The party consisted of my two guides, Joseph and Roman Imboden, father and son, and myself, and our idea was to cross the fine peak of the Rothhorn, 13,855 feet high, from Zermatt to Zinal. I had been up that mountain before, and so, on many previous occasions, had Imboden, but, oddly enough, he had never been down the other side. Roman, however, had once or twice made the traverse, and, in any case, we knew quite enough about the route from hearsay to feel sure we could hit it off even without Roman’s experience.
Some fresh snow had fallen a few days previously, and the slabby part of the Rothhorn on the north side was unpleasantly white, besides which there was a strong and bitterly cold wind. We pretty well abandoned all idea of getting down on the other side when we saw how unfavourably things were turning out, and though I felt greatly disappointed I never have and never would urge a guide in whom I have confidence to undertake what he considers imprudent. We left the matter open till the last minute, however, and took both the knapsacks to the top, where we arrived at 9.15.
Warming ourselves in a sunny and sheltered corner of the by no means inhospitable summit, we had some food and a pleasant rest. I cannot say if the meal and the cheering effects of the sunshine made things look different, but it is a fact that after, perhaps, an hour’s halt, Imboden shouldered his knapsack and remarked to me, “Come along, ma’am, as far as the end of the ridge; we will just have a look.” Hope awakened in me, and scrambling to my feet I followed him. The wind was certainly high; I had difficulty even on those easy rocks in keeping my footing; how, I wondered, should we manage when the real climbing began? I had read of an arête of rock, little broader than one of the blunt knives we had used at breakfast, and the idea of passing along it with a shrieking gale trying to tear us from our perch was not alluring. Presently we reached the spot where one quits the gentle slope and comparatively broad ridge, and embarks on the profile of a slender and precipitous face of rock, with nearly vertical forehead and small and infrequent cracks for hands and feet. We were going to do more than look at it, apparently; we were about to descend it, for without any further remark Imboden began to get ready, letting Roman pass ahead. Taking hold of the rope between his son and himself he told me to stand aside while he gradually paid it out as Roman went down. The first yard or two consisted of slabs, set at a high angle. Then the ridge abruptly curved over and one saw nothing but air till the eye rested on the glacier thousands of feet below. In a few minutes Roman had disappeared, and the steady paying out of the rope alone indicated that he was climbing downwards. After a time he reached almost the end of his tether of about 30 feet—for we were on a very long rope—and his father called out, “Rope up!” “Let the lady come to the edge and give me a little more,” came a voice from far down. Putting the final loop into my hand and bidding me sit down, Imboden held me hard by the cord behind until the tautness of the piece between Roman and me showed it was time to be moving. I then advanced very cautiously to what seemed like the edge of the world. Turning round with my face to the rock I had my first glance below. Far down was the top of Roman’s hat, and as he saw the advancing soles of my boots he grinned with appreciation, feeling that now we really were embarked on the enterprise. “There’s a good place down here, ma’am, come along!” he called up, with one toe on a ledge 3 inches wide, two fingers thrust into a crack, and the rope held out of his way by being put, the remark concluded, between his teeth. I had no doubt it was a nice place when one got there, but meanwhile I had to make the best use I could of my eyes to find a suitable assortment of hand-and foot-holes. Soon I, too, was clinging to the face of the precipice, and Imboden was left above out of sight and before long almost out of hearing. The wind here was far less trying as we were sheltered by the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. To me the feeling of danger from a gale on a rock peak is due even more to the difficulty of hearing what one’s companions are saying than to the risk of one’s balance being upset. It is extremely disconcerting, when a climber, descending steep rocks and anxious to make a long but perhaps an easy step downwards to good foot-hold, calls for more rope, and is promptly swung clear out into space by an invisible guide above, who has misunderstood his orders. When a party is accustomed to work together, this sort of thing seldom happens, still it makes all the difference in the pleasure of negotiating difficult rocks if the air is calm.
Our only trouble now was owing to the fresh snow, but this had partially consolidated, and we got down steadily and safely, gradually leaving behind the cold wind which whistled amongst the crags above.
It was early in the day, and we went slowly, stopping once or twice to photograph where warm and sheltered resting-places of comfortable proportions tempted us to linger. The rocky knife edge was unpleasantly sharp for the arms bent over it, but useful ledges down the side helped to distribute the weight and amuse and occupy the mind. When finally we reached the end of the rocks, and had nothing but snow between us and the Mountet Hut, we considered ourselves as good as there, and made a long halt on the last stones.
We were wrong, however. “My boy, I will go ahead now,” remarked Imboden, stepping off into the snow. He went a few paces, and then looked first all round him and lastly at us. “Blue ice!” he muttered, with intense disgust. “Blue ice right down to the bottom!” We shrugged our shoulders; Imboden was ahead doing the work; we could afford to be philosophical. I should not like to say how many strokes of the axe each step required, but the slope was steep, a slip could not be risked, and Imboden hewed out great foot-holds in the slippery wall. After this had gone on for some time he paused. “Upon my word,” remarked he, “it will take us the rest of the day to get down at this rate! I shall try another way.” So we turned and remounted the slope, and sitting down once more on the stones, Imboden traced out a possible route down the face of the mountain, bearing diagonally across it. It looked dullish; besides, thought I, after all, we don’t particularly want to go to Zinal. Roman put into words what, I think, sprung simultaneously into both our minds. “Let us go back to Zermatt over the top of the Rothhorn again!” “Yes, let us do that!” I exclaimed. Imboden gazed from one to the other of us in amazement. “Go back over the top of the Rothhorn?” he repeated. “Why, we should simply be out all night!” Roman didn’t answer, but his eyes wandered persistently up the arête. His father now began to calculate, and by some strange process of arithmetic he came to the conclusion that if we hurried very much it was just possible that we might get off the difficult part of the peak before night overtook us. Still, he was far from reconciled to the idea, while every moment Roman and I liked it better. Imboden saw how keen we were, and presently exclaimed: “Well, I’ll go if you both want it, but we must be quick; if we spend the night on the top of the Rothhorn and a storm comes on, we may simply lose our lives!” There was no need however, to tell Roman to be quick. He was told off to lead, and I followed, with Imboden last. The memory of that ascent has remained in my mind as a confused dream. Every scrap of my attention was given to holding on and pulling myself upwards, never pausing, except in the very worst places, to see what either of the guides was doing, and, with every foot-and hand-hold fresh in my memory, I was full of a delightful sense of security which muscles in first-class condition and complete absence of any sensation of fatigue fully justified. We rose at an incredible pace, and after an hour and twenty-five minutes of splendid exercise, we threw ourselves once more on the flat little top of the Rothhorn. We had now only the descent by the ordinary route between us and Zermatt, and this seemed a small matter compared to what we had accomplished that day.
We did not remain long on the summit, and the first part of the descent was quickly ended. We had now reached that point on the mountain where it is necessary to leave the ridge and go down for some distance on the precipitous north face. This bit of the climb, always requiring great care on account of the smoothness and steepness of the rock, was on this occasion particularly difficult because of the powdery snow which covered everything, and the bitterly cold wind to which here, and, luckily for us, here only, we were exposed. The associations of these slabs are not of a nature to reassure the timid climber. Many years ago, in fact on the very first occasion when the Rothhorn was ascended from the Zermatt side, a startling incident took place near this spot. The party consisted of Messrs Dent and Passingham, with Alexander Burgener, Ferdinand Imseng, and Franz Andermatten as guides, and they were descending the mountain when the exciting occurrence described by Mr Dent happened.[7] He has kindly allowed me to reprint his account.
