The upper couloirs, by which the mountain is seamed, were ice, but my guides, with their usual judgment, kept as clear as possible of them, and we mounted by a rib of rocks. Twice we crossed the couloir, but at that early hour there was no danger, and Kaufmann made great steps, like miniature arm-chairs, so that we could get over very rapidly coming back.
From the Saddle we saw, somewhat to our disgust, that there was a considerable amount of snow on the arête. This made our progress rather slow, so that it was not till 9.15 that we found ourselves on the summit, a dome of snow. The view was exquisite; but that day week, when, in equally beautiful weather, I found myself on the top of the Lauteraarhorn, I had to confess that the view from that peak is infinitely finer. In the first place, the Schreckhorn, seen from so near, and from a peak less than 150 feet lower, is a grand object, and its noble proportions and bare cliffs impressed me as few, if any, mountains have done before, while I almost trembled to think that but seven days earlier we had ventured up its precipitous sides, so deceptive and complete is the idea conveyed of its excessive steepness. Then, the Lauteraarhorn is much better placed with regard to that most graceful of Oberland peaks, the Finsteraarhorn—the “dark dove horn!” and from it, too, the beautiful curves of the Aar glacier, winding away towards the Grimsel, are seen to perfection. But here am I, describing the view from the Lauteraarhorn, while all the time I am on the Schreckhorn. One glimpse they both give—that of the Lake of Thun, with the white spire of the church of Spiez nestling among trees close to the blue water’s edge, while behind roll range upon range of purple hills, lost far away in a warm haze which mingles with the soft tints of the cloudless sky. These Oberland views can indeed boast of the ever-attractive charm of contrast; on the one side, ice, snow, precipices of naked rock, utter sternness and absence of vegetation; on the other, blue lakes, white villages, deep green meadows, abundant evidences of human life and industry.
But I become insufferably tedious. Let me hasten away from mountain-tops and descend to less romantic regions. We got down to the saddle very pleasantly, and from there to the hut more or less uncomfortably, exchanging nasty sharp, loose rocks for waist-deep snow, with anything but complimentary remarks on both. We were safely in the Schwarzegg by 2 P.M., and discussing an elaborate tea, the guides’ chief idea of that beverage being to put in as little of the chief ingredient, and as much sugar as supplies admitted of. Tea being concluded, and supper in course of preparation, we looked out for our porter, who had orders to bring up our stock of provisions for the ascent of the Finsteraarhorn the next day. Presently we noticed two figures crossing the ice, who, on approaching, turned out to be Herr Theophile Boss and the porter. The former had made an attempt on the Finsteraarhorn the previous week, and had been driven back by bad weather, so I had asked him to join us on our ascent.
During our evening meal, Kaufmann staggered us by remarking in his quiet way that we had better go to bed early, as he proposed calling us at 11 P.M. We protested loudly, but he only added in his calm tones, “Or perhaps half-past ten.” So, still grumbling, we hastily crept to our straw, and I, for one, can answer for it that I did not know much more till Jossi began to light the fire, when I turned over and had another sleep. No doubt our reluctance to shorten our night’s rest caused the preparations for departure to take longer than usual. Anyhow, it was 12.40 before I found myself, in a very bad temper, trying to keep awake at the door of the hut, while the final look round for articles possibly forgotten was being given by the guides.
We anticipated a lot of step-cutting, so the porter came with us in order to give the guides less to carry. As before, it was a cloudless, moonlight night, and so far windless. We made rapid progress to the Finsteraarjoch, reaching the foot of that vile place, the Agassiz-joch, while it was still dark. Here we paused for food, and just as the grey light of dawn was stealing over the sky, we began to go up, and up, and up, till we felt like the poor wretches who climb the tall chimneys of factories. At last we took to a rib of rock, very steep and planted in ice, to say nothing of various embellishments of the same substance at intervals along the surface. It was heart-breaking work. There was the pass close at hand, and yet we never seemed to get any nearer to it. But after what seemed ages, Jossi gave a sigh of satisfaction, and quitting the rocks, began to traverse the snow. Soon we reached a warm and sheltered spot, where we suggested a halt for luncheon in the genial rays of the sun. But no; it was not the usual luncheon-place; people always had lunch on the Saddle (five minutes farther), and therefore we must have lunch on the Saddle. Theophile ventured to protest, and was promptly sat upon; so to the Saddle we went. There we had our appetites interfered with by various things. First, we were disquieted by the aspect of the ridge, now first completely seen, which had put on an entire and apparently not too closely fitting suit of ice and powdery snow. Of rocks one hardly saw a trace. The guides munched very fast, nodded their heads, addressed warm expressions of disapprobation to the ridge, and seemed very jolly on the top of everything. The wind blew, our teeth chattered, the eatables nearly froze, and we, too, pretended we were having an awfully good time. But the happiest moments come to an end, and so did our luncheon, after which, blue of nose and hand, we struggled along in the face of a driving mist. Well, it was not so bad as it looked. The guides spared no trouble, and dug out the buried rocks like terriers after a field-mouse. Progress was necessarily slow, and we did not seem to make much way. At last the Hugi Saddle was reached, and the work became easier. The snow was now firmer, we could kick out good steps without difficulty. Finally the slope eased off, and in a few minutes we stood by the stone man on the summit. The view was fine, the mist having cleared off just as we reached the top. But it was already eleven o’clock, so we did not stay long, but began the descent after about ten minutes’ halt on the summit. The climb down to the Agassiz-joch was long; it took us nearly four hours, including half-an-hour for lunch, to get there. It was thus almost 4 P.M. when we embarked in that charming slope. Tedious as had been our ascent of it, our descent was much worse; and there are stones, and when stones make descents, they do it pretty quickly. But we won’t talk of the stones; none of us got our heads broken. Well, we came down that nice lively slope and the icy rocks, and got into the couloir, and came down that; and at last—being late in the year—it grew dusk. We were beginning to think that we must be somewhere near the first of the bergschrunds (I cannot conscientiously say that they were more than a couple of inches wide), when suddenly the porter exclaimed, “I can’t find the track!” We could not make this out. The steps had been easily felt a moment before. He fumbled about for a bit, but still without success; so Theophile, who was just behind, went down a few steps and put out his hand to feel for them. Instantly he drew it back, and said in rather an awed voice, “There has been an avalanche.” Jossi at once untied from the back, sprang down to the front, put himself in the porter’s place, and led away in the dark in such splendid style, that in fifteen minutes or less we were down on the plateau of the Finsteraarjoch. Here the lantern came into use, and we carefully threaded our way through the icefall of the glacier. Our tracks of the morning were of the utmost value, and thanks to them we encountered no difficulties whatever.
It was late when we reached the Schwarzegg hut, so we decided to sleep there once more, and the sun was high in the heavens next morning before we sat down to our coffee.
Here is another autumn experience, in which, as a nice, cheering introduction to our day’s climbing, we got asphyxiated. “Were we smothered, then? Were we suffocated?” asks the unthinking reader. No, we were not “asphyxiated dead,” as an Irishman would say; we were merely put to sleep at inconvenient periods during the day, after being put to sleep with greater soundness than usual during the preceding night.
But this fragmentary style and absence of all precise information points to something like present asphyxiation; so I must beg leave to say that though I date this from a health resort, I am not a “head-patient,” as I once heard those persons classified who were in a particular sanatorium for something or other that was not lungs. It was an enlivening place, that particular health resort. If a youth was ill-mannered, he could not be kicked, because “one can’t kick an invalid, you know;” or else the excuse was, “Poor fellow! he doesn’t mean it; he’s off his chump—head-patient, you know.” My impression is, that that health resort was as fine a school for self-restraint in the naturally self-restrained, and for downright uncompromising selfishness in those who already were accustomed to look after No. 1, as I know of.
Still I am a long way from our starting-point. Let me make an effort, cross the Lauteraarjoch from Grindelwald, walk down the level glacier beyond, and get to it—“it” being the sumptuous dwelling known as the Dollfus Pavilion.
Why the good gentleman who built this hut should have constructed it at a distance of three miles from water, was the problem which puzzled our heads while we lay in the sun near the young forests growing up on every side. It was lucky that some eyes, sharper than mine, saw these specimens of Alpine timber, as otherwise we might have stretched our weary limbs on the top of them. Later it transpired that an experiment had been tried in forestry on these slopes, and the poor little twigs had been carefully planted with the idea that, in time to come, they might grow.