Cornices on the Punta Margherita.
A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge.
Facing page 98.
Next morning, after a night of wonderful sleep, we awoke at 9.30. The weather was doubtful, with cloudy skies and a gusty wind varying in quarter from west to south. Shortly before midday, after alternating between hopes and fears as to the prospects of being able to do something by way of an excursion, we left the hut, carrying only the rope and a little chocolate, it being our humble intention to potter about on the Concordia Platz. However, after putting on the skis, which had been left down on the glacier, we decided that, though the clouds and the wind gusts were still as evident as ever, the weather might hold out sufficiently long to enable us to climb the Ebnefluh. We crossed the Concordia Platz and, mounting up the main Aletsch Glacier, eventually turned up the Ebnefluh Glacier and headed almost straight for the summit of our peak. We were able to keep the skis on until within a few hundred feet of the top. Had the snow been powdery and suitable for ski-ing instead of hard and frozen, we might have ski-ed right on to the summit. At 6 p.m. we had gained the highest point. The most striking feature of the view from the summit of the Ebnefluh (13,005 ft.) is the wonderful outlook it affords over the tremendous precipices falling away to the Rotthal Valley, one of the wildest and most secluded and, from the climber’s point of view, most interesting valleys in the Alps.
We had put on the rope on leaving the skis, but even on foot, by exercising ordinary, reasonable caution, there was no danger of falling into a crevasse. With the passage from early to late winter, glacier conditions suffer enormous change. I have previously pointed out how the winter snows form most unreliable bridges over crevasses and often mask them so effectively that the vision of even the most experienced mountaineer is sometimes unable to detect them. But later on, towards the close of the winter season, usually in March and almost always in April, the keen mountaineer will never be at fault in this respect. I am frequently at a loss to explain to a less experienced companion how this can be. Perhaps long experience in the mountains tends to develop in one an extra and particular sense which warns one of the proximity of hidden crevasses; but to those who wish a more scientific explanation, I would draw attention to the following facts. Towards the end of winter the snow is more consolidated, that is, packed more closely by reason of its own weight and the effect of wind. Where snow is unsupported from below, that is, where it lies over a crevasse, a slight, sometimes almost imperceptible hollow will be formed on its surface. These hollows, slight though they be, betray themselves to the experienced eye by the difference in the shade of the light that they reflect and thus give warning of the existence of a crevasse. In the earlier part of the winter, the snow, as a rule, has not had time to “pack” sufficiently to form such hollows, and the detection of chasms is therefore immeasurably more difficult. A heated controversy is now raging amongst ski-ing experts as to whether the rope should be worn when ski-ing on glaciers in winter. It is by no means easy for a party roped together to keep the rope taut while ski-ing down a glacier, without inflicting bad jerks and causing each other to fall. For this reason the rope is considered by many ski-ers to be an unmitigated nuisance. Hence the rise of the two contesting parties. To me, the question does not seem to admit of an answering unqualified “Yes” or “No.” Owing to the difficulty of sighting crevasses during the beginning and middle of winter, the wearing of the rope at these times should certainly be urged, even on the simplest of glaciers. But the rope must be worn properly, kept taut from man to man; and as one’s rate of travel is far greater on skis than without, and the difficulty of holding a man who has fallen into a crevasse is proportionally greater, there should be not less than a hundred feet of rope between each member of the party. Later on in the season, an experienced party may unhesitatingly dispense with the rope on glacier expeditions, provided that they are not only adept ski-ers with full command of their skis, but really skilled mountaineers, with eyes open, ever on their guard against the hidden dangers of the mountains.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, our halt on the top of the Ebnefluh was a brief one. Within five minutes of leaving the summit we were back at our skis, rubbing them fondly with grease in anticipation of a swift run home. With veils of snow dust flying out behind us, we whizzed down on to the Aletsch Glacier and, half sliding, half shuffling, worked across the Concordia Platz, arriving in the hut just after nightfall.
On the 14th we were up at the fairly reasonable hour of six, but though the weather was calm and fine we did not launch out on any ambitious programme. My ankle, though no longer very painful, was so swollen that I had great difficulty in getting on my boot. Thinking, however, that a little exercise would do no harm, we ski-ed up to the Grünhornlücke and climbed a neighbouring peak called the Weissnollen (11,841 ft.). What with my ankle and the deep powdery snow, it took us three hours to plough our way up to the former. The return from the Grünhornlücke to the hut, however, was accomplished in barely fifteen minutes.