Soon after 11 a.m. we were heading across the glacier to join the broad trail leading down from the Jungfrau towards the Concordia hut. The last lap in the journey proved to be the usual leaden finish to a golden day. The rucksacks containing our dumped belongings were unpleasantly heavy; the sun, so longed for in the chill, early hours of the morning, was now a source of discomfort, and the soft, moist snow under foot reflected a fierce glare. On nearing the Concordia Platz, that vast plain of ice, the meeting-place of four great glaciers of the Oberland, we took off the rope, having left the last of the concealed crevasses well behind. At 1.15 p.m., after boggling through innumerable puddles of icy water, we arrived on the rocky promontory on which stand the hôtel and the two Concordia huts. In all, we had been twelve hours en route.
CHAPTER VI
ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND
With the coming of the Christmas vacation of 1908, Max and I, in accordance with our well-established custom, returned to Grindelwald. Having in the preceding summer become more intimately acquainted with the towering, snow-bound heights at whose feet nestles the winter sport resort par excellence of the Oberland, short ski-ing expeditions to the Faulhorn, Männlichen and the other lesser satellites of the great Oberland giants no longer satisfied us. We were now eager to penetrate into the winter fastnesses of the glacier regions.
Prior to the advent of skis in Switzerland, winter ascents of first-class peaks were, as a rule, formidable undertakings. Winter conditions in the mountains are quite different from those met with in the summer. Deep snow, often soft and powdery and requiring extremely careful treatment to avoid the danger of starting avalanches, lies right down into the valleys. Thus the ascent to the mountain club-hut, usually a simple matter in summer, is often in the cold season a long and arduous expedition. Frequently it is impossible to follow the usual route, and deviations involving hours of fatiguing stamping in snow, into which one sinks to the knee, or even deeper, at each step, may be necessary to steer clear of dangerous slopes and gullies. Simple rocks, when laden with their wintry cloak of snow, become difficult and demand great care in climbing. The lower reaches of glaciers, snow-free or “dry” in summer, are in winter clad in a deep, white pall that obscures crevasses with a covering deceptive and insecure for the human tread. Higher up, above the hut, differences are not so obvious, though they are far from non-existent. Cold may be severe. Changes in the weather seem to occur more suddenly and with less warning. A summer storm in the high Alps can be serious enough; but it is nothing to the ruthless, inhuman and deadly force of the elements let loose in winter. The snow, to all appearances perhaps the same, is yet different. One must constantly be on one’s guard against avalanches and snow-shields; the snow bridges across crevasses are deceiving in their massiveness. In summer, the experienced mountaineer can readily detect the presence of a chasm in a snow-covered glacier; but in winter he may find his judgment sadly at fault. These changed conditions have naturally undergone no alteration with the coming of skis; but skis enable one to mount long snow slopes and cross wide expanses without sinking deeply in, and thus, by relieving one of the labours of snow stamping, they reduce the fatigue consequent upon walking in snow. Also, owing to the fact that one’s weight is distributed over a much larger area, they diminish the danger of falling into crevasses. And again, they enable one to descend snow slopes at a far greater speed and with much less expenditure of energy than is possible without them.
Christmas festivities and their usual after-effects failed to take the edge off our mountaineering keenness, and after breakfast on the 26th, Max and I strapped on our skis in front of the Eiger Hotel and shouldered our knapsacks containing provisions, a rope and an axe each. Dr. Odo Tauern, an experienced mountaineer and first-rate ski-er, joined us. He was to accompany us to the Bergli hut where two friends were due to meet him on the 28th. From Grindelwald we ski-ed down into the valley, and crossed the Lütschinen stream by the bridge of the railway connecting Grindelwald with the Little Scheidegg. In winter, of course, this railway is not open. As a preliminary to facing the long pull up before us, we fastened on seal-skins under our skis. These are long strips of seal-skin which one fixes to the skis in such a manner that the lie of the hairs is such as to prevent one’s skis from slipping backwards when going uphill. We followed the railway track, diverging only in one place where it crosses the middle of a long, steep slope. Here the snow had drifted so that a smooth slope was left, and no sign of the railway was visible. The snow on the slope was bad, and thinking it highly probable that the making of ski-tracks over it would result in the formation of an avalanche, we preferred to work down underneath the slope and so avoid danger. Before arriving at the Little Scheidegg, we turned up to the left towards the Eiger and, mounting steeply, gained the Eiger Glacier station where the tunnel of the Jungfrau railway begins. Active tunnelling operations on the railway were then in full progress, and it was our intention to travel by one of the workmen’s trains to the Eismeer Glacier station, in those days the most advanced station on the track. As luck would have it, we just missed the last train and had to spend the night at the office of the engineer-in-chief, Herr Liechti, who received us with every possible kindness.
At five o’clock next morning, with skis and other paraphernalia, we stepped out into the keen, cold air and trundled down to the entrance of the tunnel. Packed like the proverbial sardines into the railway carriage with a crowd of marvellously cheerful, Italian tunnelling workmen, who even at this miserable hour were able to sing their songs with zest, time passed rapidly enough until the Eismeer station was reached. Here we were led down a tunnel which broke through the rock at a point some thirty feet above the snow of the glacier, on to which we and our belongings were lowered on ropes. Strapping on our skis, we began to seek a way through the intricate icefall, over towards the Bergli hut. The ordinary summer route, which Max and I knew well enough, could not be used; it was far too much endangered by avalanches. The only alternative was to approach the lower Mönchjoch and descend to the hut. This involved finding a passage right up through the icefall, but by keeping close to the wonderful precipices of the Eiger, so steep that they were almost free from snow, a feasible way was found. In spite of our skis, it was hard work, so deep and soft was the snow. As the presence of crevasses in winter is often so extremely difficult of detection, and a fall into one cannot be arrested so quickly when on skis as without them, we were roped at a distance of seventy feet from man to man. In addition, Maxwell, who brought up the rear, carried a spare hundred-foot rope for use in case of emergency. Zig-zagging in and out between great pinnacles of ice, probing with the axe at each step for concealed crevasses, we had almost passed through the icefall and were not far below the lower Mönchjoch, when an opportunity of working over to the left, towards the snow slopes above the rocks whereon the Bergli hut stands, revealed itself. It was obvious that caution would be necessary in effecting the crossing, not on account of avalanches or the danger of treading loose a snow-shield, for the ground was hardly steep enough for that, but because the new route, instead of leading us at right angles across crevasses, led in the general direction in which the crevasses lay; that is, along instead of across them. Using the axe to discover the whereabouts of crevasses was by no means always effective; in places the snow was so soft and deep that the axe could be plunged in right to the head without meeting with the resistance that betokened the presence of firm, safe snow, or that lack of resistance indicating the void that meant danger. On this part of the journey, therefore, we had to rely to a great extent upon mere external appearances. We had all but gained the slopes just below the Mönchjoch and above the Bergli hut, when Tauern suddenly broke clean through a snow bridge. The violent shock of his weight coming on the rope dragged me backwards on my skis for a yard or two and my brother forward; thus Tauern had completely disappeared before we could arrest his fall. Try as we would, we were unable to pull him up. So Max crossed the crevasse at another point, and together, heaving with all our might and main, we managed to pull our companion over to one side of the chasm, and even raise him until his head was almost level with the edge of the hole through which he had broken. Still hanging in the crevasse, he unfastened and threw his skis up to us, and also gave us the much-needed information as to the direction in which the walls of his prison ran. It was then an easy matter for me to approach the brink of the crevasse and push the shaft of an axe in underneath the rope by which Max held Tauern suspended, and thus prevent its cutting more deeply into the snow. After I had cleared away some of the snow, leaving a channel, Tauern, aided by the united pull of my brother and I, was able at last to set foot above ground again.
The Eismeer icefall.
The Bergli hut stands on the rock ridge to the left centre.