Unfortunately, in 1922, being busy elsewhere, I was unable to return to the fray, but in 1923 the long-wished-for opportunity arrived. Towards the end of July, I set out on a final series of investigations, determined that they should lead to the conquest of this great north face. My friend, Raymond Peto, and I climbed the Dent Blanche, returning by the 1862 original route of Kennedy, leaving the gendarmes above us, while we traversed back along the snow and ice-plastered slabs of the south-west face. The ascent was made with a twofold object: firstly, to get one more thorough insight into the great terrace of the Dent d’Hérens, and, secondly, to give Peto, whose maiden climb this was, a chance of finding his mountain legs, it being my intention that he should be one of my companions on the new venture.
And here I may be permitted a slight digression. I have more than once been criticised for taking inexperienced people on difficult and what my critics too readily refer to as hazardous climbs. In reply, I would point out that a difficult enterprise is not necessarily a rash one, though it may well be made so if one embarks upon it without thorough investigation and detailed planning. If, by the simple inclusion of a beginner in the party, the difficult be transformed into the hazardous, the reflection is on the capabilities of the leader. Also, fifteen years of guideless climbing have taught me, inter alia, that in the mountains one must not take one’s responsibilities lightly. Furthermore, the inexperience of the beginner, who is physically sound and no coward, is a much less dangerous drawback to the leader of a party than the argumentative embryo-mountaineer who, after three or even fewer brief summer seasons spent in climbing, often only in a secondary capacity, imagines that the mountains hold no more secrets for him. To the experienced climber who feels that there is still something new for him to learn, I would commend the tyro as a companion—for his puzzled, but often fundamental questionings may suggest a new train of thought or throw fresh light upon what seemed but the obvious and commonplace.
To return to our problem. From the Dent Blanche I could see that both the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west ridge and the one intersecting the snows of the great terrace were of formidable proportions and likely to give a great deal of trouble. Next day, by going up the Tête Blanche, I was able to get a better idea of the ground from the foot of the north-west ridge up to the terrace.
On the strength of the knowledge now possessed, I drew up a provisional time-table. At midnight we would leave the Schönbühl hut. Going round the Stockje and passing through the two icefalls of the Tiefenmatten Glacier, we would reach the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west ridge not later than 3 a.m. The bergschrund and the difficult ground above, consisting of ice interspersed with rock, would have to be tackled in the moonlight, and this would give us time to gain the lower end of the terrace about six o’clock, before the sun’s rays had become powerful enough to start stones falling. All would then be plain sailing until about two-thirds of the way across the terrace, where the formidable bergschrund would have to be negotiated. Should this obstacle prove impassable, we could return in all haste to near the end of the terrace, where, in the shelter of a great ice cliff, it would be possible to bivouac. In the earliest hours of the following day, the retreat would be completed via the north-west ridge and the summit. Should the bergschrund go, however, there would be nothing to prevent our gaining the east ridge.
These studies of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens had entailed in all eight visits to the Schönbühl hut of a total duration of nearly six weeks. Was it time thrown away, or is not mountaineering worth the endeavour to make it a justified source of intellectual and physical training, invaluable in every phase of one’s daily life?
On returning to Zermatt we were joined by Guy Forster. The functions of the various members of the party were easily arranged. Forster and I were to act as guides and Peto as porter. On July 29, Peto, bent on sketching, set off once more for the Schönbühl hut, and on the 30th, Forster and I followed with the necessary provisions, climbing irons, a one-hundred-foot Alpine Club rope, and a two-hundred-foot cotton sash-line. The latter might prove useful in the event of a forced retreat back to the north-west ridge and perhaps also on the terrace. At a few minutes past midnight we left the hut, telling the caretaker of our intentions. We crossed the glacier to the Stockje in the light of a strong moon. Just beyond the ruins of the old Stockje hut, we put on climbing irons and roped. The first icefall of the Tiefenmatten Glacier was easily overcome near the left bank. But the second, which experience had told me was most vulnerable on the extreme right bank, gave more trouble. Here, close under the Dent d’Hérens, we were in the shadow of the moon and had to make use of our lantern. For perhaps a quarter of an hour, while making our way as fast as possible up through a series of steep ice gullies and crevasses, we were in danger from the séracs perched on the great cliffs above. Once in the upper basin of the glacier, we ascended the slopes, bearing to our left round towards the foot of the north-west ridge, and eventually arrived on the lower lip of the bergschrund which defends the foot of the ridge. The spot was strange, forbidding. In the gloom, a hundred feet above us, towered the upper lip—inaccessible. In dark, shining patches the rocks of the north-west ridge showed through, pitilessly smooth and glazed with a thin covering of treacherous ice. To cross here was impossible, but, by working out into the north-west face and following the bergschrund to where it curves upwards almost parallel with the north-west ridge, we found a likely place.
The first attempt to get over the bergschrund met with failure. The bridge selected afforded, it is true, a means of access to the slopes above, but I quickly discovered that it was too delicate a structure and preferred to go back to where we could descend a few feet on to some snowed-up blocks in the steeply rising schrund, whence we could cut up the vertical other side. I gained the upper lip, but the work involved was far from easy, and, before its completion, I had to retire for a rest while Forster improved my sketchy foot- and handholds. It was then that I took stock of the time: it was four o’clock; we were an hour too late, and there was nothing for it but to go back. On Forster’s return, I recommenced work on the ice steps, converting them into great holes which would be certain to hold out until the following day. This done, I informed the others of my decision, and, without a murmur of dissent on their part, we turned back. Instead of going straight down on to the glacier, however, we worked down along the lower lip of the bergschrund to some distance beyond the foot of the north-west ridge, in an endeavour to find another way across which would give more direct access either to the north-west ridge or to the slopes leading up to the lower end of the terrace. The search was vain, and, just as the first red rays of the morning sun touched the summit of the Dent d’Hérens, we fled towards the Tiefenmatten Glacier from the stones that were soon falling. No time was lost in hurrying through the upper icefall—for here safety lay in speed.
That morning, in time for a belated eight o’clock breakfast, three dejected climbers arrived back at the Schönbühl hut to a welcoming chorus of “We told you so.” The one crumb of comfort was the word “Unmöglich,”[7] freely applied by all and sundry to the north face of the Dent d’Hérens!
In the afternoon the weather changed for the worse. At 11.30 p.m. we looked out to find rain falling heavily; towards morning it actually snowed in the vicinity of the hut. It was not until after midday on August 1 that a strong north-west wind set in and swept away the clouds—all but the gossamer-like streamers which clung tenaciously to the Dent d’Hérens and the Matterhorn, and the thick banks of mist that sought and found refuge from the gale in the grim recesses of the Tiefenmatten basin. Heavy, new snow had fallen on our mountain, and great wisps of it were being torn up over the ridges and the slopes of the north face and borne away on the wind. But the weather was good; and the new snow, though it would undoubtedly impede us in some places, would hold loose stones firmly in their beds for long after sunrise and thus actually render our climb more safe. That night was the coldest I experienced in the course of the wonderful summer of 1923.