OWEN GLYNNE JONES.
CHAPTER I
EARLY LIFE AND FIRST CLIMBS
Owen Glynne Jones was born on November 2nd, 1867. A Welshman by blood, he was a Londoner by birth, for he first saw the light of day in Clarendon Street, Paddington. His father, Mr. David Jones, was a carpenter and builder, and the son commenced his education at a local school. Of his early life there is little to tell. He seems to have spent his holidays in Wales, and there to have developed, among what may without inaccuracy be called his native mountains, that passion for climbing which made him famous, and which led to his early and much lamented death.
In 1881, when not yet fourteen years of age, Owen Jones was sent to the Central Foundation School in Cowper Street, City Road, of which Dr. Wormell was head master. Those who knew him there speak of him as ‘a bright, promising schoolboy.’
He remained at Dr. Wormell’s for three years (1881-1884). He distinguished himself in science and won several prizes while at the school. On leaving he was awarded the Holl scholarship, and passed to the Technical College at Finsbury, under the City and Guilds of London Institute.
Jones spent two years (1884-1886) at Finsbury. During that time he passed through the complete course of instruction in the Mechanical department there. He worked with conspicuous ability and success at mechanical engineering, mechanical drawing, mathematics, and chemistry, as well as in the mechanical laboratory and in the wood and iron workshops. When he left, his teachers spoke of him in the highest terms. ‘Mr. O. G. Jones,’ said Professor Perry, ‘was as able, as earnest, as promising as any other whom I can now remember.’ Mr. John Castell-Evans speaks of his ‘eager enthusiasm and scrupulous conscientiousness;’ and Professor Silvanus Thompson wrote of him: ‘He is imbued with modern methods, ... and is possessed of a healthy enthusiasm for his work that is infectious.’ At the close of his course he passed with a Clothworkers’ Scholarship to the Central Institution in Exhibition Road, South Kensington, where he passed the next three years of his life.
The three years (1886-1889) he spent in the Engineering Department, and at the end of his course he had attained the highest position in the class-list of any student of his year, and he received the diploma of Associate of the Institute. On the completion of his course he was appointed assistant in the Mathematical Department. During his life at South Kensington he made the same impression as heretofore on all with whom he came in contact. Intellectually alert, diligent, energetic, enthusiastic, he seemed bound to make some mark in the world.
In the year following the completion of his course, and while he was an assistant at South Kensington, I first met him.
It was during the Easter holidays of 1890. Having broken away from the party with whom I had been spending most of my holiday in Borrowdale, I made my way to Wastdale Head Inn. I picked up a chance acquaintance with two young fellows in the inn, and we agreed to go together to climb the Pillar Rock—with the aid of a ‘Prior’s Guide’ which I had in my pocket.
When we commenced the ascent, which proved very easy—I believe we went up the easiest way—the dark, slim young fellow somehow naturally assumed the lead. Before we started he had discovered that I had been to Switzerland and had done some climbs there, so he was very modest about his own powers. A few seconds on the rocks dissipated all doubt. With great confidence and speed, climbing cleanly and safely, he soon showed he was no ordinary climber. I had been out with some very tolerable Swiss guides, but never before with a man to whom rock-climbing seemed so natural and easy. My curiosity was excited. He could not be one of the great climbers, for he had never been out of the British Islands, but he could climb.
On the top we found a small, rusty tin box, in which were a number of visiting cards. One of these belonged to Mr. A. Evans, of Liverpool, and a subsequent visitor had written on it the date of his death in the central gully of Llewedd. One of us produced a card, on which the other two wrote their names. The dark young fellow signed his name ‘O. G. Jones.’ I wonder if that card is there still.
That afternoon and the following day he plied me with questions about Switzerland. How did the climbing there compare with these rocks? Had I climbed the Matterhorn? Did I think he could do it?—absurd question—and so on. Restless, eagerly active, very strong, good-tempered, enthusiastic, he was a man one could not forget. We parted after a day’s acquaintance. I never dreamed I should see him again.
His companion on that occasion was another South Kensington man, Dr. Sumpner, now of Birmingham. The next time we met was at Jones’s grave in Evolena. During our conversations at that first brief meeting I learned that Jones was at South Kensington; he told me he first learned serious climbing on Cader Idris; I marvelled at his wonderful grip of the rocks, his steady head, his extraordinary power of balancing himself on one foot in what seemed to me then almost impossible positions, and I felt that his enthusiasm would soon lead him to the Alps, if any opportunity offered. His heart was already there. Yet he was so ignorant of the ‘lingo’ of the climbing world that my use of the words ‘handholds’ and ‘footholds’ considerably amused him.
The following Easter he was again among the Lake Mountains, having devoted the Whitsuntide and Christmas holidays of the preceding year to his favourite pursuit, the last mentioned period being spent in North Wales. I hurry over his climbing in the Lake District for the very sufficient reason that in this volume, so characteristic of its author, his work there is described by himself with all the accuracy of a trained scientist, and with all the enthusiasm of an ardent mountaineer. Descriptions of all these climbs were kept by him in numerous small notebooks, full of neat shorthand with dates, proper names, &c., written in, and with occasional pen and ink sketches of his routes up crags and gullies to illustrate the shorthand notes. Full of mournful interest are these touches of a vanished hand, these silent echoes of a voice that is still.
It was, I believe, during this Easter of 1891 that he met Mr. Monro, to whose enthusiasm he was subsequently wont to attribute his first visit to the Alps, which took place in the autumn of that year. The result of that meeting and the wonderful amount of climbing in ‘the playground of Europe’ that Jones managed to cram into eight short years must be reserved for another chapter.
CHAPTER II
CONQUERING THE ALPS
In the autumn of 1891 Owen Jones was an unsuccessful candidate for the Professorship of Physics at University College, Aberystwyth, and almost immediately afterwards he was the successful candidate for the post of Physics Master in the City of London School, which he was occupying at the time of his death. In the previous year, 1890, he had taken his B.Sc. degree in London University, coming out third in the list of First Class Honours in Experimental Physics. These facts are mentioned here now, somewhat out of their proper chronological order, because, with the exception of a few papers he contributed to magazines (the Alpine Journal, the Climber’s Journal, and Cassell’s Magazine) and sundry newspaper articles, they are the only facts that need be mentioned in his otherwise uneventful, though busy, life.
Jones’ real life was lived among his beloved mountains. His devotion to them was unsurpassable, his zeal was consuming, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. In the summer holidays of 1891 he had his first introduction to the Alps. His most original work was undoubtedly done among the rocks of his native Wales and in the English Lake country, but he flung himself into Alpine work with all the ardour and energy of which his peculiarly ardent and energetic nature was capable. He spared neither time, money, nor comfort in his devotion to the noblest and most exacting of all sports—that of mountaineering.
The following table—very imperfect, I fear—compiled by his own hand up to the close of 1897, and for 1898 and 1899, from letters kindly sent to me by his friends, will give some idea of his marvellous physical endurance and the extent of his knowledge of the Alps. His own portion of the list was found in his handwriting in his copy of Cunningham and Abney’s ‘Pioneers of the Alps’:—
| 1891 | Dent des Bosses | ||
| Grande Dent de Veisivi | |||
| Pas de Chèvres | |||
| Col de Seilon | |||
| Col de Fénètre | |||
| M. Capucin | |||
| Tête de Cordon | |||
| Tête d’Ariondet | |||
| Grand Combin | |||
| Grivola | |||
| 1892 | Thälihorn | ||
| Rossbodenjoch | |||
| Matterhorn | |||
| [1]Mittaghorn and Egginerhorn | |||
| Punta di Fontanella | |||
| 2 cols to Prerayen | |||
| Col d’Olen | |||
| Combin de Corbassière | |||
| Col de Boveire | |||
| Fénètre de Saleinaz | |||
| Col de Chardonnet | |||
| Pic du Tacul | |||
| M. Redessan | |||
| 1893 | Dent Blanche (This was in April, 36 hours.) No summer season in Alps. | ||
| 1894 | Piz Languard | ||
| Piz Morteratsch | |||
| Zwei Schwestern | |||
| Piz Bernina | |||
| Croda da Lago | |||
| Kleine Zinne | |||
| Grosse Zinne | |||
| M. Pelmo | |||
| M. Cristallo | |||
| Sorapis | |||
| Cinque Torri (3 ways) | |||
| 1895 | Rothhorn from Zermatt | ||
| Rothhorn from Zinal | |||
| Traverse Zinal to Zermatt | |||
| Riffelhorn from Glacier | |||
| Dom from Randa | |||
| Täschhorn and Dom (traversed from the Mischabeljoch to Randa—first time by this route—in one day) | |||
| Monte Rosa | |||
| Rimpfischhorn (from Adler Pass) | |||
| Matterhorn (traverse) | |||
| Weisshorn | |||
| Obergabelhorn | |||
| Grand Cornier | |||
| Triftjoch | |||
| Furggenjoch | |||
| Lysjoch | |||
| Süd-Lenzspitze (traverse) | |||
| Nadelhorn | |||
| Hohberghorn | |||
| Steck-Nadelhorn (?) | |||
| 1896 | Little Dru | ||
| Blaitière | |||
| Col du Géant (twice) | |||
| Charmoz (traverse) | |||
| Aig. du Plan | |||
| Aig. du Midi | |||
| N. peak Périades (by the Arête du Capucin) | |||
| 1897 | Schreckhorn (in January) | ||
| Finsteraarhorn | |||
| Jungfrau | |||
| Aletschorn (traverse) | |||
| Beichgrat | |||
| Bietschhorn | |||
| Lötschenlücke | |||
| Mönch | |||
| Mönchjoch | |||
| Eiger | |||
| Aig. d’Argentière | |||
| Aig. Moine (traverse) | |||
| Aig. Tacul (traverse) | |||
| Col du Midi | |||
| Portiengrat | } | In one day | |
| Weissmies | } | ||
| Fletschhorn | } | In one day | |
| Laquinhorn | } | ||
| 1898 | In winter: From Grindelwald to Rosenlaui by the Wetterhorn-Sattel, Finsteraarjoch, and Strahlegg | ||
| Two Drus (attempted traverse) | |||
| Big Dru | |||
| Grèpon (traverse) | |||
| Dent de Requin | |||
| Aiguille du Chardonnet | |||
| Aiguille du Midi | |||
| Mont Maudit | |||
| Mont Blanc (traverse) | |||
| Aiguille du Géant | |||
| Two Drus (traverse) | |||
| Riffelhorn | |||
| Wellenkuppe and Gabelhorn | |||
| Lyskamm and Castor | |||
| Alphubel, Rimpfischhorn, and Strahlhorn | |||
| Allalinhorn | |||
| Dent Blanche by South Arête | |||
| Täschhorn by Teufelsgrat | |||
| Dom, Täschhorn, and Kienhorn, descending by Teufelsgrat | |||
| 1899 | Riffelhorn | } | In his first five days at Zermatt |
| Pollux | } | ||
| Breithorn (traversed from Schwarzthor) | } | ||
| Six chief points of Monte Rosa | } | ||
| Matterhorn | |||
| Cols d’Hérens and Bertol | |||
| Petite Dent de Veisivi | } | In 12 hours from Kurhaus Hotel and back | |
| Grande” | } | ||
| Dent Perroc | } | ||
| Aig. de la Za (by face) | |||
| Aig. Rouges (traverse of all peaks) | |||
| Mt. Blanc de Seilon in one day | |||
| Dent des Bouquetins | |||
| Mt. Collon | |||
| Pigne d’Arolla | |||
| Dent Blanche (West Arête attempt) | |||
I cannot pretend that this list is perfect, and the brief notes I append are intended rather to give in a small space some of the points of human interest in the above bald list of names than for his mountaineering friends, to whom anything that could be printed here could convey little or nothing that was new.
It is a coincidence that he commenced his acquaintance with the Alps in the very valleys—Ferpècle and Arolla—in which he spent the last days of his life, and down which his friends mournfully escorted his body eight years later. It was on one of the Dents de Veisivi (the Petite Dent) that, in 1898, Professor Hopkinson, one of Jones’ numerous climbing friends, met his death with his two daughters and his son. As we walked down the Arolla valley the day before he fell from the Dent Blanche, Owen Jones was chatting, with a wonderful freshness of recollection of detail, of his climb up the Grand Combin during his first season in the Alps, and I believe the guide who led him up then was one of the search party from Evolena who found his body on the rocks of the Dent Blanche.
The earlier climbs of 1892 were described by him in a paper entitled ‘The Dom Grat and the Fletschhorn Ridge,’ which appeared in the Alpine Journal in 1898. A brief quotation from his own account will give some idea of the easy vivacity of his style.
Speaking of the Saas peaks which ‘were designed in pairs,’ he writes:—
‘It is, perhaps, to our credit that we took an easy pair first—the Mittaghorn and the Egginer—but our stay at Saas that year was to be short, and we could not afford to fail at higher work. A couple of Saas loafers undertook to guide us, but proved to be lamentably weak. They shed tears and ice-axes, and required much help from us dismayed amateurs. Then we left the district, and before my next visit my comrades were scattered over the globe, beyond the seductive influence of axe and rope.’
How characteristic of poor Jones the whole of that passage is! The unconcealed evidence of his own great physical strength, the playful sense of humour—his friends will remember how he used to explain his own initials, O.G., as standing for the ‘Only Genuine Jones’—in the words ‘they shed tears and ice-axes,’ and the touch of pathos, in the light of after events, of the phrase ‘beyond the seductive influence of axe and rope.’
The omission of the names of the Mittaghorn and Egginerhorn from Jones’s own list in 1892 shows that even his own record cannot be regarded as complete, a thing not to be wondered at considering the enormous amount of work he did.
It will be noticed that in this year, as in the year before and in 1894, Jones has entered the names of peaks and passes that in the succeeding years he would have considered quite unworthy of serious notice.
But next year he ventured on a feat that, so far as I know, was not only extraordinary for one with comparatively so little experience of the higher Alps, magnificent climber though he was, but it has remained, I believe, unique in the annals of the great mountain on which it was performed. At Easter, 1893, Jones climbed the Dent Blanche, the mountain with which his name will be for ever associated in the climbing world. The ascent was made on the 25th and 26th April, and the expedition took thirty-six hours, a wonderful feat of strength and endurance. M. Adrien Spahr, the landlord of the Hotel de la Dent Blanche at Evolena, and of the new Kurhaus at Arolla (from which Jones started the day before his last, fatal climb), has kindly favoured me with the following brief note in reference to that expedition:—
‘C’est bien le 25 Avril, 1893, que Monsieur Jones a fait l’ascension de la Dent Blanche avec les guides Pierre Gaspoz et Antoine Bovier père d’Evolène. Je suis redescendu moi-même avec lui depuis Evolène à Sion.’
In an interview which appeared in the press in 1894 Jones said of this climb, one of the most difficult things he ever did:—‘The longest day I ever had afoot was at Easter, ’93, doing the Dent Blanche. We took two guides and a porter, and had great difficulty in getting them to attempt the last two hundred feet. We were out in the open for thirty-six hours, with very short rests, no sleep, and excessive labour, but we revelled in every minute of it. The mountain was in a dangerous condition, and the last five hours on the way home we spent in wading, waist-deep, through soft snow. It was rather painful, of course, but there was a certain pleasure even in our pain, for it helped to make philosophers of us. We agreed to think of other things in the midst of our sufferings, and we succeeded creditably well. I believe now that I could stand almost anything in the way of pain or exposure.’
In 1894 he commenced in the Engadine and then went on to the Dolomites, where his great skill as a cragsman and his familiarity with all sorts of rock-work made him much more at home than he yet was among the snow-peaks, as his list shows. On rocks I think it is not using the exaggerated language of friendship to say that he probably had no superior among his countrymen at the time of his death, and comparatively few equals. Among the great snow-peaks he had not attained so high a level. Had he lived he would, I believe, have ranked with the greatest, for he had not done all he was capable of; and when he met his death he was still in his prime, and he was a man of great courage, immense resourcefulness, and phenomenal physical endurance.
In 1895 he devoted himself largely to the reduction of the great peaks in the Zermatt district, some of which he already knew. In that year also he returned to the Dom Grat and the Fletschhorn Ridge, whose acquaintance he had made in 1892. The following passage from the Alpine Journal derives an added interest from the fact that Elias Furrer was his guide then, as he was his guide on the last, fatal climb:—
‘In August, 1895, Elias Furrer took me from the Täsch Alp to the Mischabeljoch, and thence over the Täschhorn and Dom to Randa, a course of seventeen and a half hours, including halts. Shortly afterwards Mr. W. E. Davidson followed our route from the Mischabeljoch. During the same week Furrer showed me a third pair of the Saas peaks. We bivouacked on the Eggfluh rocks one bitterly cold night, and next day traversed the Südlenspitze and Nadelhorn. The usual grande course is to include the Ulrichshorn, and descend to Saas again; but Furrer had business and I fresh raiment at Zermatt, and we hastened over the Stecknadelhorn (or was it the Hohberghorn?), and thence by the Hohberg Pass and Festi glacier down to Randa in fourteen hours from the start.’
His energy in climbing this year was remarkable, I had almost said stupendous. In addition to the long climbs referred to in the above extract, it will be seen from the list given above that he twice ascended the Zinal Rothhorn, traversed the Obergabelhorn and Matterhorn, and did two important climbs without guides. The ascent of the Rothhorn from Zinal was the first that Mr. Hill and he made together in Switzerland. The traverse of the Rothhorn and the ascent of the Weisshorn he did without guides, in company with the Hopkinsons, who perished in 1898 on the Petite Dent de Veisivi. Mr. W. J. Williams, who climbed much with Jones in the Alps, has kindly placed in my hands a very characteristic post-card of Jones’s, giving, in his own brief, vivacious way, a clearer idea of his boundless enthusiasm and energy in his favourite sport than anything that anyone else could write. It is dated ‘Bellevue, Zermatt, Monday, Sept. 2, 1895,’ and reads as follows:—‘The Hopkinsons and I traversed the Rothhorn without guides in grand style. Reached the summit from the Mountet in 4¼ hours, including ¾ hour halt. Had a shock of earthquake on the top. Next day we went up to the Weisshorn, bivouac in open air, and the day after managed the Weisshorn. It was delightful. Then they went off to their people at the Bel Alp, and I stayed on at Zermatt ever since. The weather was bad at the end of the week (Weisshorn on Friday), but on Monday I crossed the Furggenjoch with Elias Furrer, whom I took on for 14 days at 20 francs, and Tuesday traversed the Matterhorn; Wednesday, the Monte Rosa hut; Thursday, Monte Rosa from the Lysjoch, a lengthy expedition, but magnificent; I carried my camera the whole time; Friday, the Fluh Alp; Saturday, the traverse of Rimpfischhorn from the Adler pass, dangerous by falling stones, but very jolly; Sunday, I rested and photographed down here. To-day I go to the Täsch Alp, and to-morrow shall attempt the traverse of Täschhorn and Dom in one day. If the weather still holds I shall then traverse the Dent Blanche, which is now in fine condition, like ourselves. Love to all.—Owen.’
Lived there ever a keener mountaineer? On the day before he was killed, as we were walking down the Arolla Valley together, I expressed surprise at the vast amount of eager work he was crushing into every week. He replied, ‘You see there are only a few years in which I can do this sort of thing, and I want to get as much into them as possible.’ Alas! Owen Jones had not twenty-four hours more; the years were ended.
The season of 1896 was a terribly bad one and Jones suffered with less energetic and less daring mortals. In the Alpine Journal he laments that he only did six peaks, but he crossed the Col du Géant twice, traversed the Aiguille de Charmoz, and did the North peak of the Périades by the Arête du Capucin. And the disappointments of that summer season had the effect of sending him to the Alps in the following winter—his first winter visit. He deserted his favourite Christmas hunting grounds, Wastdale Head Inn and Pen-y-gwrwd, for the Bear Hotel at Grindelwald. It so happened that I was there when he arrived. On the last day of 1896 I had made an unsuccessful attempt on the Schreckhorn after being out fourteen and a half hours, and after an accident to the leading guide, which confined him to bed for three weeks. I returned to Grindelwald and thence to England. Jones, who had just come out, determined to climb the Sehreckhorn. The first attempt failed, as the snow was in very bad condition, and he only got as far as the hut, where he spent a far from comfortable night. A few days later, however, he made a second attempt with successful results. Both in print and in manuscript he has left an account of the two expeditions. I quote a short passage—it has not too close a relation to the climbs, but it illustrates the playful humour which made Jones so charming and vivacious a companion, alike in an alpine hut or in the smoke room of ‘P.Y.G.’
‘I approach for a moment with some delicacy the threadbare topic of the insect population of alpine huts, the fauna of the alpine bed. In summertime the traveller must not assume that the straw on which he lies is more dead than alive. Carelessness in this respect may cost him his peak next day; he should bring Keating and use it liberally. But in winter he is almost safe and unmolested. Some say that the fleas go down to the valley with the last autumn party, and come up in the early summer with the first tourists. Others think that they hibernate in the warmest corners of the hut and make it a rule to emerge only when it is well worth while. An occasional winter tourist is probably too tough, his attractions too few. The solution of the problem I must leave to others. It will probably be offered by some conscientious German biologist, in an exhaustive illustrated monograph, published in the Mittheilungen.’
The autumn holidays of this year were again very busy ones. Jones spent them in the Alps, and, as his list shows, his climbs included the traverse of the Aletschhorn, Aiguille du Moine, and Pic du Tacul. He did the Portiengrat and Weissmies in one day, and the Fletschhorn and Laquinhorn in another. Young Emil Imseng was his guide, and he found Jones rather too hungry for peaks to be the easiest sort of patron to travel with. When they had done the Portiengrat he had had enough for one day, so he suggested that Jones should rest. But he did not know his ‘Herr;’ the Weissmies was taken that day likewise.
In 1898 Jones again paid a winter visit to the Alps. Grindelwald was a second time his centre. He crossed from there to Rosenlaui by the Wetterhorn-Sattel, and crossed the Finsteraarjoch and the Strahlegg.
In the Summer of 1898 he went first to Chamounix, and afterwards to Zermatt, and got through a portentous amount of work. He began by attempting the traverse of the two Drus, but failed owing to bad weather. However, he climbed the Grand Dru, and then in rapid succession the Grépon, Dent du Requin, Aiguille du Chardonnet, Aiguille du Midi, Mont Maudit, traversed Mont Blanc, climbed the Aiguille du Géant, and finished up in that district by accomplishing his formerly thwarted purpose, and traversing both the Grand and the Petit Dru.
Then he came on to Zermatt. He climbed the Riffelhorn again (by the Matterhorn Couloir), did the two peaks of the Lyskamm (in conversation with me the last time I met him he seemed to think this the most difficult thing he had ever done) and Castor, Strahlhorn and Rimpfischhorn, Wellen Kuppe and Gabelhorn, Allalinhorn and Alphubel, Dent Blanche (by the south arête), the Täschhorn by the Teufelsgrat, and the traverse of the Dom, Täschhorn and Kienhorn.
I was standing outside the Monte Rosa Hotel, in the main street of Zermatt, one bright sunny day, that summer, when early in the afternoon Jones, with his two guides, came in from one of these climbs. He had been frequently doing two peaks in one day (I believe he had once done three). All the party showed signs of wear and tear, but Jones was the freshest of the three. His face and hands were as brown as berries, covered with dust and sweat; his clothes were literally in rags, torn to pieces on the rocks. Yet in a few minutes he had washed, changed into the garb of civilization, and reappeared as fresh in body and as vigorous and vivacious intellectually as if he had undergone no fatigue at all. Twenty hours’ physical work did not appear to take as much out of him as five hours does out of humbler mortals.
It was just about this time that his friends the Hopkinsons were killed in the Arolla Valley. Jones was a good deal upset by the news, and knocked off climbing for a couple of days, a wonderful thing for him; but then he resumed as busily as ever. Of the climbing skill both of Dr. Hopkinson and of his young son, who was killed with him, he spoke in the highest terms. He had frequently climbed with both.
I have said little of Jones’s British climbs, for the simple reason that the fullest and best record of his work in Lakeland is contained in the book to which this brief memoir is prefixed, and his work in Wales (which he also intended to describe in a volume) is not so easily accessible or so fully recorded in any published documents as is his work in the Alps. Apparently there does not exist among his papers any list of his Welsh climbs, though he kept voluminous shorthand notes of almost everything he did in the climbing world; but it is not possible, in the short space and time at my disposal, to attempt to give from them any complete picture of the work he did in Wales. The Messrs. Abraham, however, have kindly placed in my hands the following brief notes of some of the most remarkable experiences they have had in company with Jones, both in Wales and in the Lake District:
‘Two climbs with Mr. Jones are most strongly impressed on our memories, and these two would probably rank as the two finest rock climbs made in our district.
‘These are Scawfell Pinnacle from the second pitch in Deep Ghyll in 1896, and the conquest of the well-known Walker’s Gully on the Pillar Rock in January, 1899.
‘Both of these were generally considered impossible, and it is probably no exaggeration to say that no leader excepting Mr. Jones would have had confidence to advance beyond the ledge where the last arête commenced on the Scawfell Pinnacle climb.
‘The same thing might be still more emphatically said of the last pitch in Walker’s Gully, and to those who know the place it is almost incredible that the climb could even be commenced under such conditions as prevailed during the first ascent.
‘We visited North Wales with Mr. Jones in 1897, and explored the climbs in the Cader Idris district. The finest climb in this district is the Great Gully above Llyn-y-Cae on Mynydd Pencoed, and Mr. Jones was the first explorer and climber of this and most of the Cader Idris climbs. Some time was also spent at Penygwryd during this visit, but unsuitable weather prevented any climbs of importance being done.
‘Shortly after Easter, 1899, Mr. Jones paid his next visit to North Wales, and on this occasion much new and first-class climbing was done from Ogwen Cottage as centre.
‘The second ascent of Twll Du was made by a party led by Mr. Jones, and shortly afterwards the two great gullies to the right of Twll Du were first ascended under Mr. Jones’ leadership. Amongst several minor first ascents the gully in the Eastern Buttress of Glyder Fach and the first direct ascent of the Northern Buttress on Tryfaen from Cwm-y-Tryfaen are most worthy of note.
‘The following Whitsuntide again saw Mr. Jones at Ogwen Cottage, but the weather conditions were such as to prevent any very notable climbing being recorded.
‘Of course it is impossible to give in the space at my disposal any idea of the large amount of climbing done in these various districts by Mr. Jones.
‘To one with his abnormal physical powers, and true love and enthusiasm for the mountains the most was generally made of every opportunity to climb.
‘He was never so happy as when in a really ‘tight’ place, and to many climbers the spirit and energy shown by him under most trying circumstances will act as an incentive to worthy imitation.
‘As a climber he was unique, and many years must elapse ere another can hope to fill his place worthily; but, as a friend under all circumstances, he was always to be depended upon, for the weakest and heaviest members in every party were generally his special care, and many can never forget his true unselfishness and the kindly way in which personal blunders were criticised.
‘Whether the party was struggling up a waterfall or resting shivering and wet under a huge chock-stone, or clinging desperately to a wind-swept ridge or icy couloir, everyone felt happy with Jones as their comforter and leader.
‘The musical gatherings in the evenings seem now to lack one voice, and nought but sadness can be left for many of those who remember companionships which can never be replaced.’
CHAPTER III
THE LAST SEASON IN THE ALPS
I come now to the last season in the Alps, the season of 1899. The first part of his holiday was spent at Zermatt, and then he and Hill met by arrangement at the Kurhaus at Arolla. They soon got to work, beginning with the two Dents de Veisivi (the scene of the accident to the Hopkinsons the previous year) and the Dent Perroc, in twelve hours from the Kurhaus and back. Then followed the Aiguille de la Za by the face, a traverse of all the peaks of the Aiguilles Rouges, Mont Blanc de Seilon and the Pigne d’Arolla in one day, the Dent des Bouquetins, and the traverse of Mont Collon. A slight accident to one of the party of which I was a member, necessitated an unexpected descent on the evening of August 26th to Arolla, in the hope of finding a doctor. There was none there, but we found many friends and acquaintances, among them being Owen Jones. On the morning of Sunday 27th, our party left for Evolena just after breakfast, as we heard there was a German doctor there, and we wanted our wounded member attended to without delay. Just as we were starting we found Jones and Hill leaving also, intending to traverse the Dent Blanche, climbing it by the west arête, which had only been done twice before, and we all hoped shortly to meet again in Zermatt.
It was a bright sunny morning, hot and dusty. For a good part of the way from Arolla to Haudères I chatted to Jones. We did not go very fast on account of the damaged member of our party, about whom Jones was very solicitous. He himself seemed very fit, and was full of life and enthusiasm for his favourite passion. He chatted freely of all his climbs, of our first meeting nine years before, of all that had happened since, of frostbite on the Dom, and the remedy—sticking his fingers into boiling glue—worse than the disease. His traverse of the ice arête between the two peaks of the Lyskamm and his Easter ascent of the Dent Blanche seemed to me to have made the deepest impression on him of all his achievements in the mountains. He was rather inclined to underrate his wonderful rock-work in North Wales and in the Lake District, a department in which, in my opinion, he was really greatest, though his feats of endurance in the Alps were something off the common. He told me that his ambitions inclined towards a tour in the Himalayas, if circumstances allowed of his realising that dream.
At Haudères we parted company. Hill and Jones, with their guides, who met them at Haudères, turned up to Ferpècle; we went on to Evolena. If my friend’s health permitted, I had arranged to see Jones in Zermatt on Tuesday afternoon. Difficult as was the expedition he was undertaking, the awful reality of the morrow never crossed my mind even as a possibility. A stronger or more well-equipped party I had never seen start on an expedition. It was about 12-30 when we all said good-bye.
At Evolena the doctor ordered our invalid a day or two of complete rest. So on Monday morning the third member of our party, with his guide, started for the Col de la Meina to return to his wife, whom he had left in the Val des Bagnes, from which we had come. For the sake of the walk I accompanied them to the top of the Col. About 9-15, just before we lost sight of the west arête of the Dent Blanche, I searched the arête with my field glasses to see if any trace of Jones and Hill’s party could be detected. None of us could see anything, so we concluded, as the mountain was in very good condition, that they had probably already got to the top, and were then descending by the south arête. But they were still on the arête, though we failed to see them on the dark rocks. Had it been three-quarters of an hour later we might actually have been witnesses of the accident.
On the top of the Col de la Meina we were caught by a storm of mist and rain, blowing up from the west. I bade adieu to my friends and hastened back to Evolena. That was the mist which caught Mr. Hill on the gendarme in his descent after the accident and detained him 22 hours alone on the great mountain.
But of the accident no one dreamed. No premonition, no presentiment, troubled our thoughts. Monday and Tuesday passed quietly and uneventfully for us.
On Wednesday morning my friend got permission from his doctor to walk up to Arolla for lunch. We gladly availed ourselves of the new freedom.
At Arolla we found many of Jones’s friends hoping to meet him shortly in the Zermatt Valley. On our way back to Evolena we passed the body of the Tiroler guide, Reinstadler, of Sulden, which was being carried down the valley. He had been killed on Monday, August 28th—that black and fatal day in the Evolena Valley—by falling into a crevasse on the Pigne d’Arolla.
As we re-entered the garden of our hotel, M. Spahr met us looking very grave. ‘Had we heard of the great accident on the Dent Blanche?’ For the first time the thought of danger to Jones and Hill crossed my mind. I quickly asked him for details, telling him why I was apprehensive.
He had had a telegram from Dr. Seiler from Zermatt, which he showed me. It was in French and ran something like this: ‘A tourist and three guides have fallen from the Dent Blanche. A caravan of guides is starting from Zermatt to look for the bodies, which will reach Haudères about six o’clock to-morrow evening. Have four coffins ready at Haudères. I am coming round myself.—Seiler.’
Four bodies! This could not be Jones and Hill’s party, there would be five or three, for they had intended to make the ascent on two ropes, three and two respectively on each. If all five had been roped together, one could not have been saved. My mind grew easier. So we reason when we do not know.
But I could not avoid thinking of the awful accident, and as I thought my fears returned. No other party had left the Evolena Valley for the Dent Blanche that week. The bodies had fallen on the Evolena side. It was improbable they had climbed from the Zermatt side. Could it be that the fifth body had not been seen? One climber and three guides was a most unusual party? I grew uneasy again, and finally telegraphed to Dr. Seiler: ‘Have Messrs. Jones and Hill arrived?’
While we were waiting for dinner and a reply, a voice hailed me by name out of the gathering gloom. It was that of Mr. Harold Spender, who had just driven up the valley with his sister and a younger brother, Mr. Hugh Spender. We exchanged greetings and discussed the accident. I told them what I feared.
We were sitting in the balcony outside the hotel in the summer darkness when a villager put a yellow telegraph envelope in my hand. I hastily tore it open, and this is what I read: ‘M. Hill arrived safely this morning, but Jones and three guides fell an hour and a half from the top on Monday morning.—Seiler.’
Owen Glynne Jones was dead. My mind almost reeled at the fact. Intellectually I knew it must be so, but I was utterly unable to realise it. I could almost hear the sound of his voice and the rattle of the nails of his dusty boots on the stones that last Sunday morning. But his voice was stilled for ever.
And Hill! He had escaped, but how? Where had he been since Monday morning? Out on the mountain alone, without guides, or food, or drink. The thing was incredible, impossible. But the impossible and the incredible was true.
At eleven o’clock fifteen guides and Mr. Harold Spender started as a search party. My injured friend and myself went with them as far as we could. The little village was already in darkness, swathed in sorrow. For the telegram that brought me news of Jones’ death announced the death of a village guide too.
In the chapel only lights burned. It was the vigil round the body of Reinstadler. Silently and sadly we tramped up the valley along the carriage road to Haudères. Then in single file, like an army on a night march, we marched up the steep and narrow path to Ferpècle. Far below us, on our right, the torrent roared. We picked precarious steps by the light of our lanterns and the aid of our axes. We talked little and in muffled tones.
We reached Ferpècle about 1.30 a.m. on Thursday. The hamlet was asleep. The guides broke eight huge poles out of the fences of the fields and from the outbuildings. Grim duty! The poles were to make four rude biers on which to carry the bodies down.
Between 3 and 4 a.m. we gained the Bricolla Alp, where Jones and Hill had slept the night before the fatal climb. The kindly shepherd provided us with milk and a fire—it was now very cold—and we produced provisions from our rücksacks and had a much-needed meal. It was a curious sight—the little stone hut, a big wood fire blazing in a hole in the floor, pails of milk all round the walls on shelves, a circle of rough weather-beaten men, their faces lighted by the flickering flames and by the uncertain light of one or two of our lanterns. Rembrandtesque—and profoundly sad.
A little after four we went out. The grey dawn was just breaking, but a cold, thick, clammy white mist had swept down on the alp and chilled us to the bone. At the top of the moraine my friend and I had to turn back. We should only have been a hindrance had we gone on, as both of us were damaged. Spender and the guides went forward. Let Mr. Spender describe the rest.
‘At four the column resumed its way. Rain had begun to fall and a dense mist was closing down upon us. But it was soon light enough to put out our lanterns, and courage came with the dawn. We rounded the alp, and then began to climb the long, dreary moraines which lead up to the glacier. The guides went at a terrific pace. But it was good to be taken into this noble fraternity—to be accepted as a comrade and not as a “climber”—to be honoured by a share in the generous quest.
‘But the pace soon slackened. We halted on the edge of the glacier, roped in fours, and began to search gingerly for a way through the terrific ice-fall of the glacier. We were mounting by the old approach to the Dent Blanche, up the ice-fall, now long since abandoned. The glacier was, of course, quite changed since any of these guides had last visited it. The ice was split and rent into every conceivable shape. We were surrounded with leaning towers of ice, threatening at any moment to fall on us and crush us.
‘A great pile of seracs on the Northern ice-fall, across the ridge, fell with a mighty crash. Away to the right we could hear the thunder of avalanches. But never for a moment did the guides hesitate. Steadily and unflinchingly they threaded their way between the menacing seracs. Crossing broken fragments of ice, balancing between profound crevasses, not thwarted but ever searching for a way. At last we suddenly struck upon the tracks of Jones’ party away to the North side of the glacier close to the rocks. There we scrambled up, half by the rocks and half by the ice, and then at last, after many hours, found ourselves on the great plateau beneath the long snow couloir running down from the West Ridge. There, if anywhere, they were likely to be. And there, high up among the rocks, we could just see, with the aid of a good telescope, some dark objects which were not rocks.
‘“There are our friends,” said the guides.
‘Yes, there was no doubt of it. It was now ten o’clock and the sky had cleared. A party was formed, and mounted the rocks to fetch the bodies. As they climbed, suddenly another army of men appeared below us, above the ice-fall, advancing swiftly. They were the party of the Zermatt Guides. They came on unroped, climbing fast. It was a magnificent sight to see this troop of giants in their own element, a troop of equals, masters of peril. They halted below the rocks and sent up another small band to join the Evolena Guides. There was a long pause, and then they all began to descend, bringing the bodies.
‘I will draw a veil over what we found. Men cannot fall many thousands of feet and lie in artistic attitudes.... But it was four o’clock before the Bricolla hut was reached, and darkness had fallen before the bodies came to Haudères. The Zermatt Guides were out for twenty-four hours, and the Evolena Guides over twenty.’
Mr. W. R. Rickmers, a German resident in England, and a member of the Alpine Club, sends the following to the Alpine Journal:—
‘Mr. Seiler sent out thirty guides under Alois Supersaxo. Dr. R. Leuk, Mr. K. Mayr, and Mr. W. R. Rickmers joined them. We left the Staffelalp at 10 p.m. on August 30th, reached the Col d’Hérens at 6 a.m. on the 31st, in fog and snow, which cleared away later on. Descended Ferpècle Glacier towards termination of W. ridge of Dent Blanche, and ascended the small glacier which comes down from point 3,912 on the S. arête. At the spot under the “g” in “Rocs rouges” this glacier forms an icefall (moderately difficult), and besides that a bit of the Glacier de la Dent Blanche hangs over the narrowest part of the W. ridge. We then came to the foot of a great gully. On the map it is the first one from W., and it is very clearly indicated. In the rocks to the right of the couloir (looking down) and about three hundred feet above the rim of the glacier, the bodies were found. It was about 10 a.m., and a party of Evolena guides, accompanied by Mr. Harold Spender, was already on the spot.
‘The height above sea-level was ca. 3,600-3,700 m. Straight above, on the ridge, one saw a smooth cliff (ca. 400-500 feet below summit), and if that was the fatal mauvais pas the fall must have been about 1,500-1,700 feet in a series of clear drops of many hundred feet. The rope was intact between Furrer and Zurbriggen.
‘The guides did their work well; the icefall, of course, caused a great deal of trouble.’
While the search party was crossing the glacier and the snow-fields, I watched them through my glasses. Presently the sun got the better of the morning mist, and the pure white snow gleamed beautifully. Then from the Col d’Hérens there swept a tiny, serpentine black line, moving fast. It was men. I turned my glasses on them. They were the Zermatt party, some thirty strong, advancing at a rare pace. It was a beautiful sight, so masterful, so sure was their progress.
As the long, hot hours of mid-day passed, I descended to Ferpècle, and sent up a boy with food and drink for the certainly wearied searchers when they returned from their sad duties. At length they came, drawing the bodies over the grass slopes till they reached a path where they could be carried on their shoulders. Darkness had fallen when we reached Haudères.
Late on Friday night Mr. Hill came round for the funeral. His voice seemed to me strangely altered. Otherwise he had come through his terrible experience wonderfully, thanks to a splendid constitution and nerves of steel. Then first I heard the true story of the accident. I reproduce his own account from the Alpine Journal. All had roped together early in the climb, and the accident took place about ten o’clock. Mr. Hill says:—
‘When I reached the level of the others, Furrer was attempting to climb the buttress, but, finding no holds, he called to Zurbriggen to hold an axe for him to stand on. Apparently he did not feel safe, for he turned his head and spoke to Jones, who then went to hold the axe steady. Thus we were all on the same level, Vuignier being some twenty-five or thirty feet distant from them and also from me. Standing on the axe, which was now quite firm, Furrer could reach the top of the buttress, and attempted to pull himself up; but the fingerholds were insufficient, and before his foot had left the axe his hands slipped, and he fell backwards on to Zurbriggen and Jones, knocking them both off, and all three fell together. I turned to the wall to get a better hold, and did not see Vuignier pulled off, but heard him go, and knew that my turn would soon come. And when it did not I looked round, and saw my four companions sliding down the slope at a terrific rate, and thirty feet of rope swinging slowly down below me.
‘It is difficult to analyse my sensations at that moment. My main feeling was one of astonishment that I was still there. I can only suppose that Vuignier had belayed my rope securely to protect himself and me during our long wait on the traverse.
‘It must be admitted that Furrer did not choose the best route; but his choice is easy enough to understand, for the only alternative did not look inviting. At all events, it is certain that he acted on his own initiative. I say this reluctantly, and solely for the purpose of contradicting a statement I have read in an account of the accident—that he was induced by Jones to climb straight over the gendarme instead of going round it. It is a pity that historians, who must of necessity be ignorant of the facts, should go out of their way to make such conjectures.
‘The problem before me was a difficult one. It was quite impossible to climb down alone, and I could not expect to succeed where guides had failed; the only course open was to attempt to turn the gendarme on the right. This I succeeded in doing with great difficulty, owing to the ice on the rocks and the necessity of cutting up an ice slope in order to reach the ridge. In about another hour I gained the summit, and was greeted with a faint cooey, probably from the party we had seen. I could not see them nor make them hear, so made my way down with all reasonable speed, hoping to overtake them. When I reached the lowest gendarme—the one with a deep narrow fissure—a sudden mist hid everything from view. It was impossible to see the way off; and while I was trying various routes a snowstorm and cold wind drove me to seek shelter on the lee-side of the rocks. There, tied on with my rope, and still further secured by an ice-axe wedged firmly in front of me, I was forced to remain until mid-day on Tuesday. Then the mist cleared, and, climbing very carefully down the snow-covered rocks I reached the snow arête, where most of the steps had to be re-cut. The next serious difficulty was the lower part of the Wandfluh; I could not remember the way off, and spent two or three hours in futile efforts before I found a series of chimneys on the extreme right, leading down to the glacier. The sun set when I was on the high bank of moraine on the Zmutt Glacier, and in the growing darkness it was far from easy to keep the path. The light in the Staffel Alp inn was a guide as long as it lasted, but it went out early, and, keeping too low down, I passed the inn without seeing it, and being forced to stop by the nature of the ground, spent the night by the side of the torrent. It was late in the morning when I awoke, and then a scramble of a few minutes brought me to the path, near the sign-post, and I reached Zermatt at half-past eleven.’
Mr. Hill’s escape is one of the most wonderful in the history of mountaineering. His endurance and courage are not less remarkable. To have been out alone, in bad weather, without anything to eat save five raisins, and with nothing to drink but ice and snow, on a difficult and dangerous mountain, and to have returned safely is, I believe, a record in climbing annals. I may add a few details, given me by Mr. Hill when I first met him after the accident, which he has not reproduced in the above narrative.
He thinks his companions were killed instantaneously. They uttered no sound; they made no apparent attempt to save themselves. With arms outspread they rolled helplessly down the awful face of the mountain. He watched them for a few seconds, powerless to help, if help would indeed have availed, and then turned from the sickening sight.
During the last part of his descent, even his great strength began to fail. Once, on the Wandfluh, he lost his axe and had to spend an hour in climbing down to recover it, as it was absolutely essential to his safety. After he left the Zmutt glacier in darkness, he appears to have become delirious. He was constantly talking to imaginary companions. He fell into holes in the ground and went to sleep without strength to rise. He wakened from cold, called to his companions to go on as it was time to be leaving, stumbled, and fell asleep again.
On Saturday morning Dr. Sumpner arrived, having travelled straight through from Birmingham to Evolena. Friends tramped down from Arolla, others had come from Zermatt, the secretary of Jones’s section of the Swiss Alpine Club came from near Neuchâtel. A carriage bore Jones’s plain black coffin, with a gilt cross on it, down from Haudères. We buried him and the Evolena guide, Vuignier, in the little graveyard of the Roman Catholic church, almost in sight of the glorious, but terrible, mountain on which they met their fate. The scene in the village almost baffles description. All the villagers, men and women, attended the funeral, clad in coarse white robes. The grief of the women, especially of Vuignier’s poor old mother, was heart-rending to witness. The little Roman Catholic chapel was crowded, the congregation all in white, save the acolytes, two village boys, who served the altar in their coarse brown, everyday clothes, and the choir, whose strong voices rang through the whitewashed, humble building. A little knot of Englishmen, sunbrowned, of another faith or of no faith at all, joined in the impressive and solemn service. It was a sight that no one present can ever forget.
After the service, we bore the two coffins to the graveyard. Rev. Mr. Scott, the Anglican chaplain, read the English burial service over Owen Jones’s grave. Mr. Hill sent a beautiful wreath of edelweiss and the foliage of the Alpine rose. A rude wooden cross marked the spot till Jones’s friends erected a suitable gravestone. The lovely warm sunshine and the bright blue sky, and the gleaming snows on the slopes of the Dent Blanche, formed a curious contrast to the mourning of the village in that Alpine valley.
Thus perished, as he would, I doubt not, like to have died, Owen Glynne Jones, a brave and dashing mountaineer, a cheery and kindly friend, whose presence will be long missed by all who had the privilege of knowing him. His death was due to a pure accident, occurring when he was in the plenitude of his powers, and when he seemed just about to reap the reward of long years of patient, ardent toil.
W. M. CROOK.