One of the younger generation of mountain climbers once complained bitterly to me that there were no new climbs to be done in the Alps, the pioneers having, in his opinion, with extraordinary thoroughness and selfish disregard for their posterity, climbed every virgin pinnacle and explored all climbable ridges and faces. To his surprise, I replied that our thanks were due to the pioneers, for though some had no doubt digested much of the grain, the fattest and best grains remained for the man of to-day who knew where to look. The good grain that is left can no longer be picked up without trouble. We all know what faces and ridges of mountains have not been explored, but the successful climbing of these must be preceded by careful and patient investigation.
In August, 1911, I enjoyed a happy day of perfect laziness on the Stockje. My main purpose was to examine the Zmutt ridge, with the intention of climbing it on the following day. But ever and again my gaze was irresistibly drawn, as if for relief, from the solemn, dark magnificence of the Matterhorn to the white purity and graceful curves of the hanging glaciers of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens; and I found myself seeking in vain to trace the way by which it had been climbed. That winter, on searching Alpine literature, I discovered, with no little astonishment, that the whole vast north face of the mountain, from the Col Tournanche right round to the north-west ridge, was every inch of it virgin ground. Here truly was a grain fat enough to satisfy the greediest appetite, and I made up my mind to secure it.
It was not until 1913 that I had an opportunity of returning to the Schönbühl hut. From there I set out on a prospecting trip and, traversing the Wandfluh from the foot of the Dent Blanche down to the Col d’Hérens, not only succeeded in spying out a feasible way of conquering the north face of the Dent d’Hérens, but also gained some insight into the geography of the mountain itself. The peak is a curiously complicated one, and the errors into which even surveyors, especially on the Italian side, have fallen, are well-known. The summit is supported by four ridges—the south ridge which leads down to the lower Za-de-Zan Glacier, the west ridge to the Tiefenmattenjoch, the north-west ridge to the Tiefenmatten Glacier, and the east ridge to the Col Tournanche. The west and north-west ridges meet at a point less than one hundred feet west of the summit. The north-west ridge, when seen from the Schönbühl hut, is easily confused with the west ridge, from which it is actually separated by the steep, glaciated slopes of the north-west face. The fact that the ice cliffs of this face seem to be perched on the north-west ridge has probably given rise to the impression that this ridge can no longer be climbed owing to the formation thereon of a hanging glacier. In reality the ridge is entirely free from such encumbrances. Between the north-west and east ridges lies the north face. The watershed ridge between the Val Tournanche and the Valpelline does not reach up to the Dent d’Hérens; shortly above the Col des Grandes Murailles it loses itself in the southern slopes of the east ridge.
From my point of vantage on the Wandfluh, I saw that the north face of the Dent d’Hérens carries a huge glacier terrace, or corridor which, beginning low down near the foot of the north-west ridge, rises diagonally upwards across the face and reaches the east ridge just below the great final gendarme east of the summit. It was perfectly clear that, could this terrace be gained at its lower end and left at its upper, the problem of climbing the face would be solved. Despite my conviction that the climb was feasible, however, the objective dangers—that is, unavoidable dangers from falling ice and stones—appeared so great that for the time being I gave up all idea of making the attempt.
During the war a handful of mountain photographs beguiled many a weary hour, and among them was one of the Dent d’Hérens as seen from the Wandfluh. I studied this picture intently, and finally promised myself another look at the mountain as soon as possible after the war. In 1919, therefore, the Schönbühl hut became once more my base of operations. I again traversed the Wandfluh and later, by climbing the Tiefenmattenjoch from the north, was able to inspect more closely the possible approaches to the lower end of the great ice corridor. Eventually, in order to obtain a more comprehensive view of the upper reaches of the corridor, I climbed the Matterhorn. At last, believing that nothing else would furnish the required information, accompanied by Mr. Hafers, I made the ascent of the north-west ridge. This climb showed me that the dangers of the north face were by no means to be underrated. The whole terrace gathered up much of the rock that crumbled away from the uppermost slopes of the mountain, and the approaches to its lower end were not only swept by stones from sunrise to sunset, but were also defended by frequent falls of ice. Indeed, real safety there appeared to be none until the east ridge had been gained at the foot of the great gendarme before mentioned. I retired discomfited. But the magnet was strong, and, in 1921, having meanwhile somewhat modified my views as to what precisely constitutes objective dangers, I returned to the Schönbühl hut, whence a series of visits to the Pointe de Zinal, the Stockje, and the Tête de Valpelline at length convinced me that what, in ordinary circumstances, would be a dangerous climb, could, if tackled properly, be converted into a safe and justifiable undertaking. The lateness of the season, however, prohibited my putting any theories into practice, but plans were maturing favourably. By gaining the lowest rocks of the north-west ridge, and climbing up either these or the rocks and ice of its north flank to the level of the terrace, a short traverse over steep ice would give access to the terrace itself. On account of the frequent stone-falls which ricochet across the barely emerging rocks of the north-west ridge when the sun is shining on the highest slopes of the mountain, this part of the climb would have to be completed during a cold night, before sunrise. As the ground was obviously difficult, a moon would be of advantage. Two-thirds of the way along the terrace, a large bergschrund threatened trouble, but, this overcome, there seemed to be nothing to prevent one’s gaining the east ridge at the foot of the great gendarme. The whole of the route along the terrace itself appeared to be swept by falling stones and, in its lower end, by falling ice; but, owing to the comparatively gentle angle of the terrace, I believed that stones would be held up in the snow. In 1921, I also crossed the Col Tournanche and from there received confirmation of the fact that no insurmountable obstacle barred the exit from the upper end of the terrace to the east ridge.
An ice avalanche.
The height of the cliff down which the avalanche is falling is over two thousand feet.
Facing page 196.