Beaten back
Arrived on the snow slope opposite the rock face on which we had been climbing during the day, we stopped, extended the telescope, and tried to make out our exact line, and endeavoured also to discover what had been our error; no easy task, as any persons of experience will admit. At any time the appearance of this peak is deceptive, and the outline no more guides you to a knowledge of the natural details than does the outline of a fashionable lady’s dress. But as we looked the mountain seemed flattened out by reason of a blue evening mist which obscured all the irregularities. So we turned and resumed our journey down, running hard across the Mer de Glace, for the shades of night drew on apace, and reached Chamouni at 8.30 in the evening, leaving the guides at the Montanvert with half a bottle of thin red wine between three of them. We were overtaken by Edouard Cupelin, one of the best of the Chamouni guides, at [pg 94]any rate on rock mountains, on our way down, and he gave us a rather sensational account of his own adventures on the peak. In justice to him it should be mentioned that he was almost the only Chamouni guide who seemed to think the ascent possible, and in his opinion the general line that we had adopted was the correct one. Our second expedition thus from first to last occupied about 20½ hours, but the halts were not nearly so numerous as on the first occasion. The experience of our two days’ climbing led us to the conclusion that Cupelin was right. From the peculiar character of the rocks and the fact that our climbing lay chiefly along short flat gullies we were unable, as already remarked, to get a very clear idea of any part of the mountain except that on which we were actually engaged, and we were led to the opinion that the only plan to find a possible route would consist in trying in succession from below the different parts of the southern face. The final peak, which from this side shoots up clearly defined from the great mass of the mountain, seemed to us tolerably easy of ascent provided one could reach the base. A sort of depression extends three parts of the way round, and the edge of this shallow moat appeared to be defended by an inaccessible belt of vertical rock. The actual rocks were wholly unlike any met with elsewhere in our experience. Great vertical slabs were fitted together with an accuracy which was beautiful [pg 95]in its perfection, but irritating beyond conception to the climber. Progress upwards, when above the level of the col, necessitated a series of fatiguing gymnastics like swimming uphill, but the rocks where they were possible proved invariably firm and good. On both occasions we were stopped by sheer difficulty and probably saw the mountain at its very best. The snow on the rocks, which proved such a formidable difficulty to Mr. Pendlebury’s party, had almost entirely disappeared before our assault. The rocks were warm and the weather on the second day was perfect.
Results gained
Such is the history of our first two attempts to climb this mountain. They served but to whet our appetite for success, but it was not till years after that we were fortunate enough to meet with that success.
CHAPTER IV.
A DAY ACROSS COUNTRY
The art of meteorological vaticination—The climate we leave our homes for—Observations in the valley—The diligence arrives and shoots its load—Types of travellers—The Alpine habitué—The elderly spinster on tour—A stern Briton—A family party—We seek fresh snow-fields—The Bietschhorn—A sepulchral bivouac—On early starts and their curious effects on the temperament—A choice of routes—A deceptive ice gully—The avalanches on the Bietschhorn—We work up to a dramatic situation—The united party nearly fall out—A limited panorama—A race for home—Caught out—A short cut—Driven to extremities—The water jump—An aged person comes to the rescue—A classical banquet at Ried—The old curé and his hospitality—A wasted life?
The summer season of 1878 was one of the worst on record. Meteorologists, by a species of climatic paradox, might have had a fine time of it; mountaineers had a most wet and disagreeable time of it. The weather prophets easily established a reputation for infallibility—according to the accepted modern standard of vaticination—by predicting invariably evil things. They were thus right five times out of six, which will readily be acknowledged as very creditable in persons who were uninspired, save by a desire [pg 97]to exalt themselves in the eyes of their fellow tourists. But, as in the case of that singularly hopeful person Tantalus, the torture was rendered more artistic and aggravating by sporadic promise of better things. One day the rock aiguilles were powdered over and white-speckled with snow. The climber looked up longingly at the heights above, but visions of numbing cold and frost-bitten fingers caused him to thrust the latter members into his pockets and turn away with a sigh, to put it mildly, and avert his gaze from the chilling spectacle. Then would he follow his daily practice—his thrice-a-daily practice in all probability—of overeating himself. Perhaps, while still engaged at table d’hôte in consuming, at any rate in masticating, the multiform dish generically named “chevreuil,” the glow of a rosy sunset, and the hope of brighter things in store for the morrow, would attract him to the window.