“... that tremendous overhang called the ‘Nose of Zmutt.’”
Facing page 186.
After traversing for another hundred feet or so, I appeared to be almost vertically under the summit. Considering that my opportunity had come, I struck up over ice-glazed rocks and through ice-filled gullies; preferably the latter, as the ice, as a rule, was sufficiently deep to permit the cutting of good steps. Our party soon drew level with Fynn’s, but could not overtake them, though we were working over less difficult ground. Steadily and safely, Fynn led his party across ice-covered rocks which would have taxed the skill of the very best. For over three hours we fought our way inch by inch, until at last, almost simultaneously, both parties reached the famous ledge known as Carrel’s Corridor. This ledge runs from the Italian ridge across the face of the Matterhorn to the Zmutt ridge. Here our difficulties were at an end. It is true that the rock wall above the ledge was vertical, even overhanging, and that below were the slippery slabs up which we had just come; but the corridor itself was in places almost level and broad enough to afford perfectly secure footing—a relief after what we had undergone. The ledge was heavily laden with powdery, incohesive snow, through which we ploughed, knee-deep, over towards the Zmutt ridge. Fynn had gained the corridor at a point nearer the ridge than we had, and presently I saw him disappear round a bold corner of rock. Obexer and Max in turn followed, and from their lusty yells of joy we knew that they were back again on the ridge, and all was now plain sailing to the top. On rounding the corner, I looked out beyond those grim slopes, the scene of the tragedy of 1865, and espied two parties making their way down to the Shoulder on the Swiss ridge. Then I looked up. All was clear. The ridge, though in parts still steep, consisted of rock which offered a profusion of holds for hand and foot, and, dashing ahead at a great pace, we caught up Fynn’s party just as they arrived on the Italian summit (14,705 ft.).
It was one o’clock. With us arrived another, and to us unpleasant, visitor. Harbinger of ill weather, a dense bank of cloud shut out the sun and obscured the view. But bad weather or no bad weather, we now claimed the right to a square meal and a rest. The cooking apparatus was brought forth, and knapsacks searched for food. Fynn unearthed a veritable gold mine in the shape of a plum pudding, while Martini produced that peculiar speciality of Italy called salami, a sausage whose inside is reputed to be either cat, dog or donkey, or a discreet mixture of all three. But appetites were too big to be over-fastidious, and what with plum pudding, salami and other good and solid odds and ends, to be washed down by generous supplies of hot tea, a feast was laid which received full justice.
At two o’clock Fynn shepherded us together again, and the descent was begun. Martini was the only one amongst us who had ever been on the Italian ridge before, but, as he confessed to a bad memory, I was deputed to find the way down, while to him and Fynn fell the onerous post of bringing up the rear of their respective parties. In the dense fog surrounding us, I was, for a moment or two, at a loss as to where to seek for the start. Acting on Fynn’s advice to “go to the edge of the drop,” I stepped out carefully towards the brink of the huge precipice that falls away towards Italy. Almost at once I saw before me the bleached strands of a stout rope fixed to a strong iron pin driven into the rocks. The details of the Italian ridge having been dealt with in the preceding chapter, it will, therefore, be unnecessary to repeat them here. Suffice it to say that we descended the frost-riven rocks and precipices of this magnificent ridge with all possible speed, goaded by the constant threat of a storm that fortunately never broke.
It was not until we were far below the Pic Tyndall, and had descended the great rope which enables one to avoid the battlemented crest above the great tower, that we met with adventure. To regain the ridge below the tower, a steep ice slope known as the “Linceul” has to be crossed. On approaching this slope, we sighted a party of four German climbers, who later informed us that they had already spent two hours endeavouring to cross. Incapable of cutting steps, they were helpless. One, however, possessed of more resolution than his comrades, was preparing to set about making a last desperate effort to cross and, to assist him in his endeavour, had called upon one of the others to hold him on the rope. The latter untied the rope from around his waist and held it in his hands as his companion did his utmost to cut steps. To us, who came upon the scene at this very minute, the base object of the second man in untying himself was only too obvious. He feared that, in the event of the first man slipping, he might not be able to check the fall, and, tied to the rope, he too might be dragged down over the precipice. By unroping and merely grasping the rope in his hands, he would, in the event of a slip proving too much of a strain on his strength, be able to save himself at the expense of his comrade, by simply letting the rope go. The mountains are indeed true and stern testers of friendship, loyalty and courage. On seeing us, the Germans brightened up. They were profuse in their explanations of their difficulties and requests for assistance. Both were unnecessary, especially the former, for we recognised at once the peculiar type of mountain climber with whom we had to deal. They belonged to a self-styled group of “guideless” climbers who are singularly deficient in mountaineering knowledge and ability and many other qualities besides, which it will not be necessary to enumerate. Their kind are to be met with everywhere in the Alps. Usually they confine their activities to the easiest of climbs and snow trudges, where they can follow unthinkingly in the deep-trodden tracks of previous parties. Sometimes they venture on expeditions the difficulties of which are beyond their powers; and, on such occasions, they take care to follow on the heels of some efficient climbing party, be it guided or unguided. This is actually what these four men had done. Early that morning they had started out to follow a guided party up the Swiss and down the Italian ridges of the Matterhorn. As far as the summit, they had contrived to keep close behind. The difficulties of the descent, however, overtaxed their powers, with the result that the guided party soon far outstripped them, and they were left to their own resources. Hence the sad predicament in which we found them. It is this special breed of “guideless” climber, who is guideless only in that he does not himself engage and pay for the services of a guide, that has in the past done so much to bring discredit upon guideless climbing proper. The man who professes to be a guideless climber should avoid frequented routes and has no right to embark upon an undertaking to which he is not fully equal, no matter what the circumstances may be.
Fynn sent on my party to cut the necessary steps across the Linceul, while he, with the assistance of Max and Obexer, carefully nursed the four incompetents over to the safe ground beyond. Soon afterwards we passed the ruins of the old Italian hut and, descending some steep slabs by means of a long fixed rope, arrived at the Italian Club Hut at 6.30 p.m. It was filled with climbers intending to make the ascent on the next day, and, as the four rescued men were clearly incapable of proceeding farther that evening, we had to make up our minds to continue the descent, in order that they might find room for the night. We carried on past the Col du Lion, down the Grand Staircase—those easy, broken rocks south of the Tête du Lion—and gained the meadows above Breuil just after nightfall. We boasted only one lantern amongst us. Fynn carried it and unravelled the vagaries of a twisting track leading down towards the far off, beckoning hôtel lights. At ten o’clock, twenty-one hours after leaving the Schönbühl hut, tired but happy, we made our way through a throng of inquisitive holiday makers to the dining-room of the Jomein, and were soon bringing such hearty appetites to bear upon the good food provided that the brows of even our worthy host rose high with astonishment.