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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“... 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.
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.
The north face of the Dent d’Hérens, showing route followed.
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.
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.
Descending Mont Maudit.
“... a slender snowy crest.”
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.
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.
The Innominata from the Col du Fresnay.
Facing page 236.
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.
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.
The Aigulles Blanche and Noire de Peuteret.
From a point on the Peuteret ridge about 1,200 feet below the summit of Mont Blanc.
“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.