Ski-runs in the High Alps

by F. F. Roget

2. My second ascent of the Diablerets was somewhat tragic—this, too, in January, and in pursuit of the magnificent ski-run which one gets down the Zan Fleuron glacier to the Sanetsch pass, and back to Gsteig.

The brothers Marti were again with me. The eldest was now a certificated guide, and had thus acquired the legal right to take his brother with him when escorting strangers in the mountains.

On that occasion there were some strangers, mostly English, in the party. One of them was a young and able runner on ski, another was an elderly member of “the” Alpine Club, in whose breast a love for ski was born late in life, probably in the same years when I myself fell a victim to that infatuation. The third stranger of British blood need not for the nonce be otherwise presented to the reader than in a spiritual garb as a vision. He—or rather she—will appear in the flesh when a ministering angel is called for in the disastrous scene yet to be enacted, when the kind apparition will flutter down as unexpectedly as the goblins pop up through the soft white carpet, under which they have their homes in the comfortable cracks designed for them by the glacier architect.

This caravan went up the usual way, in the usual manner, above the Pillon pass. Near the end of the day, and at sunset, one of us was suddenly seen to curl up and roll in the snow. The next moment he was back at his place again, with his rucksack on his shoulder, ice-axe in hand, and with his ski under his feet, as if nothing had happened. Yet we had all seen him curl up and roll down. And here he was again, spick and span, like one of those tourists carved in wood which are offered for sale at Interlaken or Lucerne. The Marti brothers looked at me queerly.

They were, indeed, thankful I had got them unscathed out of the police court. In spite of parental advice, they had come again with me on that account. But this was beyond a joke. However, they went on, exchanging among themselves their own remarks, wondering whose sticks, ski, and rucksack would next be seen flying in opposite directions.

But nothing happened during the night. The next morning the brothers Marti, heading our column, wended their way carefully, as before, to the corner of the Oldenhorn, and peered cautiously round. It was still dark. From this place it is usual before dawn to catch a glimpse of the gnomes. They are impervious to cold. Being of an origin infernal in some degree, they naturally delight in the coolness of winter nights, and their eyes being habitually scorched by the flames that blaze in the bowels of the glacier, they much enjoy the soothing caress of the moonbeams.

On that morning—since there is a morning even to an evil day—the gnomes were still engaged in their after midnight game of skittles. They plant their mark on the edge of the glacier, above the cliffs which drop down clear on to the Derborence grazings. Their bowls are like enormous curling-stones hewn out of the ice. When the gnomes miss their aim—which in their love of mischief they like to do—the ice blocks fly over the edge of the rock parapet, and crash down upon the grazings. In summer the shepherds endeavour to meet this calamity by prayer. In winter it is of no consequence.

But what was of consequence is that we had no business on the glacier while the night sprites were still holding Synagogue. This the brothers Marti knew, and that woe was in store for us on that account. But all went well with us, to all appearances.

We left our baggage at the foot of the Diablerets peak, and, on our ski, pushed merrily along to the summit. We lunched, and enjoyed the view, like any ordinary mortals, ignorant of having challenged Fate.