“Forward” once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens. “Not a thousand feet more: in three hours we shall be on the summit.” “You mean ten,” echoed Croz, so slow had been the progress. But I was not far wrong in the estimate. At 3.15 we struck the great ridge followed by Mr. Kennedy, close to the top of the mountain. The wind and cold were terrible there. Progress was oftentimes impossible, and we waited, crouching under the lee of rocks, listening to “the shrieking of the mindless wind,” while the blasts swept across, tearing off the upper snow and blowing it away in streamers over the Schönbühl glacier—“nothing seen except an indescribable writhing in the air, like the wind made visible.”
Our goal was concealed by the mist, though it was only a few yards away, and Croz’s prophecy that we should stay all night upon the summit seemed likely to come true. The men rose with the occasion, although even their fingers had nearly lost sensation. There were no murmurings nor suggestions of return, and they pressed on for the little white cone which they knew must be near at hand. Stopped again—a big mass perched loosely on the ridge barred the way: we could not crawl over and scarcely dared creep round it. The wine went round for the last time. The liquor was half frozen—still we would more of it. It was all gone: the bottle was left behind, and we pushed on, for there was a lull.
The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds opened, and I saw that we were all but upon the highest point, and that between us and it, about twenty yards off, there was a little artificial pile of stones. Kennedy was a true man—it was a cairn which he had erected. “What is that, Croz?” “Homme de pierres,” he bawled. It was needless to proceed farther: I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we would go back. He did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately. They did not see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and misinterpreted the reason of the retreat. Voices were inaudible and explanations impossible.
We commenced the descent of the face. It was hideous work. The men looked like impersonations of Winter, with their hair all frosted and their beards matted with ice. My hands were numbed—dead. I begged the others to stop. “We cannot afford to stop; we must continue to move,” was their reply. They were right: to stop was to be entirely frozen. So we went down, gripping rocks varnished with ice, which pulled the skin from the fingers. Gloves were useless: they became iced too, and the bàtons slid through them as slippery as eels. The iron of the axes stuck to the fingers—it felt red hot; but it was useless to shrink: the rocks and the axes had to be firmly grasped—no faltering would do here.
We turned back at 4.12 P.M. and at 8.15 crossed the bergschrund, again, not having halted for a minute upon the entire descent. During the last two hours it was windless, but time was of such vital importance that we pressed on incessantly, and did not stop until we were fairly upon the glacier. Then we took stock of what remained of the tips of our fingers. There was not much skin left: they were perfectly raw, and for weeks afterward I was reminded of the ascent of the Dent Blanche by the twinges which I felt when I pulled on my boots. The others escaped with some slight frost-bites, and altogether we had reason to congratulate ourselves that we got off so lightly. The men complimented me upon the descent, and I could do the same honestly by them. If they had worked less vigorously or harmoniously, we should have been benighted upon the face, where there was not a single spot upon which it was possible to sit; and if that had happened, I do not think that one would have survived to tell the tale.
We made the descent of the glacier in a mist, and of the moraine at its base and of the slopes below in total darkness, and regained the châlets of Abricolla at 11.45 P. M. We had been absent eighteen and a half hours, and out of that time had been going not less than seventeen. That night we slept the sleep of those who are thoroughly tired.[[48]]
[48] The ascent of the Dent Blanche is the hardest that I have made. There was nothing upon it so difficult as the last 500 feet of the Pointe des Ecrins; but, on the other hand, there was hardly a step upon it which was positively easy. The whole of the face required actual climbing. There was, probably, very little difference in difficulty between the route we took in 1865, and that followed by Mr. Kennedy in 1862.
Two days afterward, when walking into Zermatt, whom should we meet but Mr. Kennedy! “Hullo!” we said, “we have just seen your cairn on the top of the Dent Blanche.” “No, you haven’t,” he answered very positively. “What do you mean?” “Why, that you cannot have seen my cairn, because I didn’t make one!” “Well, but we saw a cairn.” “No doubt: it was made by a man who went up the mountain last year with Lauener and Zurfluh.” “O-o-h!” we said, rather disgusted at hearing news when we expected to communicate some—“O-o-h! Good-morning, Kennedy.” Before this happened we managed to lose our way upon the Col d’Hérens, but an account of that must be reserved for the next chapter.
