JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL (1869)
Both were bold mountaineers, but Jean-Antoine was incomparably the better man of the two, and he is the finest rock-climber I have ever seen. He was the only man who persistently refused to accept defeat, and who continued to believe, in spite of all discouragements, that the great mountain was not inaccessible, and that it could be ascended from the side of his native valley.
The night wore away without any excitement, except from the fleas, a party of whom executed a spirited fandango on my cheek to the sound of music produced on the drum of my ear by one of their fellows beating with a wisp of hay. The two Carrels crept noiselessly out before daybreak, and went off. We did not leave until nearly seven o’clock, and followed them leisurely, leaving all our properties in the cow-shed, sauntered over the gentian-studded slopes which intervene between the shed and the Glacier du Lion, left cows and their pastures behind, traversed the stony wastes and arrived at the ice. Old, hard beds of snow lay on its right bank (our left hand), and we mounted over them on to the lower portion of the glacier with ease. But as we ascended crevasses became numerous, and we were at last brought to a halt by some which were of very large dimensions; and as our cutting powers were limited, we sought an easier route, and turned naturally to the lower rocks of the Tête du Lion, which overlook the glacier on its west. Some good scrambling took us in a short time on to the crest of the ridge which descends toward the south; and thence up to the level of the Col du Lion there was a long natural staircase, on which it was seldom necessary to use the hands. We dubbed the place “The Great Staircase.” Then the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, which rise above the couloir, had to be skirted. This part varies considerably in different seasons, and in 1861 we found it difficult, for the fine steady weather of that year had reduced the snow-beds abutting against it to a lower level than usual, and the rocks which were left exposed at the junction of the snow with the cliffs had few ledges or cracks to which we could hold. But by half-past ten o’clock we stood on the col, and looked down upon the magnificent basin out of which the Z’Mutt glacier flows. We decided to pass the night upon the col, for we were charmed with the capabilities of the place, although it was one where liberties could not be taken. On one side a sheer-wall overhung the Tiefenmatten glacier—on the other, steep, glassy slopes of hard snow descended to the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by water and by falling stones: on the north there was the great peak of the Matterhorn,[[6]] and on the south the cliffs of the Tête du Lion. Throw a bottle down to the Tiefenmatten—no sound returns for more than a dozen seconds.
[6] The engraving is made after a sketch taken from the rocks of the Matterhorn, just above the Col.
How fearful
And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!
THE COL DU LION, LOOKING TOWARD THE TÊTE DU LION
But no harm could come from that side—neither could it from the other. Nor was it likely that it would from the Tête du Lion, for some jutting ledges conveniently overhung our proposed resting-place. We waited for a while, basked in the sunshine, and watched or listened to the Carrels, who were sometimes seen or heard high above us upon the ridge leading toward the summit; and, leaving at mid-day, we descended to the cow-shed, packed up the tent and other properties, and returned to the col, although heavily laden, before six o’clock. This tent was constructed on a pattern suggested by Mr. Francis Galton, and it was not a success. It looked very pretty when set up in London, but it proved thoroughly useless in the Alps. It was made of light canvas, and opened like a book: one end was closed permanently and the other with flaps: it was supported by two alpenstocks, and had the canvas sides prolonged so as to turn in underneath. Numerous cords were sewn to the lower edges, to which stones were to be attached, but the main fastenings were by a cord which passed underneath the ridge and through iron rings screwed into the tops of the alpenstocks, and were secured by pegs. The wind, which playfully careered about the surrounding cliffs, was driven through our gap with the force of a blow-pipe: the flaps of the tent would not keep down, the pegs would not stay in, and it exhibited so marked a desire to go to the top of the Dent Blanche that we thought it prudent to take it down and to sit upon it. When night came on we wrapped ourselves in it, and made our camp as comfortable as the circumstances would allow. The silence was impressive. No living thing was near our solitary bivouac; the Carrels had turned back and were out of hearing; the stones had ceased to fall and the trickling water to murmur—
“The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And in our lonely life had grown
To have an almost human tone.”[[7]]