At a quarter past seven Dr. Fischer said, “Now then, you boys, it’s time you were off!” and, after bidding an “Au revoir” all-round and expressing the hope that we would meet on the summit, Max and I got under way. While crossing the level, hard-frozen snow surface of the Giessenmulde, we had ample time to study the icefall guarding the approach to the Silbermulde, the fourth glacier plateau. This icefall was obviously formidable, and it looked as if a huge, unbridged crevasse which cut across it might prove, if not insuperable, at all events a source of much delay. The icy north-east ridge of the little Silberhorn, however, offered a sure, even if arduous, means of flanking the obstacle; and we quickly decided to choose the harder work of cutting up this ridge in safety, in preference to the less laborious but much more uncertain and, on account of possible falls of ice, perhaps dangerous passage through the icefall. The ridge was covered with a thick layer of crystals of rotten ice, in which two, or at the most three, well-directed blows of the axe sufficed to make a good step. Working hard and as fast as possible, we rose so rapidly that, half an hour after leaving the others who were now just beginning to tackle their big ice slope, we arrived on the beautifully curved ice ridge which forms the summit of the little Silberhorn. After a brief descent, we crossed the Silbermulde and faced the next difficulties, a great bergschrund and a short, but very steep, ice slope below the Silbersattel. Over to the left, away from the Silbersattel, the two edges of the bergschrund approached more closely together, so that by discarding my rucksack and standing on Max’s shoulder I was able to effect a lodgment on the slope above. I then saw that, to get over to the Silbersattel, handholds and footholds would have to be cut round to the right, past an almost vertical ice bulge. Only the right hand could be used to ply the axe; the left would be fully occupied in holding on. Max unroped and tied himself on again, but this time at the extreme end of the hundred-and-fifty-foot rope; then, after carefully working round the bulge, I was able to cut straight up into the Silbersattel where, finding good standing ground, I held the rope firmly and afforded Max, with his double burden of rucksacks, the necessary assistance over the bergschrund and round the bulge. It is quite probable that in some seasons this obstacle may prove impassable. The Silberlücke, however, could always be gained by crossing the Silberhorn, a roundabout route which would entail some loss of time. The ridge known as the Silbergrat, stretching up before us to the Hochfirn, commences in a great rock pinnacle which looked difficult, but was, with the ensuing ridge of good firm rock, quite easy, though enthrallingly interesting in view of the dizzy precipices that fall away to the Lauterbrunnen Valley. Higher up, cornices, wind-whirled into fantastic shapes, crowned the ridge. We hacked them down and strode triumphant over their battered remains until at length the rocks merged into a slender snow-crest, along which, swinging the axe in rhythm with our pace and leaving a step after each blow, we passed quickly over to the Hochfirn, up which, almost knee-deep in soft snow, we laboriously plodded our way.
The day was now won; no further difficulty lay between us and the summit. It was still early, and time was our own to squander as we willed; so, veering towards the left, we stamped through deep snow up on to the Wengern Jungfrau (13,320 ft.), the lower summit of the Jungfrau, in order to see how Dr. Fischer’s party were progressing. They were still far below the north-east ridge—three tiny black dots sticking like flies to the smooth, glassy wall. Our shouts of triumph were faintly echoed by them; then, realising that there would be no chance of our meeting up here, we turned towards the true summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.) and, walking up the easy rocks of the south ridge, soon gained the top. It was 11 a.m.; we had been in all only nine hours en route, and of those nearly one hour had been spent down below the Kühlauenen icefall, awaiting dawn.
As on our last visit to the Jungfrau, the view was clear. To the north we looked down into the valleys of the Bernese Oberland, invitingly clad in the soft, restful colourings of forest, pastureland and lake. Southwards, the gaze passed over glaciers and snow-clad mountains, through the bluish haze rising from the dark rift of the Rhône Valley to beyond the Pennine Alps, and lingered at last on the glistening snow cap of Mont Blanc. The hardest part of the day’s work was over. The air was warm, still and languorous, so, after setting the cooking apparatus on to melt snow for a brew of tea and having, by way of precaution against the consequences of any tendency to sleep walk, belayed the rope to our axes driven deep into the snow, we lay down and were soon wrapt in slumber.
Two hours later we awoke at the chill touch of a gust of wind. Clouds hovered all around, warning us of the approach of yet another spell of bad weather. We finished lunch and made ready for the descent by the ordinary route to the Bergli hut. As was to be expected, we found a beautiful staircase of immense steps already cut in the moderately steep snow slope leading down to the Rotthal Sattel. The bergschrund below the saddle was smaller than we had ever known it before, and soon we were plodding a monotonous way over the Jungfrau Glacier through the now thoroughly softened snow towards the Mönchjoch. There was not a breath of wind; and so fiercely did the sun blaze that we almost marvelled that the whole glacier did not turn to water. At 4 p.m. we arrived at the Bergli hut. The sky had become completely overcast; but, though the sun was obscured, the air was hot and stifling. A break in the weather seemed certain; a matter of small concern to us, however, for our labours had been so strenuous that a day of enforced idleness was a welcome prospect. At 6 o’clock we turned in and slept peacefully and uninterruptedly until 8 a.m. next morning.
Dr. Fischer and the Almers had arrived at the hut about midnight. They had gained the north-east ridge, only to be driven down to the Jungfrau Glacier by bad weather. Snow-glasses are apt to disturb one’s aim when cutting steps, and as the Almers, for this reason, had not worn theirs during the ascent of the great ice slope, they were now snowblind and in considerable pain. But they were a merry pair of companions notwithstanding. After a joint breakfast, we all went over to the Eismeer station, Fischer and the Almers leaving for Grindelwald while Max and I returned to the Bergli hut with a fresh supply of stores. Early in the afternoon the weather showed unmistakable signs of mending, so we settled down to try and shape our somewhat uncertain plans for the future. Our first big ice-climb had left us with a voracious appetite for more. The wicked, green shimmer of the appallingly steep ice slope leading from the Kühlauenen Glacier up to the Jungfraujoch held out a persistent challenge. But how to get there from the Bergli hut? The solution was simple, if perhaps a little ambitious: climb the Jungfrau, descend the north face to the Kühlauenen Glacier, and then cross over the Jungfraujoch to the Concordia hut. The north face had already so far exceeded our expectations for ice work and wonderful scenery that there was no fear of our finding a renewed visit dull. The ascent to the Jungfraujoch would provide some hours of continuous step-cutting, and we were still in need of practice with the ice-axe. Furthermore, by descending to the Concordia hut we should find ourselves well on the way to Zermatt. Fair dreamstuff for the mountain-mad! Content and expectant, we turned in to sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE JUNGFRAU AND THE JUNGFRAUJOCH
On reading the early annals of the Alpine Club, one cannot but be struck by the outstanding popularity of snow and ice-climbs and by the standard of efficiency reached in such climbs by the pioneers. The climber of to-day has added but few to the long list of wonderful ice-climbs that stand to the credit of his forerunner in the sixties. Ice-climbing has fallen into disfavour, but immense progress has been made in rock-climbing—a deplorable but readily explicable state of affairs. Since the early days, the army of climbers has become greatly inflated and embraces many who can spend only some short two summer weeks in the mountains. It is but natural that they should take the shortest way of getting to the summit. The novice who is sound in wind and limb can do well on rocks even at his first attempt. The traces of the man who was there before him still show clearly. Little scratches tell where to look for hand- and footholds and are reassuring testimony that another has accomplished and, therefore, encouragement to emulate. The rocky way does not change from day to day and but little from year to year, and with every fresh scratch the route becomes more easy for the next climber, so powerful a stimulant to the human will is the knowledge that another has attained. Thus even the greatest rock-climb becomes in time a gymnastic feat, a trial of purely physical strength. But there is no royal road to becoming a great ice-climber. Much spade work, both practical and theoretical, and demanding time, hard work, conscientiousness and unbounded enthusiasm, has to be done. Snow, sun, wind and the eternal flow of ice obliterate all comforting tracks, and the ice-mountaineer has to choose and make his own route. Thus the true ice-climber is always a pioneer.
It is obvious that the would-be ice-climber must learn the art of cutting steps in ice or hard-frozen snow. A step can be fashioned with almost any sufficiently hard and pointed instrument. I once cut four steps with the big blade of a pocket-knife; on another occasion I made several with a sharp-pointed bit of granite. The steps were almost as good as if they had been hewn out by the orthodox weapon, the ice-axe; but in each instance the process involved a far greater expenditure of time and labour than would have been the case had I been properly equipped. The ice-axe is the best step-cutting implement known; but there are axes and axes. As differ the makeshift and the inferior axe, so differ the inferior axe and the good axe. Both the makeshift and the inferior axe are spendthrifts of time and energy. When only a few occasional steps have to be cut, the consideration of a moment’s waste here and there may be negligible; but on an expedition where step-cutting is the order of the day, prodigality of humble seconds makes a mighty total that cannot be ignored. A first-class axe is a sine quâ non. What, then, is the criterion of a really useful axe?
It may be stated without much fear of contradiction that only the craftsman who knows how to use the implement of his craft can express a sound opinion as to the merits of any particular example of that type of implement. Strange, then, it is that nearly all climbers will take hold of an ice-axe and, wisely shaking their heads and furrowing their brows, proceed to pronounce judgment upon it, despite the fact that it is common knowledge amongst trained and experienced mountaineers, both amateur and professional, that more than ninety-nine per cent. of the climbing fraternity are ignorant, not only of the art of step-cutting, but also of many of the other important uses to which an axe may be put. It should be noted that there is all the difference in the world between cutting a few incidental steps and undertaking the lead on an expedition where step-cutting is the rule. For the vast majority the ice-axe is, in reality, an unmitigated nuisance; a thing that is always getting in the way; too cumbersome to use as a walking-stick; a collection of sharp, steely points and edges ever making painful contact with the more vulnerable portions of both his and other people’s anatomy; an immobiliser of a hand sorely needed to clutch at handholds; twenty-five francs’ worth of uselessness, and often to be renewed because of its remarkable propensity for falling down cliffs and its owner’s no less remarkable propensity for throwing it away whenever he slips; an inferior opener of tins and a mangler of the contents thereof; a poor instrument for driving in nails and no respecter of fingers. All save a small minority of climbers would be far better served by a stout, crook-handled walking-stick which can almost always be induced to perform at least the one function implied in its name.