About half-past two next morning, movements were heard in the bunk above, and once more the bulk of the inhabitants yawned their way out of bed. At half-past five no one had left the hut, so that all shared the excitement that followed. A terrific cracking followed by a mighty roar was heard. Flying missiles struck the walls and roof of the hut. Tearing its way down towards the glacier was a huge mass of rock which must have weighed some fifty tons. The whole of the slab on the lower side of the first rope immediately above the hut had detached itself from the parent mass.
When the excitement had died down, the first party began the descent towards Breuil. Others followed, and by seven o’clock the hut was empty except for ourselves and a party of two young Swiss boys and their guides, who had made the ascent of the Zmutt ridge on the previous day. Both parties agreed to wait until the last Italians were well out of sight. We would then go down, keeping as close together as was possible on account of loose stones. We breakfasted and left the hut at eight. The party of four went first. They descended quickly and soon outpaced us, so slow was I. As my arms still ached from yesterday’s exertions, the idea of more fixed ropes was not exactly pleasing. They were very short, however—all but one, which was sixty feet in length, but, mercifully for me, knotted. The experts found the knots a bane and a hindrance to shinning down; but to me they were an unqualified boon. They prevented my hands from slipping and furnished me with an occasional rest. Soon we were on the wide, slabby ridge once more, and descending with as much speed as my presence and the necessary care would allow. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a loud shout from my husband, “Falling stones!” Now teaching, common sense, to say nothing of life in London during the war, all told me that when missiles fall from above the decorous thing to do is to take cover. But curiosity proved stronger than common sense or teachings. I sat down and stared, fascinated by the two immense blocks surrounded by smaller satellites that came whirring relentlessly down towards us. I saw my husband make himself as small as possible on the slab. Padrun went down on his knees and hid his head, ostrich-wise, in a most inadequate hole. His bulky, nobbly knapsack, bristling with two ice-axes, stuck up in the air—a fair target for any missile. I was busily engaged calculating what the effect on Padrun would be of the impact of a boulder upon the spike of one of the axes, when I heard an agonised warning from my husband, and at the same time received a jerk on the rope about my waist which effectively laid me low. The spectacle Padrun presented proved too much for me, however, and I lay there shaking with laughter, totally heedless of the danger to which we were undoubtedly exposed. The rocks passed over us; we were unscathed. Some fifty feet farther down, they crashed explosively into the ridge and, their number increased a hundredfold, resumed their mad course. When everything was quiet again above, we moved off with all speed and presently arrived at a fairly well-defined track over scree slopes which led on to the Col du Lion. Thence skirting for some distance round the base of the Tête du Lion, the path brought us down the so-called Grand Staircase to the green pasture-lands above Breuil.
Something made us stop simultaneously and look back. Mists concealed the mountains; but through a little circular rift in the clouds, immeasurably far above and seemingly overhead, appeared a patch of blue sky and a dark, irregular dome-like shape. “See where you have stood,” said my husband proudly. Then only did I realise that what I saw was the summit of the Matterhorn. Inexpressibly awed, I turned towards the valley.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MATTERHORN
Perhaps no other mountain in the Alps, or for that matter in the whole world, can make such an appeal to the eye as the Matterhorn. This appeal is not merely one of beauty and boldness of form, but also one of position. The Matterhorn has no neighbours in close proximity to invite comparison; it stands utterly alone—a great, dark, rocky pyramid with sides of tremendous steepness, and towering up towards the heavens from out a girdle of glistening séracs and snowfields. It was one of the last of the great summits of the Alps to succumb to the onslaughts of man, and the terrible tragedy whereby four of the seven men who were the first conquerors lost their lives on the descent is still fresh in the public memory.
The summit of the Matterhorn consists of a narrow, almost level, rock ridge, about two hundred and fifty feet in length. The northern end of this ridge is called the Swiss summit, and the southern the Italian summit. In the former converge the Swiss and Furggen ridges and in the latter the Italian and Zmutt ridges. The first successful ascent of the Matterhorn was made by the Swiss ridge. Here the climbing is nowhere really difficult until one is above the level section lying immediately below the summit and known as the Shoulder. Beyond the Shoulder, the rock is steep and difficult, and would demand great care and climbing skill were it not for the fact that this part of the ridge is festooned with stout ropes, thanks to which the most inexperienced and untalented of climbers can be dragged in safety to the top. The second ascent of the Matterhorn was carried out over the Italian ridge. The climbing here is more difficult than any met with on the Swiss ridge; and though, even here, the rock is nowadays decorated with a profusion of thick ropes which enable many to climb it who would otherwise not even dream of attempting to, there are still unroped sections of such difficulty that the Italian ridge is unquestionably a harder climbing problem than the Swiss. Of the other two ridges of the mountain, the Furggen ridge, though it has been climbed, is in sections so exposed to falling stones that it cannot be regarded as a justifiable undertaking. But the Zmutt ridge is a sound climb and has the distinction of being the only really practicable route to the summit which is devoid of the artificial aids of fixed ropes and chains. Both the Swiss and Italian ridges of the Matterhorn were climbed in 1865, but it was not until many years afterwards that the summit was gained over the Zmutt ridge.
In September, 1879, two of the strongest climbing parties that have ever been known in the Alps at last succeeded in opening up what is to-day the finest line of approach to the top of the Matterhorn. The first party consisted of the late Mr. A. F. Mummery, with the guides Alexander Burgener, Johann Petrus and A. Gentinetta; the second, of Mr. W. Penhall with Ferdinand Imseng and Louis Zurbruggen. Mummery’s party followed the ridge almost throughout, but Penhall climbed for the most part on the Tiefenmatten face, that immense series of cliffs enclosed between the Zmutt and Italian ridges, reaching the ridge only at a very elevated point.
After crossing Monte Rosa from Macugnaga, Case, Obexer, Max and I arrived at the Monte Rosa Hotel in Zermatt, where we were welcomed by two old members of the Academic Alpine Club of Zürich, Ernest Martini and Val Fynn. The latter suggested that we should join forces and make a combined attack upon the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn, descending via the Italian ridge to Breuil. Coming as it did from Fynn, probably the most experienced and best guideless climber the Alps have ever seen, the suggestion was received with enthusiasm; and, on the evening of August 12, 1911, the six of us berthed down together in the Schönbühl hut which lies far up in the Zmutt Valley, at a distance of about three and a half hours from Zermatt.
At one o’clock next morning, under the guidance of Fynn who had reconnoitred the preliminary part of the route on the previous day, we descended over the loose blocks of the moraine below the hut on to the glacier, and made our way across towards the great shut-in basin of the Tiefenmatten Glacier which lies at the foot of the Zmutt ridge. Keeping far over to the right so as to avoid the crevasses of the icefall, we gained the basin, whence we were able to work round in a wide curve towards the cliffs below the lower, snowy section of the Zmutt ridge. Soon we were climbing up the rocks and, passing by two little walls of stones, possibly the remains of Mummery’s bivouac, we reached the snow slopes above. The snow was good and well-frozen, and we were able to kick steps up on to the ridge which we struck just above the lower end of the prominent snowy section. The ridge was not steep, and the snow was in excellent condition. Kicking steps, we made good headway. The snow ridge finally merged into a crest of broken rocks up which we scrambled, to arrive at a deep gap beyond which towered several grim gendarmes or rocky teeth. It was six o’clock, and, though our progress had been anything but hurried, we were nothing loth to making breakfast an excuse for a halt. The early morning sun, weak though its rays were, helped to take the edge off the knife-like northerly breeze. Nevertheless, we were glad enough when Fynn, reminding us that the real part of the day’s work was now before us, gave the order to prepare to move off.