My first climbing acquaintance with the Wetterhorn was destined to be a rude one. My brother Max and I had, for five seasons, served a faithful apprenticeship to mountaineering in the lesser Alps of Northern Switzerland and, long before the arrival of the summer vacation of 1908, had drawn up the plan of an ambitious climbing campaign which, beginning with the Wetterhorn, should lead us over the principal peaks of the Bernese Oberland into the Zermatt district, that Mecca of the mountaineering world. Starting from Meiringen, we had, by a circuitous route over the Gauli Glacier and the Wetterlimmi, gained the Dossen club-hut, north-east of the Wetterhorn, whence the easiest way to the summit starts. A party of five Germans, likewise bound for the Wetterhorn, shared the hut with us.
We left the hut at 2 a.m. on July 24, closely followed by the Germans who were roped in two parties. Walking up the snow slopes at a furious rate, they soon left us behind, for, knowing that our strength would be needed later on, we preferred to take things leisurely. Max and I arrived at the depression south of the summit and known as the Wettersattel, to find the Germans already breakfasting and bringing by no means small appetites to bear upon the generous contents of their knapsacks. A chilly north wind was blowing, and the sun had not yet reached us, so we cut short our rest and were soon forging up the final snow slope to the summit. The new snow which had fallen two days before, though it had obliterated the steps and tracks of previous climbers, was now good and firmly frozen; the slopes were nowhere very steep, and with the help of our climbing irons we made rapid progress. Save for the last few feet there was no need to cut steps. The ascent had been easy—far easier than most of the climbs of our apprenticeship; indeed, it seemed little more than a short mountain walk, for in less than five hours after leaving the Dossen hut we stood on the summit. The facility with which we had conquered this, our first really great peak, however, did nothing to mar our feelings of happy pride in the achievement. The wind had dropped and the sun was warm. With our axes we scraped out comfortable seats for ourselves in the snow and sat down to rest. Westwards from our feet the summit snow slope curved gently outwards to fall away in ever-increasing steepness till it was lost to sight, and the eye rested on the green meadows above Grindelwald. To the south we saw the Schreckhorn, Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau and hosts of other giants of the Oberland, and in them beheld with happy vision a new world awaiting conquest.
Twenty minutes of supreme happiness stole away ere our solitude was interrupted by the arrival of two of the Germans. The other three had given up the ascent. The spell thus broken, we prepared to return and a few minutes later were making our way back to the Wettersattel, closely followed by the two Germans who there rejoined their friends.
It was our intention to descend on the Grindelwald side of the mountain. Part of the route leads down an immense gully to the Krinne Glacier. Arrived at the top of the gully, Max and I made our inspection and were satisfied. It seemed perfectly safe; it was broad and not very steep, and the new snow that had fallen had already consolidated and was reliable and so firm that it might even be necessary to use the axe to cut occasional steps. There were traces of a previous party who had attempted the descent but had given it up. By the time we had completed investigations, the two Germans had already set off down the tracks. They had decided to be the leading party on the descent, an arrangement which we disliked exceedingly, but there was nothing for it but to follow meekly. In the light of future developments, it was lucky that their three companions, more modest regarding their capabilities, elected to come behind us.
Now, unless it is extraordinarily steep, there is only one correct way of descending a snow slope; you go down with your back to the slope, facing outwards. Standing boldly erect with shoulders well back like a guardsman on parade, you walk unconcernedly downwards with toes well up, letting the impetus of your body drive the heel into the snow to make a good, reliable step. Do not take little mincing steps, one barely below the other, but plunge bravely. You will then be sure of your foothold and make good headway. The Germans were evidently not accustomed to snow. They advanced with hesitation. Indeed, one of those behind us nervously faced into the slope and descended on all fours. About four hundred feet below the saddle, the tracks ceased. For some few feet farther, the leader of the party preceding us made sufficiently firm steps by kicking with his heels, but soon we found ourselves on much steeper and harder snow where step-cutting was imperative. The Germans betrayed an inclination to take to the snow and ice-plastered rocks to the left, but we warned them that safety lay only in laboriously cutting a way down in the hard snow bed of the gully. The leading German, however, soon abandoned step-cutting and moved out on to the rocks where he and his companion sat down, one close behind the other. Throughout the climb they had appeared to find difficulty in managing the sixty feet of rope to which they were attached; seldom had it been taut from man to man, and now, as they rested, it lay in loose coils between them. Max and I carried on, cutting steps down the gully, and had passed below the level of the two Germans when I saw one of them stand up. He slipped. His legs shot out beneath him and he began to slide down over the slabs on to the hard snow slope below. He dropped his axe. I shouted out a warning to his companion who was, however, too startled to take up the slack of the rope which was fast running out as the man at the other end slid on with increasing impetus. He had by now turned over on to his face, and was scraping frantically into the hard snow with his fingers in a desperate endeavour to save himself. At length the sixty feet of rope had run out; with a terrific jerk the second man was dragged from the rock and hurled through the air. Striking against a projecting crag, his left arm was wrenched from the shoulder and his chest crushed in. The body went on until the rope’s length was spent. Again a jerk, and the first man, whose pace had slackened as his comrade was dragged from his seat, was in his turn hurled through the air—to smash his head in on the rocks below. It was a sickening spectacle. The bodies bounded over and over each other in wide curves until the edge of the first great precipice leading down to the Krinne Glacier hid them from our sight. Their three companions, who had looked on aghast, were naturally in a terrible state of nerves. There was nothing to do but to go steadily on, and, not yet realising the condition of the party behind, Max and I turned our attention once more to step-cutting. We had not proceeded far before they implored us to lead them back into the Wettersattel. Cutting steps up past them, therefore, we joined their rope to ours, charging them to keep it always taut from man to man, and so made our way back to the saddle. Thence we descended with all possible speed past the Dossen hut to Rosenlaui, from where we telephoned news of the accident to Grindelwald.
Rude as this our first experience had been, it was not to be the end of our acquaintance with the Wetterhorn. The Wetterhorn has three summits, all just over 12,100 feet. The Hasle Jungfrau, probably because of its more imposing appearance when seen from Grindelwald, is usually called the Wetterhorn, although the Mittelhorn is higher by a few feet; the Rosenhorn is by only a few feet the lowest of the three peaks. They are connected by a lofty ridge running roughly from east to west. Having been informed that a traverse of all three summits in one day was regarded as something of a tour de force, this was the climb which headed our programme for the summer of 1909.
Morning mists.
Facing page 44.