt, D.S.O., second-in-command;
Dr. T. G. Longstaff, M.D., chief medical officer and naturalist;
Dr. A. W. Wakefield, medical officer;
Captain J. G. Bruce, M.C. (a cousin }
of General Bruce), }
} transport officers; and
Mr. Crawford, I.C.S., and }
}
Captain Morris, }
Captain J. B. Noel, official photographer and kinematographer.
The climbing party consisted of Mr. G. H. Leigh-Mallory, Major H.
Morshead, Major E. F. Norton, who was also artist and naturalist, Mr.
T. H. Somervell, also artist and medical officer, and myself, also
in charge of the oxygen equipment and responsible for its use on the
mountain. We had, in addition, four Ghurka non-commissioned officers,
a Tibetan interpreter by name Karma Paul, and about fifty Nepalese
porters and camp cooks.
The party assembled in Darjeeling, and two detachments moved off
towards the end of March to a _rendezvous_ at Phari Dzong, the first
considerable village on the line of march through Tibet proper. The
third detachment, consisting of Crawford and myself, had to remain
behind in Darjeeling to await the arrival of the belated oxygen
cylinders. It was not until April 2, a week later, that the apparatus
turned up, and we were able to proceed on our way.
Our route lay through the independent state of Sikkim, at first a
country of sub-tropical, or even tropical climate and luxuriant jungle
vegetation. Cool, shady, woodland streams and pools provided welcome
interludes in the hot and often dusty journeys. From the day we left
Darjeeling, I took photographs of scenes and happenings and did my
developing at the end of each day’s march. As I had to keep within a
definite baggage allowance, my photographic outfit was of the simplest.
It comprised a quarter-plate, roll-film camera fitted with a Zeiss
Tessar lens, a vest-pocket Kodak, two Kodak daylight developing tanks
with the requisite developer and fixing powders, and spools, sufficient
for fifteen hundred exposures, sealed in air-tight tins. Simple though
the equipment was, it meant my having to do without certain luxuries;
but I have always considered the sacrifice well worth the while, as the
photographic results obtained were, on the whole, pleasing.
Already on the third march out from Darjeeling, an ominous rattling was
heard coming from the boxes containing the oxygen cylinders. At the
first opportunity, the mules were off-loaded and the boxes opened, a
rather lengthy proceeding as we had no tools save our pocket-knives.
An examination of the contents showed that, even in this short space
of time, the rubbing of the cylinders against each other had caused an
appreciable amount of wear and tear--a state of affairs that called
for immediate remedy. Otherwise, sooner or later, a cylinder would have
been weakened to such an extent as to be able no longer to withstand
the pressure of the gas it contained; and the resulting explosion,
apart from the possibility of its leading to loss of, or injury to,
personnel, would have completely discredited oxygen which was already
by no means universally favoured by the members of the expedition.
Fortunately, we were able to purchase a large supply of string and
cloth which we wrapped round the cylinders. These were then repacked
in their boxes in such a manner that metal could not come into contact
with metal.
On April 8, in a snowstorm, we crossed the Jelep la, the lofty pass
on the boundary between Sikkim and Tibet, and that evening arrived at
the dâk bungalow at Yatung at the entrance to the Chumbi Valley, where
we passed our first night in Tibet. At the bungalow, we met the late
Sir Henry Hayden and his guide, César Cosson (who lost their lives
on the Finsteraarhorn in the Bernese Oberland in August, 1923). Like
ourselves, they were bound for the interior. Crawford and I continued
our journey on the following day, anxious to push on and try to catch
up the main body of the expedition; and, on arriving at Phari Dzong on
the 10th, we learned that they were only three marches ahead. After
three more days of hard marching across those vast, arid Tibetan
plains, through intense cold and in the teeth of a wind that whipped up
clouds of dust and sand into our faces, we rejoined our companions at
Kampa Dzong. On the first night out from Phari we camped in the open.
On the second, the nuns of the Buddhist convent of Ta-tsang afforded
us hospitality. Crawford and I passed the night in the roofless temple
chamber. Some of the nuns spread out my sleeping-bag on the altar,
and there I slept, awakened occasionally by the cold. A brilliant
moon shone down and lit up my weird abode. The dessicated remains of
a magnificent billy-goat hanging above the altar grinned down at me,
and prayer wheels surrounded me on every side. Next day, the 13th, we
were in camp at Kampa Dzong. In view of our somewhat travel-stained
appearance, the General decided to postpone the departure of the
expedition until the 15th, and so afford us a much-needed rest. Since
leaving Darjeeling, we had been marching hard without a single off-day.
From Kampa Dzong onwards, the yak replaced the mule as our transport
animal, owing to the difficulty of providing suitable fodder for the
latter. What the camel is to the desert, the yak is to Tibet--an animal
indispensable for human life in the country. The yak’s chief form of
nourishment is a very coarse grass, which grows in the marshy bottoms
of the valleys fed by the streams that flow down from the northern
slopes of the Himalayas. He relishes and thrives on this fodder which
apparently no other animal can palate. In appearance, the yak is a
hefty, beefy animal, somewhat resembling the Indian buffalo; but he
has a coat of long, shaggy wool to protect him against the cold and
wind. The Tibetans, who are forbidden by their religion to take the
life of wild animals, are permitted to slaughter domestic animals for
food. Thus the yak, in addition to being the national beast of burden,
supplies the inhabitants of the country with milk, butter, cheese,
meat, leather, wool and, last but not least, provides them, in the
almost complete absence of trees, with their staple fuel, dried yak
dung.
The pace of the mules was about four miles an hour, but that of the
yak is a most moderate one of less than two. To hustle a yak serves
no useful purpose; he simply gets annoyed, and proceeds to throw off
his load preparatory to running amok; and anything a yak does is
very thoroughly done. The proper way to drive yaks seems to be to let
them open out into extended order, line abreast, with the drivers
walking behind. While on the march, it is up to the drivers to whistle
soft, lullaby airs. If for lack of moisture on the lips or for lack
of breath, the whistling should cease for any length of time, the
yak objects and there is usually trouble. When treated in conformity
with his wishes, however, the yak proves a most reliable transport
animal, capable of carrying heavy loads for as much as ten to twelve
hours on end at his normal, steady pace, irrespective of the nature or
difficulty of the ground. When he comes to a river, he does not wait to
be off-loaded, but plunges in without hesitation and wades across as if
in his element.
Owing to the difficulty of obtaining a sufficient supply of yaks for
such a large caravan as ours, some of our baggage was carried by
donkeys. These little animals were extraordinarily game and tough,
but on one occasion, when our way lay across an extensive area of
quicksands, the nature of the ground had them thoroughly beat. With
their tiny hooves, the poor little donkeys would, at almost every step,
sink deeply into the quagmire; sometimes so deeply that little more
than nostrils, eyes, ears and tail remained above the slime. In such
cases the customary procedure was as follows: first of all, the loads
were removed, after which three drivers stationed themselves at all
three corners of the donkey, one at each ear and the third at the tail.
Then it was simply a case of heave-ho! until the animal emerged with a
noise resembling that of the withdrawing of a cork from a bottle.
From the European point of view the Tibetans have one great failing
which might well, considering the rigorous climatic conditions, be
deemed both excusable and incurable. If one ever wishes to talk with a
Tibetan, it is advisable to stand on his windward side. A noble Tibetan
informed me with great pride that he had had two baths, one on the day
of his birth and the other on the day of his wedding. Having neglected
to take the elementary precaution, I found it somewhat hard to credit
his statement. In this matter of physical cleanliness, the Tibetan
priests are even worse offenders than the laity; doubtless because
they do not marry. As two-fifths of the able-bodied population of the
country follow a religious calling, it will be readily understood that
the odour of sanctity is all-pervading. Only once did I see a Tibetan
having a bath. It was at Shekar Dzong, on the return journey from Mount
Everest. The day was bright and sunny and all but windless. Disporting
himself in the waters of a pool, quite close to the village, was a
Tibetan boy, stark naked. An interested crowd of his fellow-countrymen
looked on. On closer investigation it transpired that the boy was the
village idiot and, therefore, hardly responsible for his actions.
I would, in fairness, add that during our sojourn in Tibet our own
ablutions, when judged by western standards, were by no means too
thorough. We usually limited ourselves to washing the head and the arms
as far as the elbows. The tooth brush was, of course, plied regularly
by all and sundry, and it was this operation and that of shaving
that afforded most amusement to the Tibetan onlookers who invariably
supervised our morning toilet.
Apart from their one rather penetrating drawback, the Tibetans are
a most likeable people. Their love for and pride in their country,
harsh though it is, is great and sincere. They are cheerful and
good-humoured, keen and willing workers, honourable in carrying out
their bargains and scrupulously honest. During our travels in Tibet,
though we did not bother to keep close guard over all our stores and
belongings, we never lost so much as a single ration biscuit through
theft. They are most kind to their children. Unlike so many Europeans,
they do not make the mistake of talking down to them; but, from the
time their children can speak, they are treated with much the same
deference as is shown to grown-ups. The priests form the ruling class
in the country and are also the educated class, the monasteries and
similar priestly institutions being the seats of learning. The religion
of Tibet is Buddhism.
We had the good fortune to meet with a Tibetan soldier, resplendent
in a Ghurka hat and a bandolier of beautifully polished ammunition
which actually fitted the obsolete pattern of British rifle he so
proudly sported. Some of the cartridges were innocent of powder, and
the condition of many of the percussion caps was such as to guarantee
misfires. A fine, handsome figure of a man, he was, like all his
fellow-countrymen, courteous and friendly. War, a great war, was being
waged between Tibet and China, but he was now on his way home to look
after his crops. The Chinaman also had crops to tend; but in the
autumn, when the harvest had been safely gathered in, he and his enemy
were to meet once more and continue the warfare. An ideal arrangement!
To the average layman, the oxygen apparatus with which we were
supplied was perhaps slightly complicated. Being responsible both for
the apparatus and for seeing that all the climbing members of the
expedition were conversant with its use, I instituted a series of
oxygen drills. These drills were deservedly popular, being held, as a
rule, each evening at the end of a long day’s march, when everybody was
feeling particularly fit and vigorous.
On the 24th, we arrived at Shekar Dzong, the largest village we
visited in Tibet. Indeed, one might almost dignify it by the name of
“town,” with its four thousand inhabitants living in the clusters of
white-walled houses that cling to the steep sides of a rocky pinnacle
rising out of the plain. Here, owing to the necessity for changing
the transport animals, we were forced to rest for several days. It
is not to be supposed that such rest meant idleness. The General was
particularly busy interviewing the Jongpen, that is, governor, of
Shekar Dzong, regarding transport arrangements for the next stage of
the journey to the Base Camp at the foot of Everest. The transport
officers were kept busy taking stock of kit and stores. After attending
to the minor ills and ailments of the European and Indian members of
the expedition, the medical officers, headed by Dr. Longstaff, busied
themselves in strengthening the bonds of friendship between Tibet and
Great Britain by ministering to the needs of sick Tibetans. Apart
from the daily oxygen drill which never lasted very long, my time was
practically my own and was spent for the most part on photography and
sight-seeing.
We left Shekar Dzong on April 27, and two days later crossed the Pangla
Pass, about 17,000 feet in height, whence we obtained a good view of
Mount Everest and the neighbouring peaks. Everest towered head and
shoulders above its surroundings, a dark, irregular, forbidding-looking
rocky pyramid. I have never seen the mountain to better advantage. On
the 30th we pitched camp in the Rongbuk Valley, at the head of which
Everest stands. Hard by the camp was a large monastery presided over
by a very venerable old abbot who received us in audience. He was of
a lively and intelligent curiosity and asked many questions. Why were
we so eager to get to the summit of Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of
Snows? For so the Tibetans beautifully name this highest of mountains.
Why spend so much money, endure hardships, and face the dangers he
was sure had to be faced, merely for the sake of standing on the top
of this loftiest of great peaks? General Bruce, as usual, rose to the
occasion and explained with quite undeniable logic that, as the summit
of Everest is the highest point on earth, so is it the nearest point on
earth to heaven; and was it not meet that we should desire to approach
as closely as possible to heaven during our lifetime? This explanation,
which contains much more than a germ of the truth, satisfied the
reverend old gentleman completely. Henceforward he did everything
within his very wide powers to further the interests of the expedition.
[Illustration: _On the first day out from Phari Dzong._
_The mountain is Chomulhari (24,400 feet)._]
[Illustration: _Shekar Dzong._
_Facing page 290._
]
The next day’s march was destined to be our last towards the Base Camp,
the position of which was determined by its being the point beyond
which we could make no further progress with animal transport. A short
distance below the end of the Rongbuk Glacier which flows down from
Mount Everest into the valley, our tents were pitched (May 1) on a
little level patch of ground close under the steep slopes of a moraine.
We had fondly hoped that this moraine would shelter our camp from the
wind. But later, bitter experience was to teach us that the wind blows
not only up and down and across the Rongbuk Valley, but in any and all
other directions that perversity can make possible. I have always felt
rather sorry for the General, who spent the next seven weeks of his
existence at the Base Camp. He, indeed, knew something about wind by
the time his stay had come to an end.
No time was to be lost on arriving at the Base Camp, for the East
Rongbuk Glacier, over which the North Col, the real starting-point of
the climb on Everest itself, was to be approached, had not yet been
explored. On May 2, Colonel Strutt, Norton and I went up into this
valley and, quite close to the end of the glacier, selected a suitable
site for a first advanced camp. This first brief reconnaissance was
followed by a lengthier one carried out by Longstaff, Morshead and
Norton under the leadership of Colonel Strutt. This party successfully
explored the hitherto unknown regions of the East Rongbuk Glacier for
a suitable way up into the great bay that lies at the head of the
glacier and is enclosed by Mount Everest, the North Col and the North
Peak. They also selected suitable sites for the more advanced camps.
It was found necessary to pitch three such camps between the Base and
the North Col. They were known as Camp I (17,500 ft.), Camp II (19,500
ft.), and Camp III (21,000 ft.), and soon the transport officers with
the porters were busy establishing and provisioning them.
For the time being I remained at the Base. A mild form of dysentery,
which had at one time or another claimed as its victims most of the
other members of the expedition, now took hold of me, and I was some
days in shaking off its effects. By May 10, the work on the advanced
camps had progressed so well that Mallory and Somervell were able to
leave the Base in order to establish a camp on the North Col, and to
make an attempt to climb Everest without the use of oxygen.
It may be wondered why, in view of our instructions, oxygen was not
to be employed. One body of scientific opinion was most emphatic in
its view that without the assistance of a supply of oxygen carried
by the climbers it would be impossible to reach the summit of Mount
Everest. Scientists, however, do not always agree amongst themselves.
An almost equally strong body of scientific opinion declared that the
weight of any useful supply of oxygen carried by the climbers would
be so great as to counterbalance any advantages that might accrue
from the oxygen itself, and that, therefore, oxygen would not only
not be of assistance, but would actually be a grave hindrance to the
climber. Perhaps I may anticipate here by stating that the second
attempt on Everest in 1922 disproved beyond all shadow of doubt the
tenets of the second body of opinion, and, what is more important,
proved no less conclusively that Everest can positively be climbed
by men carrying a suitable supply of oxygen. So far we have no like
positive confirmation, either from climbing experience or scientific
research, of the possibility of attaining the summit of Everest
without oxygen. Personally I feel certain it never will be climbed
without oxygen. But there existed another force of oxygen antagonists,
largely unscientific, who were willing enough to admit that oxygen
might, indeed, have its uses, but condemned it on the ground that
its employment was unsporting and, therefore, un-British. The line
of reasoning of these anti-oxygenists is somewhat hard to follow,
and is inconsistent with their adoption of other scientific measures
which render mountaineering less exacting to the human frame. For
instance, they do not hesitate to conserve their animal heat by wearing
specially warm clothing; they do not deny the “legitimacy,” from the
mountaineering point of view, of the thermos flask; they fear no
adverse criticism when they doctor up their insides with special heat
and energy-giving foods and stimulants; from the sun’s ultra-violet
rays and the wind’s bitter cold they do not scruple to protect their
eyes by wearing Crookes’ anti-glare glasses; even the use of caffeïne
to supply a little more “buck” to a worn-out body is not cavilled at.
In fine, it may justly be supposed that if science could only provide
oxygen in the form of tablets, the words “artificial,” “illegitimate,”
“unsportsmanlike,” or “un-British” would no longer be applicable to its
use as an aid to climbing Everest. It was written on high authority,
and I read a copy of the article in question at the Base Camp, that
“this (the possible failure of the climbers to tolerate the restraint
of the oxygen apparatus) would be a good thing, because it seems to us
quite as important to discover how high a man can climb without oxygen
as to get to a specified point, even the highest summit of the world,
in conditions so artificial that they can never become ‘legitimate’
mountaineering.” This sentence may be taken as indicative of the change
in objective which was now becoming apparent amongst the members of the
expedition. Instead of the aim being to climb Mount Everest with every
resource at our disposal, the opponents of oxygen, of whom the writer
of the above quotation presumably is, or was, one, had so successfully
worked upon the minds of the members of the expedition as to induce
them to entertain a fresh objective, namely to see how far they could
climb without the aid of oxygen. It were pleasant to think that the
writer who could thus acclaim possible failure and, in advocating a new
objective, destroy the singleness of purpose of the expedition, was not
a mountaineer. And so it came about that, by the time we reached the
Base Camp, I found myself almost alone in my faith in oxygen. It is
true that I had had the advantage of personal teaching from Professor
Dreyer who had demonstrated, by experiments carried out upon myself,
what a powerful weapon oxygen could be when rightly used. This faith in
the lessons of my genial master was fully justified by later events.
But “faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers”; in the mountains,
the tragedy is that the odds are generally on the “unfaith.” It
has been suggested that a keen sense of rivalry existed between the
exponents of climbing with and without oxygen. As far as I am aware,
this was not so. Despite conflicting ideas on this subject, complete
harmony of feeling prevailed amongst us--too valuable a thing to be
disturbed by the friction into which, under the circumstances, a sense
of rivalry might well have degenerated.
[Illustration: _Mount Everest and the Base Camp._]
[Illustration: _Camp II._
_Facing page 294._
]
However, it was arranged that, after Mallory and Somervell had made
their attack, a second attempt should be carried out by Norton and
myself. But a few days later, on May 14, Strutt, Morshead and Norton
left to join up with Mallory and Somervell to make an onslaught in
force, but without oxygen. Hitherto, I had been sanguine in the extreme
about getting to the top, but when I saw the last mountaineers of the
expedition leave the Base Camp, my hopes fell low. Any attempt I could
now make upon Mount Everest would have to be carried out with untrained
climbers as my companions; for I felt certain that, before they could
be fit for another assault, the men of the first party would require,
not merely a few days, but weeks, to recuperate from the effects of
their initial effort.
CHAPTER XX
MOUNT EVEREST
During my stay at the Base Camp my time was not really wasted. A
study of Everest and of its meteorological conditions, photography,
overhauling of equipment and experiments with oxygen kept me fully
occupied.
I wonder why it is that so many mountain travellers seem to lose all
sense of proportion when they behold for the first time hitherto
unknown ranges and peaks. Perhaps it is that they do not happen to
possess the critical faculty of abiding by facts, and tend to describe
what they expect rather than what they see. Whatever the reason, the
ugliest, sometimes even the most insignificant of sights, provided
it be but strange or novel, induces their pen to trail along in a
pæon of praise, and the new mountain vision is elevated to all that
is awe-inspiring, magnificent, beautiful, far excelling any mountain
hitherto known to man. Thus we find that earlier explorers of Mount
Everest have enhanced its wonders out of all proportion to the reality.
It is as if its quality of height, the mere fact that Mount Everest
is over 29,000 feet in altitude and the highest mountain in the
world, has prejudiced their judgment of its other qualities. A closer
analysis of this very question of height may prove edifying. A mountain
has two heights, absolute and relative. The former represents its
altitude above sea-level, the latter its height above the immediate
surroundings, and is really the only altitude with which the eye can
be concerned. It is only when mountains rise from the sea, as they do
in Corsica, that absolute and relative altitudes are one and the same
thing. 29,002 feet is the accepted absolute altitude of Mount Everest;
the relative altitude, that is, the actual height that presents itself
to the eye of the beholder, is arrived at by deducting some 16,500
to 17,000 feet. The suggestion frequently made to me that the sight
of Mount Everest must dwarf into insignificance anything I have ever
seen in the Alps, has invariably met with my decided denial. When seen
from the north--the only aspect of the mountain with which we of the
recent expedition are acquainted--Mount Everest appears as an uncouth,
well-nigh shapeless mass partially blocking the end of the Rongbuk
Valley, itself surely one of the most formless and ugly of mountain
valleys. The impression of the grand or the prodigious which the view
of a mountain makes upon one depends largely on the height to which the
summit rears itself above the lower limit of its glaciers or eternal
snows. Mont Blanc is nearly 16,000 feet high, and its glaciers descend
to within 4,000 feet of sea-level--a vertical zone of nearly 12,000
feet of perpetual ice and snow. On the north, Mount Everest rises to a
height of 12,500 feet above the Base Camp, which was situated a little
below the end of the Rongbuk Glacier--a vertical zone of 12,500 feet of
perpetual ice and snow. From the point of view of extent to which it
is glaciated, therefore, Mont Blanc suffers little when compared with
Everest. But the distance between the observer and the object observed
is a determining factor in the impression of size and grandeur which a
mountain picture leaves on the mind. Mont Blanc can be seen in all its
magnificence at a distance of some five to six miles. On its northern
side, Mount Everest can most advantageously be seen from the Base
Camp, eleven miles away. Thus, when no scale of absolute measurement
is present, Mont Blanc appears nearly twice as huge to the eye as
Mount Everest. So much for “prodigiousness” or “grandeur.” From the
point of view of beauty, there can be no comparison between the two
mountains. Mont Blanc, seen from the north, is a wonderful, glistening
mass of snowy domes, piled one against the other in ever-increasing
altitude to a beautifully-proportioned and well-balanced whole. No
beauty or symmetry of form can be read out of the ponderous, ungainly,
ill-proportioned lump whose horizontal stratification lines produce
an appearance of almost comical squatness and which carries, as if
by accident, on its western extremity a little carelessly truncated
cone to serve as a summit. For such is Mount Everest as seen from
the Base Camp. This infelicity of form is further forced upon the
eye by the fact that it is far from being shared by all the other
mountains surrounding the head of the Rongbuk Valley. One of these,
indeed, though only about 21,000 feet in height, presented its snowy
northern flank to the gaze of the observer at the Base Camp; and in
the delicately moulded flutings and folds of its tremendously abrupt
snow slopes was contained such beauty, such magnificence, and such
dainty grace of symmetry and poise as I have seldom, if ever, seen in a
mountain.
It goes without saying that the weather was a thing most anxiously
inquired into by all members of the expedition. During my fifteen
days at the Base, I lost no opportunity of studying its vagaries and
attempting to assign meanings to the different portents. During the
entire month of May, there were only two fine days, and those were
separated from each other by a wide interval of time. Both succeeded
heavy snowstorms which had whitened the rocks of Mount Everest. In
applying the term “fine weather” in the case of these mountain regions,
it is necessary to be somewhat more critical than one would ordinarily
be in the Alps, where cloudless sky almost invariably means favourable
weather. In the case of Mount Everest, it is essential not only that
the sky be more or less cloudless, but that the force of the wind be so
small as to be insufficient to blow up and tear away streamers of snow
dust from the ridges. These streamers betoken the presence of a wind of
such strength that it cannot but seriously handicap the climber.
On the last stage of the journey, from Shekar Dzong to the Base Camp,
the developing of the photographs I had taken _en route_ had fallen
into arrears, and I now endeavoured to make these good. In spite of
the simple methods adopted, developing was not always an easy matter.
During development of the films, the solutions contained in the tanks
had to be maintained at the proper temperature. Often the only way to
accomplish this was to retire into one’s sleeping-bag with the tin
or tins, as the case might be, as bed-fellows. The washing of the
fixed and developed films was a simple matter. The Rongbuk stream ran
close by. It is true that, in the biting winds which swept through
the valley, frequent dipping of the hands into ice-cold water was far
from pleasant. The most difficult part of the whole process of the
production of the negative was the drying of the washed films. This
had to be done at a temperature above the freezing-point of water,
owing to the fact that, if the films once froze, frost marks formed in
the emulsion. However, by the simple expedient of closing the tent as
hermetically as possible, and remaining inside it with two or three
candles burning during the drying process, the temperature could be
kept above freezing.
At last the day came when I was able to think of advancing. Time there
was none to lose. The weather outlook was by no means improving.
Indeed, there was every indication of the monsoon breaking sooner than
we had expected. Although there were no more climbers left at the
Base Camp, the whole climbing strength of the expedition, with the
exception of myself, being in the first party, my choice of climbing
companions was easy enough. First of all, there was Captain Geoffrey
Bruce. Tall, of athletic build, strong, endowed with a great fund
of mental energy--an invaluable asset on ventures of this kind--and
cheerful in any situation, he was, in spite of the fact that he had
never indulged in mountaineering, an ideal companion. Believing two to
be too weak a party to carry out the cut-and-dried plan of campaign
that I had already formulated at the back of my mind, a third member
was selected in the person of Lance-Corporal Tejbir, the most promising
of the Ghurka non-commissioned officers attached to the expedition. He
was a splendid specimen of humanity, standing fully six feet in his
stockings, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and altogether well-knit.
Above all things, the slightest provocation brought a wide grin to
Tejbir’s pleasant face, even in the depths of adversity. Like Geoffrey
Bruce, he had never climbed before; but I have noticed in the course of
my experience that the man who grins most, is usually the one who goes
farthest in the mountains--and perhaps also elsewhere. What porters we
could, Geoffrey Bruce and I selected at the Base Camp. The remainder of
those who were to assist in pitching and provisioning our highest camps
were selected later, on the way up to and at Camp III.
I would like to place on record here that, whatever small measure of
success Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I eventually achieved, was almost
entirely due to the loyal and gallant efforts with which these splendid
little men backed us up on every possible occasion. No praise can
be too great for the exemplary and cheerful devotion they displayed
towards us throughout. These porters came for the most part from
Nepal, the native state lying to the south of Mount Everest. Being of
Mongolian extraction, they have beardless faces. One of the greatest
honours that one can confer upon them is to call them by some endearing
nickname. One I called “Josephine-Anne-Marie,” another “Dorothy” and
yet another “Trudi”[16]; this last being suggested by his proper
name, Tergio. Several of these men, Trudi and Dorothy among them,
accomplished the extraordinary feat of climbing on three separate
occasions to the tremendous altitude of 25,500 feet.
On May 16, we left the Base for Camp I. Wakefield was accompanying us
as far as Camp III, in order to give us a clean bill of health from
there onwards. The way up to this camp was wholly delightful, and led
for the most part over the tremendous moraines flanking the right bank
of the Rongbuk Glacier. Everest was always before us, and the nearer we
approached the entrance of the East Rongbuk Valley, the more was our
view extended over the mountains to the west, nearly all of which are
far more satisfying to the eye than Mount Everest. The day was fine.
The only clouds were of the peculiar type, with sharp-cut edges, which
I had learnt to associate with more or less settled weather in this
part of the world. Camp I was pitched just inside the entrance to the
East Rongbuk Valley and quite close to the East Rongbuk Glacier. The
following day was spent in attending to matters of equipment and also
in ski-ing in the snow-filled bed of the East Rongbuk stream just below
the camp. The porters were intensely keen on this amusement and, in
spite of numerous tosses, were the aptest of pupils.
Thanks to the careful reconnaissance carried out by Strutt’s party, the
way towards Camp II was a simple matter. For the most part we marched
up over the stone-strewn surface of the East Rongbuk Glacier. Here and
there the glacier was much broken up, but, by keeping to the moraines
running down it, good headway was made. The views towards the peaks
in that great chain which runs down from the North Peak towards the
Base Camp were most striking. Point 22,580, in particular, is a most
graceful mountain with a delightfully cornice-crested, aspiring summit.
Clouds obscured Mount Everest, but for one brief spell they parted,
and we saw, peeping down at us, the lofty summit, now looking far
higher than it ever had before. Shortly before reaching Camp II, direct
progress was barred by an enormous ice wall. The obstacle, however, was
easily turned, and soon afterwards we arrived in camp.
The tents were pitched on a layer of stones lying upon the glacier, at
an altitude of about 19,500 feet above sea-level. It was well sheltered
from the wind, but unfortunately received very little sun; a great
disadvantage, because life in the shade was hardly bearable outside
one’s sleeping-bag. A large, frozen-over pond of glacier water lay
within a few yards of the camp, and beyond it, within easy reach, were
some magnificent ice slopes. The sight of these gave me the idea that
it would be a good plan to give Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and those of the
porters, whom we had selected to join our party, their first lessons in
the proper use of the ice-axe and climbing irons. A suitable slope was
soon found. At its foot lay the frozen-over pool. In a very short time
my enthusiastic pupils were hard at it, and within half an hour many
of them were so good that one might have thought they had been used to
this sort of work all their lives. Tejbir, however, on one occasion
chose to rely too much on his sure-footedness, with the result that
he slipped, slithered down the slope, broke through the frozen surface
of the water and got thoroughly ducked. With the instincts of the
born mountaineer, he retained a grasp upon his ice-axe. We hauled him
out at once, but as the external air temperature was well below zero,
Tejbir soon discovered that he was encased in armour plate. We hustled
him over to the camp and stripped him of his frozen clothing; and
for the next two hours all that was to be seen of Tejbir was a broad
grin surrounded by many blankets as he sat under shelter and thought
things over. The problem of drying his clothes, though it was far too
cold for the ice in them to melt, was quite a simple affair. At this
great altitude, the air is so dry and so rarefied that ice evaporates
at least as readily as water does at sea-level on a fine summer’s
day--a phenomenon to which may be attributed the diminutive size of
the mountain streams draining the extensive glaciers in this region of
the earth. These streams are almost entirely supplied by water caused
by the friction of the glaciers flowing over their rocky beds. Surface
water due to melting of surface ice, the main source of supply of
glacier streams in the Alps, does not exist on the northern slopes of
Everest at this time of the year. Thus to dry Tejbir’s frozen garments
one had only to apply a little logic and scientific training. Take, for
instance, his trousers. These were first of all hammered out flat and
then placed in a vertical position against a little wall of stones. The
moment they collapsed and fell to the ground, it was obvious that their
stiffening of ice had disappeared and they were, therefore, dry. Who,
after this brilliant example, would gainsay the uses of science?
[Illustration: “_A suitable slope was soon found._”
_Facing page 302._
]
The original intention had been to give my party at least one day’s
rest at Camp II, with the object of assisting, as far as possible,
the important process of acclimatisation. But on our march up to the
camp, everyone had felt so remarkably fit, and I myself had walked so
freely and easily, that, as Camp II was by no means too comfortable, we
thought it better to make for Camp III. At 8 a.m., therefore, on May 19
we set off. At first, by keeping to the moraine, we were able to avoid
having to seek a way through the broken up ice of the glacier. But all
too soon the stones came to an end, and we had to take to the icefall.
First appearances suggested the possibility of heavy step-cutting, but,
as a matter of fact, things turned out extraordinarily well, and it
was only very occasionally that we had to ply the axe. Here and there
a frozen-over pool of water lying at the foot of some crevasse had to
be circumvented. Although the ice was in most cases thick, it could
not be relied upon to bear one’s weight, as the water underneath had
often ebbed away and was no longer in contact with the ice. A ducking
could not be risked now; we were so far away from the comforts of a
camp that the consequences might have proved more than unpleasant. It
was sheer joy, this climbing up and down or walking along the troughs
of crevasses, circumventing and occasionally scaling huge séracs of
fantastic shapes and showing the most wonderful range of colours from
clear, deep blue, through green to a pure, opaque white which in
turn merged into a crystal-clear transparency. Unlike the séracs of
European glaciers, there was nothing to be feared from these great
giants. Séracs in Switzerland are formed by the flow of glaciers
over some marked step or irregularity in their beds; but here, north
of Mount Everest, other causes seemed to be at work. Perhaps side
pressure caused by tributary glaciers flowing into the main glacier,
perhaps wind currents and evaporation of ice are the deciding factors.
In any case, the séracs of the East Rongbuk Glacier stood proudly
upon firm, wide bases and showed no rottenness or decay to menace
those marching amongst them. Eventually we emerged from the broken up
part of the glacier and found ourselves on the still snow-free but
almost uncrevassed, gently-rising upper portion, over which progress
developed into little more than a rather wearisome trudge. The North
Peak was now to be seen at its best--a bold, heavily-built Colossus,
above the eastern ridge of which appeared the summit of Everest. The
mountains to the east were not attractive. We were now so close to them
that it was evident that they are for the most part little more than
glorified scree slopes rising from uninteresting-looking glaciers.
The heat on this part of the day’s march was considerable. There was
little or no wind, but, contrary to the experiences related by many
Himalayan explorers, few of us were overcome by that form of heat
lassitude usually associated with such weather conditions in these high
altitudes. Indeed, most of us, including the porters, who carried loads
averaging some forty pounds each, plodded along at a good, steady pace,
which was certainly no slower than it would have been in the Alps, say,
on the Aletsch Glacier at noon under a summer sun. It may, perhaps, be
worthy of mention that since leaving the Base Camp, perspiration had
been unknown to us. No matter how hot the sun, how still the air, or
how great the exertion, any perspiration exuded by the skin was, owing
to the dryness and the reduced pressure of the atmosphere, evaporated
before one became aware of its presence.
[Illustration: _Amid the séracs of the East Rongbuk Glacier._]
[Illustration: _Crossing a trough on the East Rongbuk Glacier._
_Facing page 304._
]
At an altitude of about 20,500 feet, some crevasses intersected the now
no longer snow-free surface of the glacier, and we put on the rope.
Soon after midday we rounded the end of the east ridge of the North
Peak and hove in sight of Camp III (21,000 ft.). Like Camp II, it
was pitched on a layer of stones resting on the East Rongbuk Glacier.
We found Strutt in residence, and he gave us the news. That morning
Mallory, Morshead, Norton and Somervell had left for the North Col
prior to their attempt on Mount Everest. High up on a terrace above the
steep snow slopes immediately below the Col, we could see a cluster of
tiny black dots--the tents of the North Col Camp. On the skyline, in
the col itself, were seen more little black dots, but moving. Evidently
the first party were out taking a constitutional.
For the next few days Camp III was to serve as my party’s advance
base camp. Here it was that we overhauled our stores and equipment,
especially the oxygen outfit. With feelings akin to dismay, suspicions
that I had already formed at Camp I were confirmed; not one of the
ten oxygen apparatus was usable. They had suffered so severely in the
course of our travels across Tibet that most of the soldered metal
joints leaked; washers had become so dry that the other joints could no
longer be made gastight, and several of the gauges were out of action.
Then again, neither of the two types of masks with which we were
supplied could be used. The first of these, the so-called “economiser”
pattern, by means of an arrangement of valves, allowed oxygen flowing
from the apparatus to mix with the air on inhalation, but stored it
up and thus prevented waste on exhalation of the breath. It was found
that, owing to the resistance imposed by these valves upon breathing,
the mask could not be used, the strain thrown upon the lungs being too
great. The second type of mask had really been supplied for use in
the event of the “economiser” failing to give satisfactory service.
It was wasteful of oxygen because the gas supply was continuous, no
matter whether the climber were inhaling or exhaling; thus during
the periods of exhalation the oxygen issuing from the apparatus was
wholly wasted. However, we found that this mask suffered from, amongst
others, the same defect as the first; the resistance imposed upon
the free passage of the breath was too much for the lungs. It must
not be forgotten that the whole oxygen outfit--masks, apparatus,
containers--was more or less experimental; the conditions under
which it was to be utilised were practically unknown, and, in the
circumstances, the design was the best that science could produce.
[Illustration: _Mount Everest from Camp III._
_Facing page 306._
]
While waiting at Darjeeling for the arrival of the apparatus, I had
turned the question of masks over in my mind and had formed the germ
of an idea for another pattern which I intended to construct in the
event of the others proving unsatisfactory. The wherewithal to make
the new mask had been easily procured. A few toy football bladders and
glass “T” tubes were all I needed. With these materials and odd bits
of rubber tubing, I was able to construct a new mask, if indeed it
could be so termed, by means of which oxygen could be mixed with the
air inhaled by the climber without loss on exhalation and, at the same
time, without any appreciable extra work being thrown upon the lungs.
The new device, as so many useful devices are, was almost ridiculously
simple. A rubber tube connected the oxygen delivery orifice of the
apparatus with the mouth of the climber. Into this rubber tube was
let a glass “T” tube, the third opening of which was connected to a
football bladder. On inhaling, the oxygen flowed through the rubber
tube into the mouth of the climber, there mixing with the indrawn
air. On exhaling, the climber had to close the end of the tube in his
mouth by biting on it, and thus prevent the flow and consequent waste
of oxygen. During this latter operation the oxygen, which was still
flowing from the apparatus, was stored up in the expanding football
bladder. On re-inhaling, the climber simply released the pressure of
his teeth upon the tube, and the bladder, collapsing slowly, gently
forced the oxygen into his mouth where it mixed with the inhaled air.
The correct closing and opening of the rubber tube by alternately
biting and releasing the pressure of the teeth upon it became, after a
few minutes’ practice, a perfectly automatic, subconscious process. The
success of this simple mask pleased me greatly; without it, no really
effective use could have been made of our oxygen supplies. Oxygen would
have been misjudged as useless, and the solution of the problem of
climbing Mount Everest would have been as distant as ever.
Camp III soon became the scene of much activity. Examination of the
oxygen cylinders revealed that their contents were still intact; so
we thereupon set to work with hacksaws, pliers, soldering iron and so
forth to repair the damaged apparatus. Eventually two of these were
made to function satisfactorily and, later on, two more. Owing to lack
of accommodation, the work had to be carried out in the open, so that
our hours of labour were limited to those of sunshine; in the shade,
the cold was so intense that the handling of metal with bare hands
was impracticable. Once the work was interrupted by a snowstorm, and,
while waiting for the fresh snow covering up workshop, instruments,
apparatus and all to evaporate, Geoffrey Bruce and I put on skis and
pottered around on the glacier--quite an exhilarating pastime at these
altitudes. Curiously enough, it was only on snow lying in the sun that
good running could be had. I found that in the shade the snow was
so cold as to exert a sticky, dragging effect upon the skis, almost
similar to that which one might expect with sand. At nights the
temperature occasionally fell very low; 62° F. of frost were recorded.
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF MOUNT EVEREST.
Approximate scale, 1 inch to a mile. All heights in feet.]
In order to test thoroughly the repaired apparatus, we went for a
number of trial trips. One of these, over to the Rapiu la, a depression
at the foot of the north-east ridge of Everest, was of particular
interest to me. The valleys to the south of this pass were filled
with great, rolling banks of cloud which almost wholly concealed the
view. But the north-east ridge of Everest as far as the Shoulder was
quite clear, and to my amazement I at once saw that this ridge would
probably afford an excellent, perhaps even the best, line of approach
to the Shoulder. I remembered now that Mr. Harold Raeburn, the most
experienced climber of the 1921 expedition, had already pronounced upon
this ridge as affording a practicable route to the summit. We have only
to compare its advantages and disadvantages with those of the North Col
route up the north ridge to see how sound the judgment of this veteran
pioneer was. Take first of all the latter line of ascent. To the
observer from Camp III, it is obvious that the approach to the North
Col, if a line of ascent which is to be safe under any conditions is to
be taken, particularly after falls of fresh snow, must be a laborious
one, calling for an experienced ice-man with a wide knowledge of snow
conditions. On the north ridge as far as the Shoulder, it is equally
clear to the observer, both from the base and from Camp III, that the
climber must be continually exposed to the full blast of the prevailing
west wind--more appropriately, perhaps, termed gale--which, combined
with intense cold, must prove an even more formidable enemy than mere
altitude or rarefaction of the atmosphere. On the north-east ridge,
on the other hand, the way from the Rapiu la right up to the Shoulder
is perfectly straightforward, no matter what the conditions of the
snow may be. Immediately below the Shoulder are some prominent rocky
teeth. They look rather terrible, but from the Rapiu la, even had I not
already known that the stratification of the mountain dips towards the
north, I could see that they might be turned without serious difficulty
and the Shoulder gained. But the supreme advantage of this route lies
in the fact that it is practically always free from wind. Largely owing
to its direction, the wind on the north side of the mountain fails
to sweep over the north-east ridge as it does over the north, and,
furthermore, it is more or less balanced by the up-draught from the
south. In view of the facts, however, that the camp on the North Col
had already been established, and that the first party had, as far as
we knew, even established a camp much higher up on the north ridge, the
recognition of Raeburn’s great discovery had come too late.
Snow fell on the night of May 20-21, and ushered in one of the rare
windless days of that season. Towards sunset, while scanning the north
ridge of Everest for signs of the first climbing party, we made out
four dark specks descending the great, broad snow slopes of the lower
section of the north ridge. They were the four members of the first
climbing party making their way back to the North Col after their
attempt upon the mountain. It appeared to us that they were more or
less exhausted, so on the morning of the 22nd, acting on orders by
Colonel Strutt, who, as eldest man, had with utter unselfishness stood
down from the first party, Geoffrey Bruce, Wakefield, Tejbir and
I, together with eight porters, set out for the North Col with the
triple object of rendering assistance to the first climbing party, of
replenishing stores in the North Col Camp and of giving the oxygen
apparatus a final, thorough try-out. A longish tramp across the
gently-rising basin at the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier led to the
foot of the steep snow and ice slopes up which one must mount to gain
the col. The first climbing party were making their way down towards
us, and we eventually met them a short distance above the foot of the
final slopes. Most of them seemed practically at the end of their
tether and were hardly able to speak coherently. Norton, weather-beaten
and with obvious traces of having undergone immense strain, gave us a
brief account of their climb. On the night of the 20th they had camped
at a height of 25,000 feet, and next morning, Morshead having already
suffered too much from the effects of cold and altitude to be able to
go farther, Norton, Mallory and Somervell had climbed on until, at 2.30
p.m. on the 21st, they had reached the enormous altitude of 26,800 feet
above sea-level as then indicated by the aneroid they carried.[17]
There they had to confess themselves beaten, and return. Snow had
fallen on the night of the 20th, but they had been blessed with a calm
day for their climb. Retracing their steps, they had rejoined Morshead
in their high camp, and all four had continued the descent to the
North Col camp, where they had passed the night. Such, in brief, is
the history of the first attempt on Mount Everest. We gave them food
and drink, then, leaving Dr. Wakefield to see them safely down to Camp
III, Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I, together with our porters, went on
towards the col. The slopes below the col were laden with fresh snow,
probably most of it wind-borne and drifted. Not liking the conditions,
and in order to make sure of running no risks of loosening snow-shields
or avalanches, I avoided zig-zagging across doubtful slopes by working
straight up, cutting steps where necessary. Thus we ascended in safety
as far as the foot of the last, almost vertical ice cliff above which
lay the camp. This cliff would hardly have yielded to a frontal attack,
but I found that a safe traverse across a steep snow slope on the left
could be made by keeping to the snow-buried, lower lip of a diminutive
crack in the ice. Shortly before the crack came to an end, and with
it the security against the risk of treading loose a snow-shield, it
became possible to strike directly up towards the camp; not, however,
without some slight indication of demur on the part of a few of the
porters, who could not understand why, instead of choosing an obviously
easy slope, I should deliberately choose a more difficult way up a
much steeper one. But they followed cheerfully enough, and I think
that some of them at least saw method in my madness. Three hours after
setting out from Camp III, we arrived at the North Col Camp. Of this
time forty-five minutes had fallen to halts, chiefly our meeting with
the first party. The difference in height between the two camps is
about 2,000 feet. We had, therefore, ascended at the rate of nearly one
thousand feet an hour, quite a good average rate of progression even
in the Alps. We had used oxygen. If such had been necessary, this were
testimony enough of its advantages.
Arrived at the North Col, we dumped a supply of oxygen cylinders,
food and other tackle and then sat down to look round and thoroughly
enjoy things. The porters were amazed at the pace which we had been
able to maintain, despite the fact that our loads were, on the whole,
far heavier than theirs; and for the first time they began to take a
lively interest in the oxygen apparatus. Geoffrey Bruce was called upon
to explain its workings. He told them that I could climb well in the
Alps because the “English air” about those mountains suited me. But
Himalayan air disagreed with me, and I had, therefore, brought out a
supply of the more vigorous air. Just to show them how strong “English
air” is, I turned a stream of oxygen from my apparatus on to the
glowing end of a cigarette, which thereupon flared up and spluttered
with a brilliant white light. A better audience for this perhaps most
beautiful of all laboratory experiments, carried out at 23,000 feet
above sea-level, could not have been desired.
The view from the col is magnificent. Everest shows up to far greater
advantage from this point than from the Base Camp. It still lacks
beauty, but, owing to its nearness, had gained enormously, almost
overwhelmingly, in size. We could trace out almost every inch of the
way we hoped soon to follow to the summit. As the North Col is the
depression on the ridge connecting Everest and the North Peak, we had
only to turn round to see the latter, less immense but of far more
pleasing appearance than its massive neighbour. The most remarkable
feature of the view, however, was the jumble of séracs and great ice
cliffs perched just above the camp. The untrained observer would,
doubtless, have thought these unstable and a menace to the existence of
the little tents; it need hardly be said that these would never have
been pitched upon a terrace exposed to the dangers of falling ice;
mountaineers are not quite so foolish and foolhardy as many people are
inclined to believe.
That afternoon we all returned to Camp III. On the journey home we
halted frequently, taking in all two dozen photographs. And yet,
in less than fifty minutes after leaving the col, we were back in
Camp III. All possible doubts as to the great advantages of oxygen,
even when administered by means of the rather experimental and bulky
apparatus with which we were supplied, were now at an end.
On arriving in camp, we found the four members of the first party much
restored in health. They had indeed performed a wonderful feat in
reaching an altitude of nearly two thousand five hundred feet above
the previous world’s record for high climbing, established by the
Duke of the Abruzzi in 1909. But they had not escaped unscathed; all
had suffered, to a greater or less extent, from frost-bite. Morshead’s
fingers and toes were in a woeful condition, blue-black and covered
with immense blisters. On the 23rd all four, together with Colonel
Strutt, left for the Base Camp, and succeeded in reaching their
destination that evening.
[Illustration: _The North Peak and the North Col Camp._
_Facing page 314._
]
In the meantime we completed our preparations, and on the 24th Geoffrey
Bruce, Tejbir and I, accompanied by ten porters, went up to the North
Col. With us was Captain Noel, whom we had rigged out with an oxygen
apparatus--a new convert to the true faith. Apart from the question of
altitude, the camp in the North Col was the most comfortable of all,
being well sheltered from the wind. As soon as the sun set, however,
the cold became intense, and after a somewhat early evening meal we
crawled into our sleeping-bags. In spite of the fact that the tents
were pitched on snow, we passed a fair night.
Next morning we were up betimes; but not too early for the porters,
who were as keen as ourselves on setting to work. At 8 a.m. they
had breakfasted, loaded up, and started off towards the Shoulder of
Everest. Knowing that with oxygen there would be no difficulty in
overhauling them, we waited in camp until 9.30 a.m., busying ourselves
the while in putting the finishing touches to our preparations and in
making the best of breakfast. Both this and the preceding evening meal
were rather meagre, the stock of provisions at the North Col being
one permitting neither of waste nor over-consumption. Before gaining
the long, broad snow ridge leading up towards the Shoulder, we had
to make our way across a series of large crevasses intersecting the
summit snows of the col. They gave no trouble, however, a number of
different routes being made possible by an abundance of good snow
bridges. The suggestion of dragging a wooden ladder all the way from
India up to this spot, in order to negotiate an impassable crevasse or
ice cliff, has been seriously advocated. Surely the adoption of such a
stratagem is justifiable only in the case of the novice, or one whose
mountaineering training has taught him to seek out difficulties in
the mountains, instead of circumventing them with a steady eye on the
ultimate goal. Also, in view of the fact that there are still doubts
as to the morality or otherwise of employing oxygen, it were better
that the use of artificial aids such as ladders, poles and what-not be
deprecated.
Just before gaining the foot of the snow ridge, we came upon one of
the porters sitting on the floor of a snowed-up crevasse. His strength
had failed him, but his comrades had divided up his load amongst
themselves, and he had now settled down to await their return. He was
quite comfortable and well sheltered from the wind. So with parting
injunctions not to move off before the return of his comrades, we left
him basking in the sun, and carried on. The lower section of the snow
ridge is not steep, and, furthermore, by keeping a little to the right
of the actual crest, we were able to make good headway over stones
where the rock of the mountain joins the snow of the ridge. We drew
level with the porters at an altitude of nearly 24,500 feet, but halted
only for a few brief moments while I took some photographs. Further
delay was inadvisable. One of those extraordinarily rapid changes in
the weather, for which Mount Everest is now so notorious, could be
seen approaching. With the porters following and doing their utmost to
keep pace, we climbed on steadily. Shortly before coming to the end
of the snow ridge, we had to cut steps up a steep snow slope. I made
them large and close together in order that the porters could not only
mount easily but also descend in perfect safety. As a matter of
fact, I might have contented myself with cutting the smallest of steps.
Every single man in our party, sahib and porter alike, was working
away as if he were a born mountaineer, showing splendid balance and
self-confidence.
[Illustration: _The North Peak from an altitude of nearly 24,500 feet
on Mount Everest._
_The arrows point to the North Col Camp._
_Facing page 316._
]
The weather had broken by the time the rocks above the snow ridge had
been gained. We were at an altitude of about 25,000 feet. The wind was
whirling snowflakes past us. We climbed on, however, because from Camp
III I had detected, at a height of about 26,500 feet, a suitable site
for our intended high camp. But by the time a height of 25,500 feet
had been reached, the storm had become so threatening that all idea of
further progress had, for the time being, to be renounced. To persist
in going on in the face of this break in the weather would have meant
running the porters, who had to make their way back to the North Col
that afternoon, most unjustifiably into danger. This was not to be
thought of; for I was responsible for the safety of these smiling,
willing men, who placed absolute confidence in the sahib whom they
served so well.
It was anything but a cheerful spot in which to pitch camp. But though
I climbed some two hundred feet higher, nothing more suitable was to
be found. The leeside of the ridge was bare of any possible camping
ground, and, as a wind is always felt more severely a little below
and on the windward side of a ridge than on the crest of the ridge
itself, I elected to camp right on the very backbone, on a little
ledge overlooking the tremendous precipices falling away to the East
Rongbuk and Rongbuk Glaciers, now over four thousand feet below. As
soon as we had sent the porters scurrying down towards the safety of
the North Col, Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I looked to see that the
guy-ropes holding down the tent were quite secure, then gathered up
our sleeping-bags and provisions and crawled into the tent. After
taking off our boots, all the undressing that was practicable, we crept
into the sleeping-bags. It was bitterly cold, and, as the exposure to
wind and storm which we had already undergone had severely chilled
us, we huddled up together as closely as possible for the sake of the
preservation of mutual warmth. The storm without was now in full blast,
and it was snowing hard. Although we did our best to block up all
apertures in the tent walls, a thick, white pall of fine, powdery snow
soon covered us. Much of it insinuated its way into sleeping-bags and
through our clothing on to our skin, there causing acute discomfort.
Towards evening we set about preparing a meal. With the help of
solidified spirit, snow was melted and tea brewed. It was far from
being hot, for at this altitude water boils at such a low temperature
that one can immerse the hand in it without fear of scalding; but, such
as it was, the drink imparted some small measure of comfort to our
chilled bodies. After sunset, when we would fain have slept or at least
rested, the storm rose to a veritable hurricane and kept us occupied
for the next eighteen hours. During the whole of this period, we had to
remain alert and vigilant. To sit down and meditate quietly over what
our attempt on the mountain would bring forth was out of the question.
Terrific gusts tore at the tent, and occasionally the wind would force
its way underneath the sewn-in ground-sheet and lift it up at one side
or the other. When this happened, our combined efforts were needed to
hold the ground-sheet down, for we knew that, once the wind got a good
hold upon it, the tent would belly out like a sail, and nothing would
save it from stripping away from its moorings and being blown, with
us inside, over the precipice on to the East Rongbuk Glacier. By one
o’clock on the morning of the 26th, the gale was at its height. The
wild flapping of the canvas made a noise like that of machine-gun fire,
and, what with this and the shrieking and howling of the gale round our
tent, it was well-nigh impossible to converse with each other except
by shouting, mouth to ear. Later on came interludes of comparative
lull succeeded by outbursts even more furious than ever. Some of the
guy-ropes had broken or had worked loose, and we had to take it in
turns to go outside the tent and endeavour to straighten things up. To
work in the open for more than three or four minutes at a stretch was
impossible, so profound was the exhaustion induced by even this brief
exposure to the fierce and bitterly cold wind.
A cheerless dawn broke. The snow had ceased falling, but the wind
howled and hurried with unabated vigour. At eight o’clock, on the
morning of May 26, it showed signs of subsiding. It was but the rousing
of false hopes, for half an hour later it had returned with greater
energy than ever. With almost incredible fury it tore at our tent,
and once again we had to take it in turns to go outside and tighten
up guy-ropes. These little excursions showed, beyond all possible
doubt, that until the storm had diminished there could be no question
either of advance or retreat to the North Col Camp. No human being
could survive more than a few minutes’ exposure to a gale of such fury
coupled with so intense a cold. To add to our discomfort, a great hole
was cut in the windward panel of the tent by a stone, and the flaps
of the door were stripped of their fastenings. Fortunately, however,
everybody was remarkably cheerful.
At one o’clock in the afternoon of the 26th, just as we were beginning
to feel rather irritated at the rough treatment which Everest had
hitherto so generously doled out to us, respite came. The blustering
gale dropped to nothing more than a stiff breeze--the sort of thing
against which one can walk comfortably if one only leans sufficiently
far forward into it. This was our first opportunity to return to the
North Col; but we decided to stay where we were for the rest of the day
and the ensuing night, and on the following morning make an early start
and climb the mountain.
The one fly in the ointment was that our provisions were practically
at an end. Reasons for this shortage in food supplies are soon given.
For one thing, we had never intended to spend more than one night in
the high camp and had, therefore brought provisions for only one night,
and even these had been measured out on an extremely niggardly scale.
The majority of Himalayan experts had assured us time and again that it
would (1) be absolutely impossible for a human being to survive a night
spent at an altitude such as we had now attained (25,500 ft.), and
that (2) at such an altitude one would be totally unable to eat owing
to absolute lack of appetite. On the other hand, sound, scientific
opinion emanating from Professor Dreyer had not only not prophesied
either of these contingencies, but had, indeed, definitely warned me
that oxygen would increase the appetite, irrespective of altitude. I
was now bitterly to regret that Professor Dreyer’s warning had been
swamped from my memory by the flood of the other assurances set out
above. I well remember how, on that second night in our high camp, I
fervently wished that one or two of those who had voiced such heresies
had been available; we were ravenously hungry, even, I think, to the
point of cannibalism! However, thanks to the fact that there still
remained to us some cigarettes, the time passed well enough. Apart
from its comforting influence, cigarette smoking incidentally exerts a
most beneficial effect upon respiration at high altitudes. I noticed
in a very marked fashion that unless I kept my mind on the question of
breathing and made of it a voluntary process instead of the involuntary
one it normally is, I suffered from lack of air and consequent feeling
of suffocation. To recover from this feeling, it was necessary to
force the lungs to work more quickly than they would of their own
accord. There is a physiological explanation of this phenomenon. The
amount of carbon dioxide normally present in the blood is, at high
altitudes, largely removed from the system owing to the enormous volume
of air which it is necessary to inhale in order to obtain a sufficient
supply of atmospheric oxygen for the re-oxidation of the venous blood.
Carbon dioxide serves to stimulate the nerve centre controlling the
process of involuntary breathing. Lack of carbon dioxide results in
this nerve centre being no longer stimulated, and, if suffocation is
to be avoided, involuntary breathing has to be replaced by voluntary
breathing, a process which in time throws such strain upon the mind
and powers of concentration as to preclude all possibility of sleep.
Both Geoffrey Bruce and Tejbir had likewise observed the annoying
necessity of having to concentrate continuously on breathing. But after
the first few deep inhalations of cigarette smoke, we discovered that
it was possible to resort once more to normal involuntary breathing.
Evidently something in the smoke took the place of the carbon dioxide
in which the blood was deficient, and acted as a nerve stimulant. The
beneficial effect of a cigarette lasted for as much as three hours. As
luck would have it, we had with us a fair supply which lasted well into
the afternoon of the 26th.
We were quite a merry little party that afternoon as we gathered round
a scanty meal cooked with the last of our fuel, and then prepared to
settle down for another night. Towards 6 p.m. I heard voices outside
the tent, but thought I must be dreaming. When Geoffrey Bruce, however,
started up at the sounds, I knew that someone must be without. Six
porters, headed by that indomitable little fellow Tergio, clustered
round the door. They brought thermos flasks of warm tea provided by
the thoughtful Noel. These splendid men had, of their own accord, left
the North Col that afternoon as soon as the storm had abated, and
made the tremendous journey up to our camp just to assure themselves
of our well-being. This is but one example of the many acts of brave,
unselfish devotion performed by the porters of the 1922 expedition.
Tergio, whose light-hearted gaiety, ready laughter and merrily
twinkling eyes, whose high courage, boundless energy and perseverance
had especially endeared him to me, now lies buried in the cold snows of
the North Col. He will never be forgotten; I should like to climb with
him again. The porters expected us to return with them, and needed no
little persuasion before leaving us.
The second night in the high camp did not begin well. We were exhausted
from our previous experiences and lack of food. Provoked, perhaps,
by my labours outside the tent, a dead, numbing cold was creeping
up my limbs; a sensation that I had only once before felt, and to
the seriousness of which I was fully aware. Inquiry elicited the
information that my companions were undergoing the same unpleasant
experiences. Like a heaven-sent inspiration came the idea of trying the
effect of oxygen. Previously we had used oxygen only while actually
climbing, and, on arriving at our high camp, had dumped the apparatus
outside the tent. Now hauling in one apparatus together with a supply
of cylinders, we took doses all round, giving the action the air of
a joke. Tejbir took his medicine without much interest; but as he
inhaled, I saw with relief that his face brightened up. The effect of
the oxygen on Geoffrey Bruce was particularly visible in his rapid
change of expression; the hitherto drawn, anxious look on his face
gave place to a more normal one. The result on myself was no less
marvellous; almost at once I felt the painful, prickling, tingling
sensation, due to the returning circulation of the blood, as the lost
warmth slowly came back to my limbs. We connected up the apparatus so
that all could breathe a small quantity throughout the night. There is
no doubt whatsoever that oxygen saved our lives that night; without
it, in our well-nigh exhausted and famished condition, we would have
succumbed to the cold.
Before daybreak we were stirring. It was necessary to dress, that is,
put on our boots--a much lengthier operation than it sounds. By taking
mine to bed with me, I had contrived to keep them fairly soft and
supple, so that a quarter of an hour’s striving and tugging sufficed
to get them on. But the others had neglected to nurse theirs, with the
result that the uppers were hard-frozen and completely out of shape.
It took us an hour to soften and remould them by holding them over
lighted candles. Shortly after six o’clock, we assembled outside. No
time had been wasted over breakfast; there was none. The first rays of
the sun had just touched our tent when we shouldered our loads and set
off. What with oxygen apparatus, cameras and other necessary odds and
ends, Bruce and I each carried more than forty pounds. Tejbir, with two
extra cylinders of oxygen, shouldered a burden of about fifty pounds.
My scheme was that Tejbir should accompany us as far as the Shoulder,
where we would relieve him of his load and send him back. The weather
was clear, and the only clouds in the sky, though undoubtedly of the
wrong type, seemed too far off to presage evil. A fresh wind cut across
the ridge, and the cold was, as usual, intense. Keeping to the ridge,
and making straight for the Shoulder, we mounted rapidly. But very soon
the cold began to have its effect on Tejbir’s sturdy constitution,
already weakened by starvation and hardship. At an altitude of 26,000
feet above sea-level he collapsed. It took some little time to restore
him to his senses, only to see that he had given of his best and
could go no farther. We unburdened him, leaving him his apparatus and
sufficient oxygen to see him safely back to the high camp. The ground
over which we had just come was easy and, as the tent was in full view
below, there was no chance of losing the way; so, as soon as he was
sufficiently recovered,[18] we sent Tejbir back.
After seeing him well on his way, we shared Tejbir’s load between us.
In view of the straightforward nature of the climbing, I chose to
dispense with the rope in order to be able to progress more quickly.
Climbing by no means steep and quite easy rocks, and passing two almost
level places affording ample room for some future high camp, we arrived
at an altitude of 26,500 feet. By this time, the wind, which had been
steadily rising, had acquired such force that I realised that, were
we to remain fully exposed to it much longer, we would both succumb
to the cold as Tejbir had done. We were, however, not out to see how
far we could go, but bent on getting to the top of Everest. So we
changed tactics. Instead of gaining the summit by ridges exposed to
the full blast of the gale, we would have to follow a more sheltered
way. The only thing to do was to leave the ridge and strike out across
the vast north face of the mountain. This alternative route had its
disadvantages. The rocks up which we had come were wind-swept free
from snow, and foot- and handholds were good and plentiful, and, so
far as could be seen, this state of affairs continued for quite a long
way beyond the Shoulder. The moment we left the ridge, however, we
felt the disadvantages of the fact that the stratification of the rock
dips towards the north. The ground over which we now had to make a way
was slabby, with much new snow to hamper us. Caution was necessary
throughout. My companion was sure-footed, careful and unlikely to slip;
nevertheless, being responsible for his safety, I moderated my pace and
never allowed more than a few feet to separate us. Thus, keeping close
together, we worked away steadily, gaining but little in altitude,
but getting ever so much nearer to the summit. The climbing steadily
became more and more difficult. Sometimes the slabs gave place to snow;
treacherous, powdery stuff with a thin, wind-formed crust that gave a
false appearance of compactness. Little reliance could be placed upon
it. At length, when about half-way across the face and at an altitude
of about 27,000 feet, we decided once again to change our route and
strike straight upwards in the direction of the summit ridge.
We had climbed some three hundred feet higher, and I had just reached
a ledge at the top of a steep slab about thirty feet in height, when
I heard Geoffrey Bruce give a startled cry: “I’m getting no oxygen!”
Turning round immediately, I saw him struggling ineffectually to
climb up towards me. Quickly descending the few intervening feet, I
was just in time to grasp his right shoulder with my left hand as he
was on the point of falling backwards over the precipice. I dragged
him face forwards against the rock, and, after a supreme effort on
the part of both, we gained the ledge where I swung him round into a
sitting position against the slope above. Thus placed, with the weight
of his apparatus taken off his back, he again told me, this time in a
gasp, that he was no longer receiving oxygen. I gave him my tube and,
still standing, with the full weight of my own apparatus and other
impedimenta on my back, endeavoured to locate the fault. Systematically
I traced the connections from the cylinder in use down to the pressure
gauge and flow-meter and found both in action, the latter recording a
flow of 2·4 litres per minute. By this time, however, what with the
weight of my load and being deprived of oxygen, I was not feeling
any too well, and, believing the defect to lie in a breakage of the
flow-meter exit tube (an apparatus had previously failed through
developing this flaw which was consistent with the results of the
present hasty examination), in my desperation I tried to prize off the
flow-meter with my ice-axe in order to be able to connect the rubber
tube leading to Geoffrey Bruce on to the exit tube of the reducing
valve. (The emergency by-pass valve was useless in dealing with this
type of breakdown.) Before I had proceeded far with my efforts,
however, I found it necessary to recover my tube from Geoffrey and take
a series of deep gulps of oxygen, turning on the gas to a maximum rate
of delivery and, in addition, increasing its flow by making use of the
by-pass valve on my own apparatus. This restored me, and, so that both
could breathe oxygen simultaneously from my apparatus, I connected a
reserve “T” piece and rubber tubing, which I had fortunately brought
with me, on to the delivery tube. Resuming the diagnosis, I this time
traced connections back from the mouthpiece and at once discovered that
a glass connecting piece, which had been used in the construction of
the improvised mask, was broken. The thick rubber which had originally
covered the tubing had been partially dragged off, and the glass, thus
unprotected, had probably been fractured against rock while climbing.
As I had a spare glass connection in my possession, the repair was
speedily effected, and Geoffrey Bruce was once more inhaling oxygen
from his own apparatus.[19]
We rested for a few minutes before going on. Those few minutes decided
the issue of the day. So far, I had not had the leisure to consider my
companion’s condition. His climbing was all I had had eyes for. How
was he getting on? Was he all right without the rope? Was he keeping
up? But now I saw that Geoffrey Bruce, like Tejbir, had driven his
body almost to the uttermost. A little more would spell breakdown. The
realisation came like a blow. My emotions are eternally my own, and I
will not put on paper a cold-blooded, psychological analysis of the
cataclysmic change they underwent, but will merely indicate the initial
and final mental positions. Reasoned determination, confidence, faith
in the possibility of achievement, hope--all had acquired cumulative
force as we made our way higher and higher; the two nights’ struggle at
our high camp had not dimmed our enthusiasm, nor had the collapse of
Tejbir, rude shock and source of grave anxiety though it undoubtedly
was. Never for a moment did I think we would fail; progress was steady,
the summit was there before us; a little longer, and we should be on
the top. And then--suddenly, unexpectedly, the vision was gone.... I
thought quickly. I could have gone on, the time having long passed
since I possessed no confidence in my own factor of safety or needed a
rope. But to have done so would have been unfair to Geoffrey Bruce who
with his fewer years was not so inured to hardship as I was. We did,
however, proceed for a few yards. This made my only possible course of
action even more obvious.[20] As evidence of my companion’s indomitable
spirit I would add that, when my decision to return was announced, he
clearly voiced his chagrin.
According to the aneroid barometer I carried, we had reached an
altitude of at least 27,300 feet.[21] The point we had gained
may be easily recognised. We were standing inside the bend of a
conspicuous inverted “V” of snow, immediately below the great belt of
reddish-yellow granite which cleaves almost horizontally through the
greenish, grey-black rock of which the summit and north face of Mount
Everest are composed. With the exception of the summit of Everest,
nowhere could we see a single mountain-top as high as our own lofty
perch. The highest mountain visible was Cho Uyo, which is just short
of 27,000 feet. We were well above it, and could look across it into
the dense clouds beyond. The great West Peak of Everest, one of the
most beautiful objects to be seen from down in the Rongbuk Valley, was
hidden, but we knew that our standpoint was nearly two thousand feet
above it. We could look across into clouds which lay at some undefined
distance behind the Shoulder, a clear indication that we were only a
little, if anything, below its level. Pumori, an imposing, ice-bound
pyramid, some 23,000 feet high, I sought at first in vain. So far were
we above it that it had sunk into an insignificant little ice-hump
by the side of the Rongbuk Glacier. Most of the other landmarks were
blotted out by masses of ominous, yellow-hued clouds, swept from the
west in the wake of an angry storm-wind. Though 1,700 feet below, we
were well within half a mile of the summit, so close, indeed, that we
could distinguish individual stones on a little patch of scree lying
just below the highest point.
But it was useless to think of continuing. It was too plain that, if we
were to persist in climbing on, even if only for another five hundred
feet, we should not both get back alive. The decision to retreat
once taken, no time was lost, and, fearing lest another accidental
interruption in the oxygen supply might lead to a slip on the part of
either of us, we roped together. It was midday. At first we returned in
our tracks, but later aimed at striking the ridge between the Shoulder
and the North Col, at a point above where we had left it in the
morning. This enabled us to find level going where the order of advance
was of little importance, and I could go ahead, keeping my companion on
a short, taut rope. The clear weather was gone. Once back on the ridge,
we plunged down the easy, broken rocks through thick mists, driven
past us from the west by a violent wind. For one small mercy we were
thankful--no snow fell.
On regaining our high camp, we looked inside the tent and found Tejbir
snugly wrapped up in all three sleeping-bags, sleeping the deep sleep
of exhaustion. Hearing the voices of porters on their way up to meet
us, we woke him up, telling him to await their arrival and to go down
with them. Bruce and I then proceeded on our way, met the ascending
porters and passed on, greatly cheered by their bright welcomes and
encouraging smiles. But the long descent, coming as it did on the top
of a hard day’s work, soon began to find out our weakness. We were
deplorably tired and could no longer move ahead with our accustomed
vigour. Knees did not always bend and unbend as required. At times
they gave way altogether and forced us, staggering, to sit down. But
eventually we reached the broken snows of the North Col, and at 4 p.m.
arrived in the camp, where we found Crawford and Wakefield who, with
very natural curiosity, had come up to have a look at the col and spend
the night there. Noel had already been three days up here on rather
short rations, and the fuel and food supplies were consequently much
depleted. In the circumstances, though we would fain have passed the
night in the North Col Camp, as did the four climbers after the first
attempt, we were compelled to face a further descent that afternoon
to Camp III. A craving for food and rest, to the lack of which
our weakness was mainly due, was all that animated us; and, before
continuing the descent, this craving had to be satisfied, even if only
to a small extent. A cup of hot tea and a small tin of spaghetti were
forthcoming, and even this little nourishment so refreshed and renewed
our strength that three-quarters of an hour later we were ready to set
off for Camp III.
[Illustration: _Mount Everest from the North Col, showing route._
1. _Site of first party’s camp._ 2. _Site of our camp._ 3. _Point
gained by Norton, Mallory and Somervell._ 4. _Point gained by Geoffrey
Bruce and Finch._ 5. _The Summit._]
[Illustration: _Monsoon clouds._
_Facing page 330._
]
From the North Col to Camp III, we had in Captain Noel an invaluable
addition to our party. He formed our rear-guard and nursed us safely
down the steep snow and ice slopes on to the almost level basin of the
glacier below. Within forty minutes after leaving the Col, we arrived
in Camp III. Since midday, from our highest point we had descended over
six thousand feet, but we were quite finished. The brightest memory
that remains with me of that night is dinner. Four quails truffled in
_pâté de foie gras_, followed by nine sausages, only left me asking for
more. With the remains of a tin of toffee tucked away in the crook of
my elbow, I fell asleep in the depths of my warm sleeping-bag.
Next morning an inspection by Somervell, who had returned to Camp III
during our attempt on Everest, showed that Geoffrey Bruce’s feet were
sorely frost-bitten. I had well-nigh escaped, though four small patches
of frost-bite, due to the cold which had penetrated the half-inch
thick soles of my boots and three pairs of woollen socks, made walking
unpleasant. I was also weak. The result was that both of us were piled
on to a sledge and dragged by willing porters down over the glacier
until its surface became too rough. I then discovered that I could walk
quite well; presumably I had been lazy in the morning. But Geoffrey
Bruce fared less well, and had to be assisted back to Camp II. And so
from camp to camp the weary return journey dragged on. The sense of
failure was with us. We had set out with one resolve--to get to the
summit. The realisation that we had at least established the record for
high climbing had not yet dawned upon us, and when it did, it afforded
but scant consolation. With fine weather and but one night at our high
camp, with Geoffrey Bruce, whose stout-heartedness made good to a great
extent his inexperience of mountaineering and consequent uneconomic
use of his strength, Mount Everest would in all probability have been
climbed. I shall always be grateful to Geoffrey Bruce, not only for
the confidence he placed in me, but also for the backing he gave me
throughout our climb--and afterwards.
The descent from Camp I to the Base was perhaps the roughest and most
trying march of all. Great was the rivalry amongst the porters as to
who should have the honour of carrying Geoffrey Bruce, the condition
of whose feet would not permit of his walking down those almost
interminable moraines with their harassing stones. Even the worst
journey must come to an end, however, and at last, on the afternoon of
May 29, we were being accorded the warmest of welcomes by the General
and the other members of the expedition at the Base Camp.
The next few days were spent in resting. But I underwent the same
experience as the members of the first climbing party; instead of
recovering strength rapidly during the first three or four days, if
anything, a further decline took place. However, as the immediate
weather prospects seemed good, although it was obvious that the monsoon
must shortly break, it was decided to make a third attempt upon the
mountain.
Somervell was, by now, undoubtedly the fittest of the climbing members
of the expedition, with Mallory a good second. Both had enjoyed some
ten days’ rest since their first assault upon Mount Everest and had,
therefore, had some chance of recovering from the abnormal strain to
which they had been subjected. Medical opinion as to my condition after
so brief a respite of only four days was somewhat divided; but in the
end I was allowed to join in the third attempt.
[Illustration: _On the return journey to the Base Camp._
_Facing page 332._
]
On June 3, we left the Base Camp. The party consisted of Wakefield as
medical officer, Crawford and, later, Morris as transport officers,
with Mallory, Somervell and myself as climbers. Oxygen was to be used,
and I was placed in command. It was a great struggle for me to get
to Camp I, and I had to realise that the few days’ rest at the Base
Camp had been quite inadequate to allow of my recuperation, and that
no useful object would be served by my proceeding farther. Snow fell
during the night. Next morning, after giving Somervell final detailed
instructions regarding the oxygen apparatus, I returned once more to
the Base Camp. As Strutt and Longstaff were leaving on the following
day to escort the badly frost-bitten Morshead to Darjeeling, I was
given, and availed myself of, the opportunity of accompanying them.
The next news I heard of the third attempt upon Mount Everest was
gleaned from the columns of a Sunday newspaper, shortly after landing
in Dover some six weeks later. I read that an avalanche had destroyed
seven of our gallant mountain comrades, the Nepalese porters. This
disastrous accident had terminated the third attempt on Mount Everest
before even the North Col had been gained.
Mount Everest, the Goddess Mother of the Snows, with all her formidable
array of natural defences, had conquered. But the value of reasoned
determination, unwavering confidence, really warm and wind-proof
clothing and, last but not least, the proven worth of oxygen--weapons
to break down the innermost defences of even the highest mountain in
the world--are now, perhaps, better understood.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] Swiss abbreviation for “Gertrude.”
[17] By means of theodolite observations made from a single point near
the Base Camp, this height has worked out at 26,985 feet. According to
Col. S. G. Burrard and H. H. Hayden, _A Sketch of the Geography and
Geology of the Himalaya Mountains and Tibet_, Calcutta, 1907-1909, this
height is exceeded by only eight mountain summits, all of which are in
the Himalayas.
[18] My action in sending Tejbir back alone has, I believe, been
criticised. There is no need to labour the point. I was the responsible
person and the sole judge of circumstances, and I acted for what then
appeared to me, and subsequently proved to be, the best.
[19] In my previous accounts of the climb, I practically ignored this
incident. Recently, however, Dr. Longstaff published in the _Alpine
Journal_ an article in which he describes the happening at some length.
I believe that the story was related to him by Captain Geoffrey Bruce.
[20] To those who attribute our retreat to the fear of a possible
second failure of the oxygen apparatus, I say that such a prospect
cost me not one moment of apprehension; I knew I was equal to such
an emergency. Neither were our actions influenced by discouragement
or indifference--we cared terribly about reaching our goal. The fact
that we took cameras, but omitted to use them, has been construed as
evidence of forgetfulness and change in mental attitude induced by
the height. Before leaving our high camp, Geoffrey Bruce and I had
carefully made our plans. We realised that we would have little time to
spare, and that the cold would be too intense to permit of reloading
the cameras. Therefore, in camp, we had loaded each of the cameras with
one spool and jealously saved all the exposures for the summit views.
Neither the summit nor the pictures materialised for us.
[21] By means of theodolite observations made from a single point
near the Base Camp, this height has worked out at 27,235 feet. This
latter height is calculated on the assumption that the altitude of
Mount Everest is 29,002 feet. It may be of interest to note, however,
that the mean of numerous observations made by the Survey of India
from twelve different stations places the height of Everest at 29,141
feet. This figure has not yet been finally corrected for deviation of
gravity. When due allowance for this has been made the height of Mount
Everest will probably be found to be about 29,200 feet. In the same way
the point reached by Geoffrey Bruce and myself works out at (27,235 +
198) = 27,433 feet; a height that is exceeded, as far as I know, by
four mountains, all in the Himalayas; namely, Mount Everest, K2 (28,250
ft.), Kanchenjunga (28,150 ft.) and Makalu (27,790 ft.).
CHAPTER XXI
MOUNTAINEERING PHOTOGRAPHY
Not the least of the rewards of mountaineering are the memories of
mountain comrades and adventures which cheer those of the true faith
through the humdrum existence of ordinary life. The camera enables
us to retain a faithful picture of the many striking incidents, the
wonderful surroundings and the fellow-actors who have played with us
in the great game; so that photography, like a keen and accurately
observant sixth sense, helps to keep our mountain memories fresh and
true for all time. Given no other, this, by itself, were sufficient
reason why a camera should accompany us on our travels.
A distinction should be drawn between photography of mountains and
mountaineering photography. The former is a pursuit indulged in by
those who are, for the most part, content to take photographs of
mountain scenery from valleys, railways, roads, paths or other easily
accessible points of view. In such cases, photography is the chief
object; any mountaineering that may be done is, as a rule, of the
simplest kind and undertaken chiefly for the sake of photography. By
“mountaineering photography,” on the other hand, I would designate the
use to which the mountaineer puts the camera; to him, climbing is the
main object, and photography merely an incidental side issue. To the
photographer, the weight and bulk of his photographic apparatus is of
minor importance; but the _bona-fide_ climber must cut down the weight
of his photographic equipment to a minimum, and any photography he
may indulge in must interfere as little as possible with the pursuit
of the ruling passion. His camera must be so simple that pictures can
be taken quickly and without waste of time. The scenes most worthy of
record frequently give little warning of their approach and are of
short duration; and, unless the camera is one which can be quickly
manipulated, the opportunity will be gone before the record can be
secured. The mountaineer is, therefore, confined to the use of a
simple, light camera of small and convenient dimensions. The opinion
is widely expressed in books on mountain photography that good results
are only obtainable with stand cameras and glass plates--the heaviest
and most inconvenient type of photographic equipment. To-day, this is
no longer the case. Lenses, folding cameras sufficiently small and
compact to fit into one’s pocket, and the celluloid film negative have
been brought to such a state of perfection that, with their aid, the
climber can secure photographs which not only compete successfully from
the point of view of quality with the results obtained with far more
elaborate apparatus, but also far excel the latter in quantity.
The choice of camera is governed, in the first place, by the size of
the negative required. In contact copies, from the smaller sizes of
negatives, details, often of value, are too readily overlooked and
usually appear to proper advantage only on enlargement. Particularly so
is this the case with regard to pictorial effect. Enlargements to more
than six or seven diameters show up faulty definition to an exaggerated
degree, and the grain of the emulsion often becomes disturbingly
evident. The smallest size of negative which may be regarded as
sufficiently free from these drawbacks is 2¹⁄₂ × 3¹⁄₂ inches, a size
which permits of satisfactory enlargement up to the pleasing dimensions
of 12 × 15 or even 15 × 20 inches. As, however, a quarter-plate size
(3¹⁄₄ × 4¹⁄₄ inches) camera is procurable which is handy, simple to
use, and is neither too bulky nor too heavy, the mountaineer would
do best to be on the safe side and adopt this as his standard. There
is no need to peer into or use a magnifying glass when looking at a
quarter-plate size contact print. Its pictorial value can be easily
judged, the proportions of the shape are pleasing, and it enlarges well.
[Illustration: _In a mountain hut._
_A portrait study._
_Facing page 336._
]
Having chosen the size of the camera, it is necessary to decide whether
plates, flat films, pack films, or roll films are to be employed. For
the mountaineer, plates are out of the question; they are too heavy,
too easily damaged and too slow to bring into use. Owing, however,
to the standard of excellence attained in the manufacture of various
types of films, there can nowadays be no advantage in preferring
plates, even if weight were not a consideration. Also, in the matter
of expense, there is little difference between the cost of plates and
that of films. As far as the climber is concerned, flat films (“cut
films”) suffer from the same defect as plates, in that they take too
much time to use. Pack films are free from this disadvantage, but
the packages in which they are contained will not stand rough usage;
they are somewhat readily damaged, with the result that light may be
admitted. The roll-film is the negative material _par excellence_ for
the mountaineer. In a suitably designed camera, the best makes lie
perfectly flat. Their bulk and weight are less than those of any other
type of negative. Easily packed in air- and waterproof packages which
can be sealed with adhesive plaster, they are practically unbreakable
and will withstand extraordinarily rough handling. They are quickly
changed in broad daylight, free from halation effects, and twelve
exposures can be developed together, with little more trouble than
attends the developing of a single plate or flat-film negative.
These are but a few of the great advantages of roll films from the
mountaineer’s point of view. Hence the ideal camera for the climber is
a quarter-plate size, roll-film, folding model.
In choosing such a camera, attention should be paid to the following
points. The camera should be light, yet strong. It should be as simple
as possible and provided only with such mechanism as is essential to
the taking of good photographs. All superfluous accessories should be
dispensed with. The essential features of a camera are these:--The
back must fit light-tight on to the body. The film-winding mechanism
contained in the body should be such that the film is held flat and not
scratched on winding. The bellows should be strong and light-tight and
should be periodically examined for pin-holes when the camera is in
use. Pin-holes, when they occur, are easily repaired by sticking over
them a piece of adhesive plaster which can then be blackened with ink
or charcoal. The side-struts should lock the base-board firmly when the
camera is opened. The front-grip should slide smoothly in the runners
and yet fit well, so that when the camera is opened the front standard
is held rigid. The shutter is an item of great importance; its timing
should be calibrated, and its mechanism be of such a design that the
opening and closing movements are as rapid as possible, thus enabling
the passing of the maximum amount of light during the time of exposure.
The two most important speeds of the shutter are the ¹⁄₅₀ of a second
and a high speed such as ¹⁄₂₅₀ or ¹⁄₃₀₀ of a second. It is difficult to
hold a camera sufficiently steady to ensure accurate definition with a
lesser speed than ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, and this, in the vast majority
of cases, will be the standard shutter speed employed. Occasionally,
when photographing a rapidly-moving object, such as an avalanche, or a
climber jumping a crevasse, the fastest available shutter speed should
be used. Integral with the shutter mechanism is the stop, preferably an
iris diaphragm. The quantity of light allowed to fall upon the negative
should be controlled as far as possible by means of the stop alone, the
shutter speed being kept always at ¹⁄₅₀ of a second save in exceptional
circumstances. The lens is one of the chief keys to successful
photography. From personal experience of many different makes of
lenses, I can unhesitatingly recommend the following: Kodak Anastigmats
f: 6.3 and f: 4.5, Goerz Dagor or Dogmar f: 4.5 and Zeiss Tessar f:
4.5. These four give excellent definition, and the last is particularly
suitable for taking photographs for map-making purposes. For a
quarter-plate camera, the focal length should, as a rule, be 4 to 5
inches, rather nearer the former than the latter. The lens, when fitted
and the camera opened, must be truly centred with the axis at right
angles to the plane of the negative. The view-finder should include
no more and no less of the object to be photographed than is actually
projected by the lens on to the negative. The focussing scale must be
accurately graduated for the lens with which the camera is fitted, and
should be provided with an automatic infinity stop which is free from
backlash. Both focussing scale and infinity stop, but particularly
the latter, must be set with the greatest possible accuracy. This
will nearly always be the case in a camera of reputable make secured
from the makers themselves. A short cable release is an advantage; it
enables one to hold the camera more steady when an exposure is being
made. It goes without saying that the camera should be of the best
material and workmanship throughout. One of the best makes of cameras
procurable and suitable for the mountaineer is the Folding Pocket Kodak
Number 3.
[Illustration: _The Aiguille du Géant._
_Clearing mists._]
[Illustration: _The Sella Pass._
_Approaching thunderstorm._
_Facing page 338._
]
The estimation of correct exposure is a difficult matter for many
beginners in mountaineering photography. The following may serve as a
rough guide. In the summer months between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5
p.m., when above the snow-line, snow scenes require ¹⁄₅₀ of a second
and about stop f: 20; rock scenes ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, stop f: 10. Distant
snow scenes and distant mountain ranges need ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, stop f:
30. I do not recommend exposure meters, chiefly because their use takes
up too much time. For development, I advocate the use of Kodak daylight
developing tanks with the special developers prepared by that firm. The
negative of almost every photograph used in the illustration of the
present book was developed in the Kodak daylight developing tank.
Transcriber’s Note:
Minor errors and omissions in punctuation have been fixed. Inconsistent
hyphenation has been standardized. Original spellings have been left
as in the original text unless listed below. Small-caps font has been
capitalized in the text version.
Page 150: “bridge over a bergshcrund” changed to “bridge over a
bergschrund”.
Page 173: “He assured he” changed to “He assured me”.
Page 257: “ensuing be-pinnicled portion” changed to “ensuing
be-pinnacled portion”.
Page 339: “majority or cases” changed to “majority of cases”.
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