At a quarter to midnight, on August 1-2, we left the Schönbühl hut. The moon was hidden behind the Matterhorn which was silhouetted against its light with almost startling clearness, and it was not until we had gained the moraine of the Stockje that we were able to dispense with the lantern. Walking rapidly and finding our way through the icefalls without hesitation, we arrived in the upper basin of the Tiefenmatten Glacier at a point below the north-west ridge, just where the slopes steepen up towards the bergschrund. Here, sheltered from the cold wind behind a huge block of fallen ice, we halted (2.30 to 3 a.m., August 2) to adjust climbing irons, breakfast and rearrange knapsacks. I had the pleasure of handing mine over to Peto. We re-lighted the lantern and climbed up to the bergschrund, to find the steps cut two days before quite usable. Once over the bergschrund a steep ice slope lay between us and the nearest rocks of the north-west ridge, now about two hundred yards away. Alpine literature contains many examples of that looseness of description which permits the raconteur to describe as ice, a slope covered with inches of good firm snow. But here in front of us was the real thing. On warm days, water from the ice cliffs perched on the rocks above flows down over this slope, not in well-defined channels, but fanwise, so as to leave bare ice. What the angle of the slope is I cannot say, as I had no clinometer, but where we cut across, always keeping about a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet above the upper lip of the bergschrund, it was very steep. Higher up, the inclination was somewhat more gentle; but for two reasons we chose to cross the slope at its steepest—in the first place, fewer steps would bring us to the ridge, and in the second, should stray stones or odd blocks of ice fall in spite of the early hour and the intense cold, there would be much more chance of such missiles going over us than if we were standing on the less steep slopes higher up. The order of the party was as follows. I led, untrammelled by a knapsack, Forster came in the middle, and Peto brought up the rear. How Peto would manage was rather uncertain, as this was his first serious essay with climbing irons. Forster was to look after both my rope and Peto’s, and would, in the event of a slip on the part of the latter, have to hold him—a task of which I knew he was fully capable if only the steps were well-cut and reasonably large.
Just as we began to cut our way across the slope, a fierce gust of wind blew out the candle; and henceforth, though it was still rather dark, for the light of the moon did not reach the secluded spot directly, we decided to dispense with artificial light. I cut the steps as quickly as possible without wastage of blows, but very carefully. Always the same method—left-handed cutting, for we were traversing from right to left; six or seven medium blows marking out the base, twice as many heavy blows to break down the roof of each step, half a dozen dragging hits to make floor and wall meet well inside, a scrape or two with the blade to make sure that the floor was clean and slanting into the slope, and another of the many steps was ready. But while I was steadily cutting out my first rope’s length from Forster, he and Peto were getting the worst of it in a heated difference of opinion with the lantern. Now a lantern which is not burning should be folded up and put away. But this particular sample proved stubborn. Peto’s struggles to make it behave being unavailing, he very considerately passed it on to Forster, by which time I was already straining at the rope to cut a next step. Having only two hands, both of which were wanted on more important business, Forster thrust the lantern between his teeth, came up a few steps, and so gave me sufficient rope to proceed. After a further desperate but vain effort to fold the lantern up—with the candle still in it!—and handicapped by his limited number of hands, he at last solved the difficulty by biting the candle in two, and eventually succeeded in stowing away the very refractory and useless article in his pocket. From then onwards we really got into our stride. I worked away in a perfectly straight, almost horizontal, line towards the rocks of the north-west ridge; my comrades moved one at a time, Peto evidently enjoying the slope in spite of its appearance—particularly formidable with darkness surrounding us and the ever-increasing drop beneath.
It was very cold, and from time to time the fierce gusts of a fresh wind made us pause in our labours and crouch well down on to the slope to retain our balance. At a quarter past four, the last step had been cut, and the rocks of the north-west ridge gained at a point a little above the bergschrund. We immediately crossed over to the north face where the rocks were more broken. They were well plastered up with ice and snow, but nevertheless we all tucked our axes into the rope at our waists and, with both hands free, moved upwards at a good pace. Our mode of advance consisted in my going out the full sixty-foot length of rope between myself and Forster and finding good standing ground or reliable belay; whereupon the other two, moving together with the rope taut throughout, would climb up to me. There was much ice on the rocks, and everything was buried in fresh snow; but I steadfastly refrained from using the axe, utilising hands and fists to clear doubtful places and relying as much as possible on the climbing irons. To use the axe on this kind of ground before it is absolutely necessary invariably results in the loss of valuable time. We kept to the north side of the ridge, only twice touching the crest, and, after one and a half hours’ climbing at full pressure, arrived at a point high up above the lower end of the great terrace, where a feasible way of gaining it at last appeared. Between the terrace and the rocks of the northern flank of the north-west ridge lies an immense gully, at the narrowest point of which we now stood. It was extremely steep, as the ice had run and formed a sort of bulge. Forster and Peto having stowed themselves firmly away on the last little island of rock, I started to cut across the gully. After some heavy step-cutting in extraordinarily steep ice, I arrived in the middle, only to see, about one hundred feet lower down, a better means of gaining the terrace. So I returned and, joining the others, descended these hundred feet and once more set out to cross the gully. It was not very wide, being only some eighty feet from the last of the rocks to the terrace itself, but the work was certainly hard. After about twenty minutes’ step-cutting, I found myself standing in the bergschrund formed by the terrace and the ice slopes above, and there Forster and Peto soon joined me.
By following the lower lip of the bergschrund for a short distance, and leaving it at a point where it curved abruptly upwards, it would have been possible to make a horizontal traverse of about three hundred feet across a steep snow slope to where the terrace was more gently inclined. Unfortunately, owing to the state of the snow, such tactics could not be indulged in. The slope was heavily covered with an accumulation of new snow, much of which had fallen down from the steeper slopes above. The old snow underneath had a smooth surface and was hard-frozen, and the fresh snow was of that powdery, non-cohesive quality which already possessed the thin, dangerous, wind-formed crust so respected by the winter mountaineer. To traverse such a slope would be simply asking for trouble: there was almost certain danger of treading loose a snow-shield and being swept down by it across the terrace and over the cliffs below. The only alternative lay in descending for a distance of about two hundred feet and then crossing the slope at its very foot, where it was no longer steep, hard up against the lower edge of the corridor where it breaks away in the vast ice cliffs overhanging the Tiefenmatten Glacier. It was here that our spare rope proved most valuable. We cut out a large block of snow in the lower lip of the bergschrund and laid our doubled spare rope over the improvised belay. With Peto going first, we then went straight down the dangerous slope towards another suitable belay lying about a hundred feet below and consisting of a large stone which had fallen from the Dent d’Hérens and was now firmly embedded in the old snow. By means of this second belay we descended another hundred feet and then arrived at the very foot of the slope, where its angle eased off so rapidly that, in spite of the great masses of powdery snow, it was at last possible to cross, in safety and without fear of loosening a snow-shield, over to the great terrace.
The angle of the ground where we now found ourselves was gentle—sometimes no more than 20°; but, under the threat of ice falling from the hanging glacier above, Forster and I urged Peto, who still led, to move forward with all haste until clear of the danger zone. At one place our way passed through an extensive field of ice-blocks—débris from the cliffs above. That practically the whole of this particular fall of ice had been arrested on the terrace will indicate how easy is the gradient at this point. 7.30 a.m. saw us more than half-way along the terrace at a point where it appears almost level. We were more or less directly below the summit. Close to the edge of the ice cliff in which the terrace breaks away, we were at last in perfect safety. Nothing falling from above could reach us now; for the gentle slopes of the terrace between us and the final wall of the mountain provided an efficient trap for all stones tumbling down from the summit rocks.
It was with a sense of complete security that we sat down to another breakfast and to enjoy a well-earned rest; for, since crossing the bergschrund four and a half hours ago, we had been working at high pressure. The spot must be one of the wildest and most solitary in the Alps; behind us a rampart of precipitous cliffs, before us at our feet a few yards of gently sloping snow, then nothing until the eye rested on the Stockje, a mile and a half distant and nearly three thousand feet below. Several parties were toiling up the Tête Blanche, but halted upon hearing our exuberant yells of delight as we settled down to our meal. It was cold; the wind was still strong and blowing snow dust about, and, though all wore extra clothing and wind-proof overalls, we were by no means overburdened with warmth.
Shortly after eight o’clock we again set off. The slopes of the terrace now steepened up rapidly, and soon we were once more cutting steps—this time in good hard snow—up to the bergschrund separating us from the upper end of the terrace. Just before gaining the lower lip, we heard the rattle of falling stones, and a generous avalanche from the gully between the great gendarme on the east ridge and the summit crashed down straight towards us. During one of my reconnaissance trips, I had watched, through a telescope, stones falling down this gully and had observed that they were all caught by the lower lip of the schrund. Indeed, it was precisely this fact that had led me to the conclusion that the lower lip must protrude very much beyond the upper which would, therefore, form a serious barrier in our path. On this occasion, again, every stone of the avalanche was swallowed up by the bergschrund, without the slightest danger to us. As soon as all was quiet we resumed work and, on gaining the lower lip, moved down along it to the left, where it approached more under the upper lip. The obstacle we now faced was assuredly a difficult one. It appeared to me that the upper lip could be attacked, with fair prospects of success, at its lowest part by cutting steps up about twelve feet of very steep ice and then drilling one’s way through a cornice formed of hard-frozen snow, some three feet thick, extending from the edge of the upper lip. An alternative way lay in making a difficult traverse still farther to the left across the ice face leading to a fault or notch in the cornice, affording access to the slopes above. At first I chose the former way. Forster anchored himself well and, holding both my rope and Peto’s, let us across the débris-choked floor of the bergschrund to the foot of the steep pitch. I was soon cutting my way up this, while Peto held me steady so as to avoid the necessity of making handholds. Now out of arm’s reach, but jammed against the ice by his axe, I began to drill through the cornice. I succeeded in driving my axe through into daylight, but only after a great effort, and was forced to return for a rest. Forster then followed up in my steps, but, not liking the idea of laboriously enlarging the hole in the cornice, returned to investigate the possibilities of the alternative traverse to the left. For some distance, Peto was able to support him with his axe, but for the last ten or twelve feet Forster had to cut with his left hand, relying on his right to help him retain his balance. By a brilliant piece of ice work, he wormed his way through the fault in the cornice out on to the slopes above. As soon as he had obtained good standing ground and driven his axe to the head into the snow, I followed quickly, and together we gave Peto the necessary aid to enable him to join us.
Once more I took the lead. We were now aiming straight for the eastern extremity of the level section of ridge lying immediately to the east of the great gendarme. Everywhere the ground was so steep that steps had to be cut, but four or five blows with the axe were always sufficient, as the snow was hard and of good quality. To gain the foot of the gendarme over the slopes directly above us was out of the question on account of the impassability of an intervening bergschrund. Farther to the east, however, this schrund was well-bridged, and we crossed without difficulty. Here the snow changed. It was still good, but no longer so hard. Roped on to our two-hundred-foot length of sash-line, Forster now took the lead and kicked his way right up on to the ridge, while Peto and I enjoyed a welcome, if brief, respite from our activities. At eleven o’clock we were all sitting together on a great flat slab on the east ridge overlooking the Val Tournanche, protected from the wind and revelling in the warm sunshine. We had won. From here to the top was merely a question of time and patience. The great north face of the Dent d’Hérens, which had so long been spoken of as “unmöglich,” had this day at last suffered defeat, and many were the shouts of triumph hurled down at its hitherto hidden recesses. In the simple amusements so dear to the mountaineer, a whole hour was spent at this delightful spot. We ate, sunned ourselves, and drank in the beauties of the marvellous view. I will not expatiate thereon, but will content myself with paying tribute to the Matterhorn which, seen as we saw it that morning, must surely be the most strikingly wonderful mountain in the world.
At noon, having discarded our climbing irons, we again roped, Forster leading, I coming as second man, and Peto, as before, bringing up the rear. Making our way up a steep snow ridge, followed by a vertical chimney—which, thanks to liberal handholds, was not difficult, though somewhat strenuous—we had soon covered the distance of about eighty feet that had separated us from the east end of the horizontal stretch of ridge, and now overlooked the uppermost snows of the Za-de-Zan Glacier, from which we were divided by less than two hundred feet of easy scree slopes. Early in the day we had noticed the formation of fish clouds, and from here saw that Mont Blanc was “smoking a pipe.” The weather was obviously breaking; but, provided no time was wasted, we counted on its holding out long enough to enable us to finish the ascent. The horizontal stretch of ridge, despite the fresh snow that was lying about, gave no serious trouble, and soon we were at the foot of the great gendarme. It was plain that the latter, even in the best of circumstances, would prove a stubborn customer if tackled directly over the ridge. For the sake of economising time, therefore, we moved out on to the south side, and for more than two hours were kept fully occupied on slabby rocks, where the handholds tended to slope downwards. Had the ground been dry, the climbing would probably have been fairly easy; but to-day ice and new snow were everywhere. Forster, free from the burden of his knapsack, which now graced my shoulders, was in his element. Our pace was not rapid, because the conditions rendered it advisable to move only one at a time, and the rock, apart from being glazed with ice, was so unreliable that great care was necessary. At last, shortly before drawing level with the summit of the gendarme, a scramble up some particularly nasty slabs brought us on to a buttress of blocks where we were able to climb together. Forster dashed away in great style. We regained the ridge at the lowest point in the slight depression that lies between the summit of the great gendarme and that of the mountain itself. From there the climb along the final ridge was pure joy. Nowhere did we meet with the least difficulty. The rock was extremely good and wind-swept free from snow. The ridge was very narrow—in places even sensational. Sometimes it hung over to one side, sometimes to the other, and once it actually assumed a mushroom-like appearance and overhung on both. Our pace was furious, and Forster’s exclamations of delight at the splendid climbing quite invigorating.