While the others wandered off at intervals towards the rocks of the Jäger Rücken upon which the Marinelli hut is built, I remained behind for some moments to make a few rough sketches and notes which might serve later to guide our party through some of the more intricate portions of the climb. Upon rejoining my companions, I found that they had missed the ill-defined track which leads to the hut; but as time was our own, and no one evinced a desire to waste energy looking for anything so elusive as a mountain track, we muddled along contentedly, always keeping to the northern slopes of the Jäger Rücken. The steepening rocks were interspersed with abominable screes and slippery grass, and in due course the inevitable happened, and further progress appeared to be barred. Closer inspection, however, revealed a long and narrow chimney of forbidding aspect and furnished with a tremulous chock-stone. It led upwards in the desired direction towards the ridge of the Jäger Rücken to our left. A first attempt to scale the chimney failed, and I beat a retreat to the foot of the stubborn obstacle to rid myself of the encumbrance of the knapsack and tie myself on to the rope which Max had meanwhile uncoiled. The second attack met with more success, and, after a wobbly fight with the unsteady chock-stone and having run out to the full length of a hundred-foot rope, I found good standing ground. Those below resolutely refused to be cajoled into climbing up to me with their lawful burdens upon their own shoulders, and, in spite of my protests, I was reduced to hauling the knapsacks up on the rope. The others speedily followed, and in a few strides we were on the ridge. A moment or two later the track revealed itself, though somewhat late in the day. The easy going methods of the guideless climber, who seldom bothers to find the correct way to a hut, and the last little tussle with the chimney had cost much time; we had been over five hours on the way, when four hours’ easy going should have seen us settled in the hut. Now, however, everything was plain sailing, and the level of the hut was rapidly approached. Just as we were about to leave the ridge to traverse towards the hut, a large stone—gentle reminder, perhaps, of what the morrow held in store—hurtled down through space with a fiendish “whirr-whirr” and crashed into the rocks a few yards below. This sort of thing was somewhat disconcerting, for do not the most learned authorities assure the climber that falling stones are not met with on ridges? Perhaps this was merely the proverbial exception to the rule; but, not wishing to become embroiled in a contest with another such exception, we left the ridge and, under the comparative shelter of some steep rocks, traversed rapidly towards the hut. At midday we had successfully solved the problem of unlocking the door with an ice-axe, that most efficient of master-keys.
The Marinelli hut is built against an overhanging rock wall at an altitude of over 10,000 feet on the Jäger Rücken, a broad and somewhat ill-defined rocky ridge which, forming the lower boundary of the bottom half of the Marinelli Couloir, separates the latter from the Nordend Glacier. The floor space of the hut measures some thirteen by nineteen feet, of which half is occupied by two bare, wooden shelves which do duty as sleeping quarters; the other half accommodates a table, a couple of rough benches and a stove which, for lack of firewood, appeared to us to be the only superfluous luxury in an interior of otherwise Spartan simplicity. Eight musty and evil-smelling blankets which we hung up outside to air and dry, a visitors’ book and a few dirty pots and pans completed the inventory. The visitors’ book soon fell into the eager hands of Obexer, and whilst Case and Max busied themselves with preparations for lunch and struggled with a refractory spirit stove, he proceeded to pump me dry of all the information at my disposal which would help him to compile the array of facts entering into the calculation of what he gruesomely termed “the mortality percentage of the east face.”
Having done justice to Max’s combined lunch and tea, I wandered over to the Marinelli Couloir. Case, whose usually somewhat dormant interest in external matters had been roused to a greater pitch than usual by the frequent thunder of collapsing séracs and the continuous rumbling hiss of snow sliding down the couloir, elected to accompany me. Traversing almost horizontally along a series of broken ledges, we gained the edge of the couloir in less than ten minutes. About a hundred and fifty feet above, a low but overhanging buttress jutting well out into the couloir obscured part of the view. A few minutes’ stiff scrambling, however, placed us above the obstruction, and we were able to indulge in an almost complete survey of the whole of the route by which we hoped to gain the rocks of the Grenz Gipfel.
The warmth of the rays of an Italian sun was loosening the precarious grip of the heavy masses of fresh snow that had fallen during the thunderstorms of the two preceding evenings. A steady, unbroken stream of wet snow hissed rapidly down the deep-cut channels with which the bed of the Marinelli Couloir is scored. At frequent intervals, larger masses, often mixed with ice and stones, would break loose, swell over and out of the channels and, as if impatient of the bonds thrust upon them by the narrow confines of the couloir, would overflow the Imseng Rücken and with the reverberating noise of thunder dash down to the glacier below. Far aloft, gleaming proudly in the brilliant light, a great ice pinnacle nodded sedately forward, turned slightly round as if to recover balance, then, dragged down by the irresistible pull of gravity, crashed and broke into a thousand fragments which bounded down the great gully in grotesque leaps and jumps. A small cave, close at hand and opening out towards the valley, afforded refuge from the onslaughts of the blocks of ice and masses of snow that careered past within a few feet of us. The whole wall was literally alive with movement; during our sojourn of fully two hours, five consecutive minutes never passed without the rattle of falling stones or the mad, headlong rush of an avalanche.
While I was trying to reconcile the rough sketches made from the Macugnaga Glacier in the early morning with the foreshortened appearance the mountain now presented, Max hove in sight, and together we talked over plans. Finally, it was decided to begin the attack upon the couloir from the rocks upon which we stood, and then, by cutting across in a slightly ascending direction, to gain the rocks of the Imseng Rücken at their nearest point, distant by nearly two hundred yards. Once on the rocks of the Imseng Rücken, the original plan of ascent, formulated en route to the hut, was to be adhered to as far as possible. Two other points were impressed upon us; first, the need for all possible speed and the avoidance of any unnecessary delay after having once embarked upon the ascent; and, second, the necessity of postponing the carrying out of the expedition for one, possibly two, days in order to give the sun an opportunity of clearing away as much as possible of the loose, fresh snow which still remained upon the slopes above.
Meanwhile, the sun had disappeared behind the Punta Margherita. The chill air of deepening shadows conjured up, by contrast, a glowing picture of our quarters for the night. Near the hut, hidden under a stone, a welcome find revealed itself—a few handfuls of wood. A merry fire was soon crackling and blazing away in the crazy little stove. The bright flames, the dancing shadows, and the curling wisps of smoke, supplied the heretofore wanting elements of cheerful warmth that made the hut a real home.
It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch when the first sleepy head, with an inquiring eye as to the weather prospects, was poked out at the door. But August 8 was no exception to the golden rule of 1911; the sky was cloudless. The day was usefully spent in marking the best route to the Marinelli Couloir by numerous cairns, and by prodigious efforts at demolishing our generous stock of provisions. Towards evening, knapsacks were packed, ropes were laid ready, and the fit of climbing irons was tested. Not until then did I discover that Obexer’s irons were only six-toothed, and that the front teeth lay quite two inches behind the toes of his boots. That meant making deeper steps, and consequent loss of time.
On August 9, at 1 a.m., under the light of a brilliant moon, we left the hut. We were roped in two parties. Case and myself led off; Max and Obexer brought up the rear. All wore climbing irons. We followed the now familiar route on to the rock promontory jutting into the couloir. A glance above. All was quiet in the cold night air. A hasty step in hard-frozen snow, and the attack was launched. Here the slope of the couloir is about 46°, but the climbing irons gave firm grip and, ascending slightly, we crossed at the double. Now and again ice showed through in the beds of narrow, deep-cut troughs, and the axe was brought into play. Two of these troughs gave trouble. Both were over twelve feet deep and sixteen feet wide, with under-cut sides. The difficulty in crossing lay, not in getting on to the floor of the trough—a jump did that—but in cutting out over the ice of the overhang on the far side. Beyond these obstacles, steep snow slopes led to the rocks of the Imseng Rücken where Max and Obexer soon joined us, little over half an hour after leaving the hut. The rocks, though fairly steep, are, relatively speaking, not difficult; and, climbing occasionally to the left, but more often to the right of the ill-defined ridge, we all indulged in a passion for speed, racing upwards as fast as heart and lungs would permit. The ridge becomes narrower higher up, and the rocks gradually merge into a sharp snow-crest which at first is almost level, but rapidly steepens and broadens out to lose itself in the slopes which form the southern bank of the Marinelli Couloir.