I was following the range in its length in the early, old-fashioned style, purposing to make my way from Sion, on the Rhône, to Grindelwald, by dipping in and out of the valleys; namely, first to Lenk across the Rawyl, then to Adelboden, thence to Kandersteg, then to Trachsellauenen, in the Lauterbrunnen valley, hence to Grindelwald, over the little Scheidegg—a regular switchback railway.
My walk over the Rawyl was marked by an episode. It was late in the season—late in the sense of the word in those days, when there was no winter season to upset people’s ideas. I reached at night the Châlet d’Armillon, by hook or by crook, along the precipitous Kaendle, and crossing mountain torrents as casually as a squirrel would swing from tree to tree, for those were the days of my Sturm und Drang Periode as a mountaineer.
Nevertheless, when the Armillon shepherds pointed out to me the heights of the pass shining pink in the sunset with a fresh snow edging, my resolution wavered for an instant. On I went, little dreaming that thirty years later I should despise being seen here at all, except in winter and on ski.
The job proved a serious one. Heavy snow lay over the marshes and rivulets of the Plan des Roses. The mule track was buried under wind-blown wreaths. The moon rose and illuminated a desolate landscape. A little rain, then snow, began to fall, obliterating the moonbeams and my own footprints behind me. Floundering about, I broke through the thin ice that lay over the patches of water imprisoned under the snow. Still I ploughed my way forward.
Then, probably in the nick of time for my own safety (else I might have spent the night up there, being still young enough to show myself, in the circumstances, obstinate unto folly), a guardian angel, whose assistance I certainly did not deserve, slily detached my brandy flask from around my shoulders and dropped it well out of my reach. When I discovered the trick, I took the hint and retraced my footsteps to the shepherds’ huts at Armillon.
I believe they were more pleased than surprised. They sat down round the hearth, an open fireplace, with embers lying about on the ground. They handed to me a bowl of milk, a lump of cheese, a piece of rye bread as hard as a brick, and gave me a bit of goat’s liver that was stewing in the pan in its own broth. They said their prayers aloud, standing reverently in the firelight; then the goats’ skins were laid out flat on the ground. We lay on them all in a heap together, with our feet turned towards the fire. The last man threw the last chips upon it, pulled warm sheeps’ skins over us, and laid himself down beside us.
The moon, high up in the sky by this time, shone placidly upon the pastoral scene. The air got sharper and more chilly. When we rose at dawn every blade of grass sparkled with frost.
I set out again up the pass in brilliant sunshine. My footprints were still here and there faintly visible. When they came to an end I made for the cross, marking the site of a rough stone refuge, then under snow. From here some faint footprints again became visible, turning down the gorge to the north. I made up my mind to follow them, for those who had made them were certainly moving in the right direction. After a while I saw a stick standing out of the snow. The footprints did not seem to continue beyond. On approaching, I found myself in the presence of the dead body of a mountaineer. Rumour will have it—for the scene of this mishap was visited shortly after, to lift the body—that I leaped aside at the sight, leaving marks on the snow which, graphologically interpreted, were seen to signify my dismay.
It was the first time that I had before my eyes an instance of death through exposure in the mountains.
On reaching the Iffigen Alp I reported the matter to the local authorities. From later information it came to my knowledge that there were two victims, the body of the second being covered up by the snow.