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Bryn took the fateful step from the ledge to the chimney and was soon mixed up in the intricacies of the frozen waterfall, whose icicles were clustered together like the pipes of an organ. Skilfully cutting his way diagonally from left to right across them, he succeeded in finding a comparatively firm position whence he was able to take in Maxwell’s rope with his teeth and left hand, as the latter made the wide and difficult step from the end of the ledge to the foot of the waterfall. To add to the insecurity of the situation, the belay on the ledge proved worthless; it broke off as I was testing it, and nothing would have saved us in the event of a slip. The following fifteen minutes were indeed anxious ones. I contrived to make myself fairly comfortable on the ledge, but poor Maxwell, standing in a very shaky step and hanging on to an icicle, had patiently to submit to freezing while fragments of ice and snow were showered on him by Bryn’s hard-working axe. At last Bryn had come to the end of his rope, but there were still six feet separating him from the nearest belay at the top of the waterfall and almost directly under the cornice. During a moment of suspense both he and Maxwell had to climb together. Then, just as the latter began to tackle the worst bit of all, Bryn reached the belay and firm footing. We soon joined him, though not without thoroughly appreciating the great difficulties of the pitch. We avoided cutting through the cornice by climbing two short but stiff chimneys to the right of and above the frozen waterfall, and at 5.15 p.m. were beyond the bend of the great C-ledge, with only easy, though steep, rocks between us and the summit. Feeling that we were now safe from a forced bivouac, that constant nightmare of the last five hours, we indulged in a brief rest. While swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and dry bread we reviewed the many little episodes, exciting moments, disappointments and hopes of the last two hours. But so far the sun had eluded us. When we first viewed the frozen waterfall the sun was shining on the cornice above; now it had disappeared to the other side of the mountain in its haste to sink into the Mediterranean, for we had taken over two hours to master the last hundred feet. Anxious to get warmed in its last rays, we began work once more. The climb up the final rocks was pure joy; the plentiful handholds were still quite warm, and their touch was as welcome to our frozen fingers as the iced handholds had before been painful. We rose very rapidly and at 6 p.m. stepped out on to the top of Paglia Orba. A strong westerly wind somewhat counterbalanced the warming effect of the setting sun, but no discomfort could detract from the pleasure we all felt at the success of the day’s venture.
The summit of Paglia Orba is covered by a large snow field (at least, as long as the snow lasts) sloping down from the north to south and east. As near to the highest point as possible we built a little cairn, within which we hid a piece of paper giving our names and a description of the route and times of the ascent. To indicate the spot to future climbers we wound a piece of spare rope round the rock. Pausing once more to look down the wonderful precipice of the north-east face, we re-arranged the rope and set off towards the Col de Foggiale. We soon came upon a steep gully filled with firm, frozen snow and descended the first few feet cutting steps. Then, glissading down to the col, we dropped over the cornice and slid or ran down to the river and, wading through, regained our camp at 7.30 p.m., just one hour and a quarter after leaving the summit.
Our success was suitably celebrated by a grand bal masqué, followed up with the most glorious dinner of our lives. Two days later we struck camp and, casting many a look back towards the noble form of Paglia Orba, that Matterhorn of Corsica, slowly filed out of the Viro Valley towards Calaccucia, Corte, Ajaccio, and home, bidding Corsica au revoir but not adieu!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Col is a French term denoting a depression on a ridge connecting two summits.
[2] A rock pinnacle on a ridge.
CHAPTER III
THE WETTERHORN
Grindelwald, the most popular of the climbing centres of the Bernese Oberland, is dominated by the Eiger and the Wetterhorn. The former is so close to the village that, owing to foreshortening, much of the majesty of its huge precipices is lost to the casual observer below. But the Wetterhorn, standing well back at the head of the valley, its great limestone cliffs surmounted by terraced glaciers upon which the snow-capped summit cone is so gracefully poised, has long appealed to the artist—so much so, indeed, that the view of the Wetterhorn from Grindelwald vies for pride of place with those of the Jungfrau from the Wengernalp and of the Matterhorn from the Riffel Alp.