The Ascent of the Matterhorn

by Edward Whymper

We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summits A, B, C, D (see plan on [p. 128]). We stood upon C, which was almost exactly the same elevation as B, but was higher than D, and lower than A. Peak A was the highest of the four, and was about 200 feet higher than B and C; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon (French survey, 11,250 feet). Peak D we considered was the Bec-du-Grenier; and, in default of other names, we called B and C the Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.

Peaks B and C overhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles d’Arve.

We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of [pg 135]those who have seen the two views are in favour of the former. But from La Grave one can no more appreciate the noble proportions and the towering height of the Meije, than understand the symmetry of the dome of St. Paul’s by gazing upon it from the churchyard. To see it fairly, one must be placed at a greater distance and at a greater height.

I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.

Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.[98] But were I to discourse upon these things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavour to convey in words a sense of the loveliness of curves, of the beauty of colour, or of the harmonies of sound, I should try to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these [pg 136]things, not because I have no love for or thought of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and presently, when topographical details must, of necessity, be returned to again, I will endeavour to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use of the pencil.

Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.

I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.

When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There [pg 137]was, evidently, but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice) protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downwards) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction; huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look, which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there,—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west,—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if any where, be by the rocks on the east; and they looked as if they were roches moutonnées.

So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the “eternal snows,”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.

Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’s Summer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was “Boots” at the Grimsel Hotel, and in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got the trinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on [pg 138]the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage, and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.