THE MAKING OF A MOUNTAINEER

Climbing the Matterhorn by the Zmutt ridge.

“We had to cut steps across a wide ice slope” (page 187).

Frontispiece

THE MAKING
OF
A MOUNTAINEER

BY

GEORGE INGLE FINCH

WITH SEVENTY-EIGHT PHOTOGRAPHS, ONE DRAWING AND TWO DIAGRAMS

ARROWSMITH :: LONDON :: W.C.1

First published in May, 1924

Printed in Great Britain by
J. W. ARROWSMITH LTD.
11 Quay St. & 12 Small St., Bristol

To
MY WIFE

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

PREFACE

Man’s heritage is great. There are the mountains; he may climb them. Mountaineering is a game second only to the greatest and best of all man’s games—life.

The War all but dried up the steady stream of youthful and enthusiastic devotees who kept alive and fresh the pursuit of mountain-craft. But fresh blood is as essential to the healthy life of mountaineering as it is to any other game, craft or pursuit, and, fortunately, there are cheerful signs that the after-effects of the War are fast becoming spent. Our youth is beginning to find the dancing floor, the tennis court and the playing fields of Great Britain too narrow, too lacking in scope, perhaps also a little bit too soft; and the craving grows for wider fields and a sterner, freer pastime.

It is primarily for the members of the younger generation that this book has been written, in the hopes that, by affording them a glimpse of the adventurous joys to be found in the mountains, they may be encouraged to take up and try for themselves the pursuit of mountaineering.

Portions of Chapters II and XVIII have appeared in the Climber’s Club Journal, Chapter VIII in the British Ski Year Book, and Chapters XIV and XVI in the Alpine Journal. Where not otherwise stated, the illustrations are from photographs by the Author.

In conclusion, I would like to thank Captain T. G. B. Forster for the loan of four photographs; Mr. A. B. Bryn for one photograph; Mr. R. H. K. Peto for the pen-and-ink sketch of the east face of Monte Rosa and the drawing of an ice-axe; my brother for Chapter VIII; and last, but not least, my wife for her contribution, Chapter XII, and for the tireless pains she has taken in assisting me with the preparation and correction of the manuscript and proofs.

I also wish to place on record my appreciation of what I owe to the inspiration and example of the Alpine Journal and of Mr. Geoffrey Winthrop Young, and to the inspiring influence of Miss P. Broome.

10 Gainsborough Mansions,

London, W.14,

April, 1924.

THE MAKING OF A MOUNTAINEER

CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS

Some twenty-two years ago, on a dewy spring morning in October, I urged my panting pony towards a hill-top in the Australian bush, the better to spy out the whereabouts of a mob of wallaby. The last few feet of the ascent being too much for the pony, I dismounted and, leaving him behind, scrambled up a short, rocky chimney to the summit. The wallaby were nowhere to be seen; but my wondering eyes were held spell-bound by such a vision as I had never even dreamed of. Miles and miles away the white-washed roofs of the township of Orange gleamed brightly in the clear morning sunshine; the main roads converging upon the town showed sharp and distinct from out their setting in the rolling bush. The picture was beautiful: precise and accurate as the work of a draughtsman’s pen, but fuller of meaning than any map. I was just thirteen years old, and for the first time in my life the true significance of geography began to dawn upon me; and with the dawning was born a resolution that was to colour and widen my whole life. Before returning to my pony after this, my first mountain ascent, I had made up my mind to see the world; to see it from above, from the tops of mountains, whence I could get that wide and comprehensive view which is denied to those who observe things from their own plane.

A year later my brother Maxwell and I, now proud possessors of Edward Whymper’s Scrambles in the Alps, emulated our hero’s early exploits by scaling Beachy Head by a particularly dangerous route, much to the consternation of the lighthouse crew and subsequent disappointment of the coastguards who arrived up aloft with ropes and rescue tackle just in time to see us draw ourselves, muddy and begrimed, over the brink of the cliff into safety. That climb taught us many things; amongst them, that a cliff is often more difficult to climb than would appear from below; that flints embedded in chalk are not reliable handholds, but sometimes break away when one trusts one’s weight to them; that there are people who delight in rolling stones down a cliff without troubling to see whether anyone is underneath; and that if it be good to look down upon the world, the vision is beautiful in proportion to the difficulties overcome in gaining the eminence. A few weeks later, an ascent of Notre-Dame by an unorthodox route might well have led to trouble, had it not been for the fact that the two gendarmes and the kindly priest who were the most interested spectators of these doings did not lack a sense of humour and human understanding. Then we passed through Basle into Switzerland, bitterly disappointed to find that the railway did not wind through dark, tortuous valleys bordered by glistening snow-capped mountains.

That winter we broke bounds. Shod in the lightest of shoes, with clothing ill-suited to protect against wind, with walking sticks, and a pocketful of sandwiches we took the train to Wesen. There we bought a map and set off to climb the Speer, a mountain barely 6,000 feet in height, but nevertheless a formidable enough proposition for such an ill-equipped party in winter. All that day we struggled on, often knee-deep in snow. At dusk, still far from our goal, we sought refuge from the cold breezes of eventide. Letting ourselves in through the chimney hole in the roof of a snowed-up Alp hut, we bivouacked for the night. Shivering and sleepless we lay, watching the stars as they twinkled derisively in frosty clearness through the hole in the roof. After what seemed an eternity, morning came, and we plodded on with stiff and weary limbs to the summit. There, bathed in the warm sunshine, all hardships were forgotten, and we gazed longingly over to the ranges of the Tödi and the Glärnisch—real snow and ice mountains with great glaciers streaming down from their lofty crests. Thence the eye travelled away to the rich plains, the gleaming lakes and dark, forested hills of the lowlands, until details faded in the bluish mist of distance. Switzerland, a whole country, was at our feet. This escapade taught us further lessons: that mountaineering is a hungry game; that boots should be waterproof, and soles thick and studded with nails; that a thick warm coat can be an almost priceless possession.

Photo G. I. Finch.

Rock-climbing.

The rope is belayed over a projecting spike of rock.

Photo T. G. B. Forster.

Crossing a steep snow slope.

The rope is belayed over a projecting spike of rock.

Facing page 14.

Then came a glorious summer vacation of fishing and sailing round the coast of Majorca, with hours of splendid clambering on the cliffs of Miramar, followed by a week with our tutor on the Pilatus. Our tutor was a sportsman, and we scrambled about together to our hearts’ content, more than once sailing as close to the wind as any of us have ever done since. And yet again we had learned something: that the stockinged foot finds a firmer hold on dry limestone than a nailed boot; that wet limestone slabs are slippery and an abomination to be avoided; that the thrusting muscles of one’s legs are more powerful and more enduring than the pulling muscles of one’s arms; and that strong fingers are of more use in climbing than a pair of well-developed biceps.

More holidays came and went: summers passed on the shores of the western Mediterranean, but Christmas vacations spent in Grindelwald, and devoted to learning the art of ski-ing. In Grindelwald we had the good fortune to win the liking of old Christian Jossi, in his day one of the greatest guides and best step-cutters in the Alps. He took us to the upper Grindelwald Glacier and on its mighty ice pinnacles, or séracs, taught us the elements of step-cutting in ice and the use of the rope. He showed us how to fashion a stairway in hard, blue ice, the floor of each step sloping inwards so that it was easy for one to stand securely. He showed us the points by which to judge of the merits of a good axe, how to hold and use it, and how, imitating him, to cut good safe steps with a minimum number of blows and expenditure of labour. He showed us how easy it is to check a slip and hold up a man on the rope provided it be kept always taut from man to man; and he did not hesitate to rub in, by demonstrations accompanied by much forceful language, what a fearful snare the rope could be if it were improperly used and permitted to be trailed loose and in coils between the various members of a party. He also pointed out some of the many varieties of snow: some good, in which on even the steepest slopes a kick or two sufficed to make a reliable step; others which could not be trusted on any but the gentlest of slopes and needing only a touch to start slithering down with an insidious hissing sound to form an avalanche which would sweep everything with it in its path of destruction. Last but not least, Christian Jossi instilled into us some of his own fervid love of the mountains and of mountain adventure.

The summer holidays of 1906 drew nigh. Our longing for mountain adventure was no longer to be denied, and elders and betters had perforce to give way. But they enforced two provisos—we were to be accompanied by guides, and climbing was to be restricted to the lesser Alps of Northern Switzerland. We climbed a few lesser summits, all about 10,000 feet high; on none was there climbing where hands as well as feet were required, and not once did we see the axe used to cut a step. Efforts to wheedle our stalwart guardians into attacking the bold pyramid of the Segnes Tschingelhorn, always provocatively before our eyes, failed miserably; they had their instructions. But they could not always keep us in sight, and more than once, stealing forth alone, we found good climbing, adventure and untrammelled fun; and the desire to climb without guides was born in us.

That winter the lesser peaks and passes of Grindelwald were visited on skis. A stern effort to gain the Strahlegg Pass was frustrated by a snowstorm in the teeth of which for nineteen hours on end we fought our way back to Grindelwald, having learnt that, with map and compass and given your bearings, bad weather in the mountains can be faced and even enjoyed if you only keep on moving and do not get flurried. We also knew now that boots should be large enough to enable two pairs of woollen socks to be worn without pinching the foot, and that toe-caps should be high and roomy so as not to interfere with the circulation. A sweater worn underneath a wind-proof jacket of sailcloth was found to be both lighter and much warmer than heavy tweeds through which the wind could blow and to which the snow would stick.

From 1907 onwards until 1911, Max and I both studied in Zürich and were thus thrown into close and continual contact with the mountains, from which we were separated only by some three or four hours by rail. Barely a week-end went by without our taking train to the mountains and climbing. During the Easter holidays of 1907 we betook ourselves on skis up to the Clariden hut, one of the many little shelters built by the Swiss Alpine Club in the heart of the mountains. These huts are furnished with straw-filled sleeping bunks, blankets, a small cooking stove, a supply of wood, and cooking and eating utensils. We had with us provisions for a week, during the whole of which period the weather was fine and snow conditions at their best. We climbed almost all the surrounding summits, the return to the hut each evening taking the form of an effortless run on skis over the Clariden Glacier.

During the summer vacation of the same year Max and I successfully obtained carte blanche to climb without guides, and for nearly three months we roamed in and about the range of the Tödi. We climbed most of the summits in the range, including the Tödi itself, which with its 11,800 feet of altitude was much the highest mountain so far grappled with. We always endeavoured to exercise every possible attention to the following out of the lessons hitherto learnt, losing no opportunity of acquiring fresh knowledge regarding matters of equipment, the handling of rope and axe, and the mountains themselves. In particular we aimed at cultivating a sense of route-finding and teaching ourselves how to use the map. The winter of that year saw us embarking upon expeditions of a more ambitious nature than those previously attempted. Up to the Easter of 1908 our most successful winter feat was an ascent of the Sustenhorn on skis; but during that vacation we accomplished the ascent of the Tödi, a winter expedition that even to-day is reckoned by no means a simple undertaking. As the summer holidays approached, a still more ambitious programme was drawn up. Our self-assurance, confidence—call it what you like—seems to have been boundless, for we now considered that our apprenticeship had been sufficiently long to justify us in letting ambitions soar into reality. The programme, although not carried out in its entirety, nevertheless proved a great success. Beginning with the Bernese Oberland, we climbed the Wetterhorn, were driven back by storm just below the summit of the Eiger, but followed up the reverse by climbing the Mönch, Jungfrau and Finsteraarhorn. Thence making our way down the Aletsch Glacier to the Rhône Valley, we went up to Zermatt. From there we climbed the Matterhorn and the Dent Blanche, then crossed over the Col d’Hérens to Arolla, where for the first time we experienced to the full the pleasures of traversing a mountain, that is, ascending by one route and descending by another. Amongst others, were traversed the Aiguille de la Za, the Aiguilles Rouges d’Arolla and the Pigne d’Arolla. The ascent of the last-named was made by cutting steps up the steep north face, and it was this climb more than any other that won me over to the delights of ice-climbing. Returning to Zermatt by various high-level passes, we journeyed northwards and wound up the season in the Tödi district, where all the major summits were traversed.

Photo T. G. B. Forster.

Scrambling in the range of the Tödi.

Facing page 18.

Thus from its chance nucleus on the hill-top in the Australian bush, snowball-wise the zest for the mountains grew until it has actually become an integral part of life itself. The health and happiness that the passion has brought with it are as incalculable as the ways of the “divinity that shapes our ends,” chooses our parents for us, and places us in a certain environment. The love that Max and I have for the mountains I cannot but attribute to the fact that we were possessed of a father who taught us from our earliest years to love the open spaces of the earth, encouraged us to seek adventure and provided the wherewithal for us to enjoy the quest and, above all, looked to us to fight our own battles and rely on our own resources.

CHAPTER II
CLIMBING IN CORSICA

Comfortably seated in the depths of Bryn’s favourite and most somniferous chair, I browsed idly and half unthinkingly through the pages of a guide book that had found its way, as such things will, to my host’s address. Cynically amused as far as my sleepy condition would permit by the flights of verbal fancy to which compilers of guide books seem addicted, subconsciously certain plain, unbefrilled facts impressed themselves upon my mind and, eventually marshalling themselves, roused me out of my lethargy to a state bordering on excitement.

“I’ve found it!” I shouted.

Max and Bryn awoke, startled.

“What, you fool?” they growled encouragingly.

“Listen! It is easy of access, thinly populated, few tourists visit the interior, and it has mountains rising to 9,000 feet above sea-level; the very thing we are looking for.” Wide awake now, they were interested enough to ask where this Utopia was. Astonished at such crass ignorance, I answered, “Corsica, of course, fatheads!”

It really was the very thing we had been looking for. The Christmas vacation of 1908 was just over. A few months ago Max and I had made the acquaintance of Alf Bonnvie Bryn, a Norwegian who, like ourselves, was studying in Zürich. Bound together by the common bond of enthusiasm for the mountains, the acquaintance rapidly ripened into friendship, and many were the pleasant evenings spent in each other’s rooms. The topic of conversation was always the same—mountaineering. Gradually our thoughts turned from other mountain groups more and more towards the Himalayas, and we decided some day to combine forces and carry out an expedition to this greatest of the world’s mountain ranges. As far as actual climbing was concerned, we considered that the Alps, as a training ground for Himalayan exploration, could not be bettered. But in one thing which would do much to make or mar the success of an exploring venture in these distant ranges, we could look to the Alps for little assistance. That was organisation, particularly with respect to food and equipment. In the Alps, a mistake or omission of detail in either of these things can be remedied by a descent into the valley, involving a loss of not more than a day or so of climbing time. But for the Himalayas we judged that it would be essential to have everything that one would want with one. Mistakes or omissions would not be easily rectified after one had left one’s base, usually the last outpost of civilization and, even as such, devoid of many of the necessities for mountaineering. From the base onwards one would have to rely entirely upon one’s own resources. These considerations drove us to a decision to spend the Easter vacation in some remote part of Europe; Switzerland would be our advanced base, and the chosen field of our activities a wilder territory to which we would not look for supplies of either food or equipment. Where was such a territory to be found? The more remote mountains of Norway were ruled out on account of the earliness of the season. Considerations of distance, and therefore of time and expense, militated against our going to the Sierra Nevada or the Balkans. Our mental state was one of puzzled despair until by chance the little guide book of Corsica insinuated itself into my attention.

Early in March, 1909, we set to work to put our equipment in order, making sleeping-bags and a tent and buying tinned foods. The latter were selected with a view to nourishing value, variety, compactness and minimum of weight. By the middle of the month our preparations were almost complete. A few days afterwards, Bryn and I set off for Corsica, leaving Max, whose studies kept him in Zürich for the time being, to join us at a later date. We travelled by rail through the St. Gotthard via Milan and Genoa to Leghorn, embarking there for Bastia. The five-hour crossing on a crazy little cargo boat was rough and uncomfortable, and we both dwelt at some length and with much feeling upon the foolishness of setting out on our little expedition instead of spending the holidays in comparative luxury in Switzerland. But when, at sunset, loomed up the snow-capped summits of the bold mountain chain that forms the backbone of the long promontory of Cap Corse, our optimism returned. The first difficulties on landing were those created by Customs officials. On explaining quite frankly the object of our visit, however, they informed us ecstatically that Corsica was the most beautiful country in the world and that we would be sure to enjoy our stay there—and passed our stores free of duty! Such patriotism created a first good impression of the inhabitants, which we saw no reason later to alter. The Corsicans received us with nothing but the utmost kindness throughout our stay on the island.

The following day was spent in purchasing maps and drawing up plans. According to the maps, Calacuccia appeared to be the Zermatt of Corsica, so to Calacuccia we forwarded most of our stores. Leaving the greater part of the remainder in the simple little auberge, the Hôtel des Voyageurs, which was our headquarters in Bastia, we set out to walk and climb over the whole length of the range of mountains in the promontory of Cap Corse. Though none of these peaks exceed 4,300 feet in height, nevertheless, owing to the close proximity of the sea, they appear high. But their chief appeal to us was that they afforded magnificent views into the mountains of the north-west interior of the island, where we expected to find the best climbing. The main groups centre round Monte Cinto which, rising to 8,900 feet above sea-level, is the highest summit in Corsica. Standing well away to the north of the main mass was one bold rock needle that attracted our attention. With the aid of compass and map, we identified this point as being the Capo al Dente, a peak some 7,000 feet in altitude, and decided to lay siege to it before going to Calacuccia, especially as we had every reason to believe that it had not been climbed. Back again in Bastia, we packed up our remaining stores, sufficient for ten days, and took train to Palasca, a station on the line between Bastia and Calvi. In Palasca we were fortunate in securing the services of a mule and his driver. I say “fortunate,” for our knapsacks, containing sleeping-bags, spare clothing, ropes, cooking apparatus, cameras and food, weighed over 80 lbs. each. The mule proved more willing than his master. Our way to the Val Tartagine, at the head of which the Capo al Dente lies, led over a number of passes the crossing of which involved a good deal of uphill and downdale walking. The mule-driver’s strength never seemed equal to any of the rises, as he would persist in sitting on the mule. The upshot was that ere half our thirty-mile journey was accomplished the poor little animal struck work and refused to go an inch farther. There was nothing to do but dismiss both driver and mule and shoulder our burdens ourselves. We struggled on all day, steering for the most part by map. It was a painful business. The knapsacks were inordinately heavy, and their narrow straps bit cruelly into our shoulder muscles. At sunset, completely exhausted and feeling incapable of moving another step, we unpacked the sleeping-bags by the banks of a spring and, after cooking a meal, slept such a sleep as falls to the lot of few.

On the following day we crossed the last pass and dropped down into the Tartagine Valley. At the entrance to the valley stood a forester’s cottage. The forester and his wife refused to allow us to pass without first partaking of their hospitality. Like all Corsicans, they spoke a good French as well as the peculiar dialect of their country, a mixture of French and Italian. Here, as elsewhere in the island, we met with nothing but courtesy and kindness. In response to anxious inquiries, our host assured us that the Capo al Dente had never been climbed. From his house we could see it, a wonderful rock pinnacle bearing a certain resemblance to the Aiguille du Dru and standing up boldly at the very head of the valley. In the afternoon we took our leave and followed a diminutive track leading along the right bank of the Tartagine River.

Photo A. B. Bryn.

Climbing the Capo al Dente.

“... we espied a diminutive crack ... the solution to the problem.”

Facing page 24.

At an altitude of about 4,000 feet above sea-level, above the snow-line which at this season of the year extends to below 3,000 feet, we found a suitable camping site, a huge rock platform on the face of a cliff. It was sheltered from the wind on three sides and, being partially overhung, might also be expected to be protected in the event of snow or rain falling. For nine nights we camped on this spot. The cold during the long hours of darkness was bitter and ruthlessly demonstrated the flaws in the design of our sleeping-bags. Day after day we made our way up to the head of the valley and searched in vain for a route up the black cliffs of the Capo al Dente. On the ninth day we at last espied a diminutive crack threading the first hundred feet of the precipitous lower ramparts of the mountain. We had discovered the solution to the problem. Within an hour of effecting a lodgment on the rock we had gained the summit and felt truly recompensed for those long, cold nights of shivering endured in camp. The climbing had been steep but by no means excessively difficult.

There is a peculiar charm about the view from the summits of these Corsican mountains. They have the lure of sea cliffs. From most of them you look down upon the ocean. From the Capo al Dente we could see the tiny little harbour of Calvi and, fascinated, follow the movements of a Lilliputian steamer that was leaving on its voyage over the smooth, broad, blue expanse of the Mediterranean. To the south the great range of the Cinto reared its snow-clad, precipitous peaks, and, looking, we felt satisfied that, in coming to Corsica in quest of mountaineering adventure, we had made no false step. Flanking the Val Tartagine were other mountains of interest, such as Monte Corona and Monte Padro; but our provisions were almost at an end. In any case, time was up, for we had arranged to meet Max in Calacuccia on April 5.

It took us two days to regain the railway at Ponte Leggia, and for those two days our sole provisions consisted of rather less than a pound of porridge and a little tea and sugar; a fault in organisation to which we frankly confessed at the little station restaurant at Ponte Leggia by purchasing several square meals rolled into one. On April 4 we arrived at Calacuccia. Max joined us on the 5th, and the following days were spent in exploring the Cinto group to the north-west of Calacuccia and in selecting a suitable site for a camp. Eventually our choice fell upon the Viro Valley which, in an island rich in the beauty of rugged mountain scenery and wild vegetation, is one of the grandest and most charming.

On April 10 we left the little Hôtel des Voyageurs, where we had received much kindness at the hands of the proprietress, Madame Veuve Lupi. A mule and his driver were entrusted with kit and provisions—a heavy load. The mule was lazy and needed much and continual urging. The Corsicans seldom strike their animals. If a grumbling “Huh! Huh!” has not the desired effect, the driver spits on the mule’s hindquarters—and a trot is almost invariably the result. As a rule, a whip is worse than useless; it only produces a wild fit of panicky bucking. The day was hot and sultry. The mule-driver had soon emptied his wine-flask and, as he disdained to allay his thirst with the crystal-clear water of the many mountain streams we passed, his supply of saliva eventually failed. The pace of the mule fell off accordingly.

At Albertacce, a hamlet near the entrance of the Viro Valley, we halted to pay our respects to the priest, who was also head man of the place, and make arrangements about our mail. Before we had taken our leave, the rumour had spread that we were skilled physicians, and we had to resign ourselves to treating nearly half the inhabitants for all manner of ills, imaginary and real. Sodium bicarbonate, bismuth subnitrate, calomel or quinine were administered in homœopathic doses. A week later, homeward-bound, we returned through Albertacce and had thrust upon us the homage and thanks of the entire population. The prescribed treatment had, in every single case, effected a complete cure—another example of how a reputation may be made.

Half an hour below the selected camping site, patches of snow were met with. The first extensive snow patch proved too much for both mule and driver. The Corsicans have a real terror of walking in snow; they fear that at any moment they may sink in and be suffocated. So we had to dismiss our burden bearers and make shift to carry our loads into camp ourselves. In the heart of the forest, on a little snow-free plot of ground hard by the left bank of the river, we pitched the tent. To the south-west rose the great precipices of Paglia Orba, the grandest summit in the great chain of mountains which in the form of a gigantic horseshoe shuts in the valley of the River Viro.

On the following day at 8 a.m. we left camp, crossed the foaming waters of the torrent—not without getting more or less drenched in the process—and spent the next two hours in steadily plodding up the snow slopes to the Col de Foggiale,[1] a depression on the ridge south of Paglia Orba. The work at first was distinctly hard, for the surface crust of frozen snow was not always sufficiently strong to bear one’s weight. As the lower mountain slopes in Corsica are usually covered with a dense undergrowth or maquis, breaking the snow crust meant plunging right through into a thick tangle of vegetation, extrication from which was possible often only after a struggle. Higher up, fortunately, the snow became firmer and we seldom broke through. The approach to the col was defended by a huge overhanging cornice of snow through which we had to tunnel a way with the axe. The charm of the view from the col lay in the contrast between the whiteness of snow-covered mountain and the deep blue of sea. Capo Tafonato (7,700 feet), however, a mountain whose praises we had often read, presented a disappointing appearance. Judging from the map, we had expected to see it standing boldly up in front of us on the far side of a fairly wide valley. It stood, however, a low rock ridge possessing no daring outlines and partially hidden behind Paglia Orba. Nevertheless, two features commanded our respect; no snow was lying on the peak, a sign that the wall opposite us was very steep; and we could see right through a tremendous hole or natural tunnel which pierced the mountain from one side to the other, indicating that the unseen side was also steep and that the summit ridge must be proportionately narrow. After a short rest, we traversed over frozen snow slopes round the base of Paglia Orba to the gap between it and Capo Tafonato. Here we had a short discussion as to the route to be followed, finally deciding to take the right hand or north ridge straight up from the gap and to traverse the whole mountain from north to south. We roped and were soon at work climbing the very steep and firm rocks. Following a spiral staircase of easy chimneys and ledges round the northern, the higher of the two summits, we reached the top after an hour’s brisk climbing. After a brief halt to gaze down over the tremendous precipices of the west face towards the sea, we re-arranged the rope and set off to make an attack on the gap of formidable appearance that separated us from the southern summit. This looked just like a much magnified blunt needle point. To our surprise we were able to descend into the gap without encountering any serious difficulty, and followed the extremely narrow, but on the whole easy, ridge to the southern summit which was crowned by a diminutive cairn. Now followed a descent into another gap over very rotten rocks and an imposing, but easy, gendarme.[2] All the while we could not help admiring the steepness and depth of the walls on the western side of the mountain. Soon after passing the gendarme, we came to a great overhanging buttress in the ridge, at the top of which a hanging coil of rope indicated that the last climbers to descend here had made use of the doubled rope. The coil was thin and bleached with exposure, so we cut it off and stowed it in our rucksacks as a trophy, to be returned, if possible, to its late owners. We fixed a new coil, passed our rope through it and slid down some fifty feet on to an uncomfortably sloping ledge. Here we found driven into a crack in the rock a large, rusty iron nail to which some coils of strong, silken cord were attached. Threading the rope through these, we again slid down about sixty feet to a broad snow ledge on the east face. After hauling down the rope, we followed the continuation of this ledge in a northerly direction and gained the floor of the immense tunnel that pierces Cape Tafonato from east to west. A series of ledges and chimneys brought us safely back to the gap where the climb had begun, the whole traverse having taken nearly five hours.

The southern summit of Capo Tafonato.

“... like a much magnified blunt needle point.”

Facing page 28.

After a hasty but enjoyable meal of chocolate, sardines, and tea, we set off on the return journey. The descent to the Col de Foggiale round the foot of Paglia Orba was most enjoyable in the evening sun, whose golden reflection shimmered in the distant gulfs of the coast. We passed the cornice on the col without jumping and managed, in spite of the soft snow, to glissade almost half-way down to the tent. We arrived back in camp about half an hour after sunset. The night was fine, though cold, but we slept well, for we had earned our sleep with a good hard day’s work.

April 12 was spent in recuperating from the effects of the previous day’s labours. In fact, during our whole stay in Corsica we were generally forced to sandwich our climbs with a generous number of off-days. Our food, consisting mainly of preserves brought out from Switzerland, certainly disagreed with one and all of us; by which it is not to be inferred that the quality of the food was at fault. It was the nature of the food that was wrong. Our dietary was totally lacking in fresh vegetables and, indeed, fresh food stuffs of any kind; an omission which probably explains our general state of unfitness.

During the night of April 12 to 13 a west wind set in and towards morning became so violent that the tent several times threatened to leave its moorings. The weather, however, was otherwise fine, so we decided to make an attempt at traversing the five peaks of the Cinque Fratri, the highest of which is about 6,500 feet. After numerous efforts to shake off a certain lethargy which gripped us all, we at length stumbled off in three detachments, at intervals of ten minutes. The aim of each detachment was to meet the other two in the gap to the south of the fifth and lowest Frater. This we eventually succeeded in doing, though each took a different route up. We roped in the col, Max being given the lead, an honour which he repaid by dropping a pot of honey and a loaf of bread on Bryn’s head and mine in the course of the ascent. The tie-strings of his knapsack had been too weak. From the gap we traversed round on to the east face of the peak and climbed directly upwards through the great chimney which runs down it from the summit. The climax of the ascent was provided by a somewhat narrow pitch in this chimney, where you encounter a bush of prickles, roll in them on your back, kick with one leg against each wall of the cleft and then swing out on to the exposed and very steep ridge on the right. This brings one to an easy slope of loose stones leading to the summit. Bryn and I, of course, went to sleep, leaving Maxwell to confide a slip of paper containing our names to the care of the newly-built cairn—a reprehensible form of vice to which in those days we were much addicted. Presently he stirred us up, driving fresh life and energy into us with the business end of his Anthanmatten ice-axe, and we obediently scrambled down to the gap between Fratri Nos. 5 and 4. Maxwell was again delegated to pull the two sleep-walkers up Frater No. 4. He chose the easier, direct way and energetically pulled us up a few steep cracks, slabs and chimneys, in the hope of rousing us. A vain hope, for, arrived on the summit, we immediately sought out a spot that was sheltered from the wind and were soon deep in slumber once more. All too quickly came another rude awakening at Max’s hands, and we again moved off. A few feet below the summit we were baulked at the edge of an overhanging wall. With some difficulty we contrived to fasten a coil of thin rope round a large block. Maxwell descended first and succeeded in climbing nearly all the way, though most of his verbal messages and directions were borne off by the wind, with the result that the rope was always slack when he wanted it taut and nearly always pulling him up again while he was climbing an easy bit. Then came my turn. I found the descent distinctly easy and pleasant, for, still half asleep, I allowed myself to hang free all the way, leaving the work of lowering me down to Bryn who found me rather heavy. After sending down his axe and rucksack, Bryn soon joined us, and we romped up the easy Frater No. 3. Passing another gap, Frater No. 2 speedily succumbed to our united attack.

The next gully, that between Fratri Nos. 2 and 1, and running down the south wall of the mountain, is most remarkable. Very narrow and steep, with deep, clean-cut walls, it should afford some first-rate climbing. The descent from Frater No. 1, the highest of these peaks, to the gap between it and Monte Albano provided another occasion for cutting off a loop from the spare rope and roping down. The wall here is very steep, and composed in the main of loose and treacherous rocks. I went down first and photographed the others struggling to descend, almost expecting to see them at any moment blown away with a piece of rock in each hand, so buffeted about were they by the gale.

Traversing round the southern base of Monte Albano, we struck some abominably slushy snow slopes through which we ploughed a way, finally stumbling through maquis and loose stones into the welcome haven of our camp. After a grand five-course dinner, we settled ourselves comfortably in the tent and talked over deeds and memories until, wearied out, we quietly dozed off.

Wednesday, April 14, was destined to be another lazy day. It was Maxwell’s turn to prepare breakfast, and in due course Bryn and I kicked him out of the tent. Unfortunately we neglected to hang on to his sleeping-bag, with the result that when we two began sleepily foraging for something to allay the pangs of hunger, we found our cook snugly asleep. With eating and sleeping, with roasting in the sun and cooling in the shade of the forest and in the icy waters of the Viro, time passed away pleasantly enough, but all too quickly. After such a glorious rest, we were ready and anxious to grapple with the hardest problem the mountains of Corsica could offer us. Owing to the ease with which we had been able to scramble over Capo Tafonato and the Cinque Fratri, we were beginning to despair of finding a really difficult climb and had reached a stage where we were ready to tackle any projected route, no matter how difficult it appeared from afar. In short, we were in need of proof that one could meet with a really tough job amongst the cliffs of Corsica’s mountains.

The Cinque Fratri from below the Col de Foggiale.

The Cinque Fratri, I. to V., are the rock peaks to the right of Monte Albano, the highest summit seen.

Facing page 32.

More than a week ago, on the occasion of an ascent of Monte Albano, Bryn and I had admired the boldly soaring outlines of Paglia Orba (8,300 feet). In particular the clean-cut, awe-inspiring precipices of the north-east face drew our attention. A prolonged inspection of this huge wall revealed two apparently weak points. The one was formed by a series of snow patches indicating ledges, probably connected by small cracks or chimneys and ledges invisible to us from a distance. The whole series formed a huge C in white on a background of black rock. A snow field on the summit of Paglia Orba formed the head of the C-ledge, while the lower end began about eight or nine hundred feet lower down and about half-way up the upper, more or less perpendicular, wall. Several larger snow patches indicated a possible connection between the foot of the C and the gentler slopes below the great final wall. The other weak point was indicated by a deep shadow, betraying the presence of a chimney, joining the summit snows with a small snow patch in the wall some thousand feet below the top. On the east face, which offers no absolutely blank and perpendicular walls comparable with those of the impressive north-east face, we could see plenty of easy ways of gaining the summit. They threatened to be rather dull and uninteresting; so, in the hopes of finding a day’s difficult work, we determined to finish up our climbs in the range of the Cinto with an attack on the north-east face of Paglia Orba.

After a sumptuous breakfast of porridge and coffee we left camp at 8.15 a.m. on April 15. We followed the stream for some ten minutes then, crossing it near a dilapidated cow-shed, set to work to plod up the snow slopes leading to the north-east wall. We took turns of an hour each to break trail, for the snow was already soft. As far as possible keeping to the rocks that here and there cropped out of the snow, we rose fairly rapidly. By 10 a.m. we were on a level with the lowest of the Cinque Fratri. Half an hour later we began climbing hand and foot up broken rocks to the right of some steep snow slopes. In order to save time, and being sure of ourselves, we did not use the rope. To avoid an overhang just below the top of these rocks, we were forced to cross under a small waterfall which thoroughly drenched us. Thence mounting a very steep snow slope, we gained the narrow, heavily corniced crest of a minor ridge which seemed to descend from the beginning of the great C-ledge. The work ahead looked serious. We roped, Bryn being invested with the responsibilities of leadership. The fun began at once. Difficult chimneys, choked with masses of snow and ice, alternated with small snow slopes lying at a dangerously steep angle. Good belays were generally conspicuous by their absence. At 1 p.m., having risen some six hundred feet above where the rope had been put on, we were pulled up short by a smooth wall which appeared to bar all possible access to the foot of the C-ledge. We were on the upper edge of a comparatively large snow slope of triangular shape which had been clearly visible from our camp. We knew that the foot of the C-ledge was some two hundred and fifty feet, the summit itself over a thousand feet above us. The way up those two hundred and fifty feet seemed all too well guarded. To right and left, the ledge supporting our snow patch ran out into smooth, perpendicular walls. We were standing on the upper rim of the ledge in a position which, owing to the lack of any belay whatsoever, was by no means too secure. A chimney led up presumably to the foot of the C-ledge. The first few feet appeared to be extremely difficult, and the leader would undoubtedly have needed the assistance of the other two if he were to tackle it with any hope of success. Higher up, the chimney looked even worse and was finally blocked by a huge, ice-covered, overhanging chock-stone. Far above we could see the icicle-fringed summit of Paglia Orba, from which water trickled down. Occasionally icicles broke away and fell past us, proving the wall above to be overhanging. Some two hundred feet from our standpoint a part of the wall had broken away, leaving a huge overhanging platform which would have made an excellent site for a bivouac if only the mountain had been turned upside down.

Whilst munching some bread and chocolate we had ample time to review our surroundings thoroughly. We made the best use of our opportunities, the more so as we were beginning to think this was to be the highest point of the day’s climb. We knew that the Austrian climber, Herr Albert Gerngross, and his guide, Konrad Kain, had attempted the climb during the previous year; also, Dr. von Cube, a well-known pioneer of climbing in Corsica, had referred to the wall in terms of the impossible. At present, after a lengthy inspection, we were scarcely in the mood to disagree with him. Finally, admitting defeat, we turned to descend. When almost a rope’s length down the now dangerously soft snow slope, I remembered having omitted to photograph the ledge running out to the right. I halted a moment and asked Bryn to use his camera to save me the trouble of reascending. To obtain a better view, Bryn carefully crawled out along the ledge in the opposite direction. This chance move saved the day, for, some ten feet above his standing-point, Bryn now caught sight of another ledge which would enable us to enter the chimney above the most difficult pitch. On hearing this welcome news I rejoined the others with all possible haste, and together Maxwell and I shouldered Bryn up on to the newly-discovered ledge. Once on this, Bryn made rapid progress. Maxwell followed, and, after a struggle, I arrived to find that they were already attacking the chimney immediately below the huge, ice-covered chock-stone. The climbing had now become extremely difficult. Bryn rounded the chock-stone by climbing out of the chimney over some precipitous slabs to the right, finally gaining the upper level of the chock-stone. A period of intense anxiety followed upon our rejoining Bryn. Should we have to return or could we push through? A series of short snow-filled chimneys and ledges led up and round several corners. Each time on clearing one corner we could overlook only the ground as far as the next. But whether we were getting nearer to the summit or to a forced bivouac still remained to be seen. At last we gained the beginning of the C-ledge. On following this, though not without difficulty because of its incline, we saw that it was broken off at the foot of the huge chimney previously considered as possibly affording an alternative route to the summit. We now perceived, however, that the chimney was formed by a clean-cut buttress jutting out at right angles from the wall, and that it overhung considerably. Bryn crossed the chimney and, by climbing a very difficult and exposed series of cracks in its left wall overhanging an appallingly steep precipice, regained the C-ledge. “How’s the view?” we called out from below in one breath. Once again we only learn that the climb can be continued to the next corner. While Maxwell was rejoining Bryn he had the misfortune to drop his axe. It fell, providentially without once striking rock, into a tiny patch of snow some eighty feet lower down the big chimney. Maxwell and Bryn lowered me down until I could reach it, and then unmercifully hauled me up to their perch without giving me the least opportunity of climbing. Exercising the utmost care, we proceeded along a series of highly sensational ledges leading in an almost unbroken line from corner to corner. All the time belays were few and small. On rounding what proved to be the last corner, we saw before us a broad chimney which was choked by what resembled a frozen waterfall crowned by a huge cornice. The sun shining on the cornice told us we were at last approaching the north-east ridge where we could expect easier climbing. What appeared to be an excellent belay enabled us to pay out Bryn’s rope with some measure of security as, crouching, he followed the ledge to its extreme end. The sloping floor of the ice-choked chimney was about two yards from the end of the ledge on which we stood. Far below could be seen our tracks in the snowfields, but of the wall beneath we were only able to imagine the appearance. Altogether, even a climber could hardly conceive of a more exposed spot.

Paglia Orba from the Cinque Fratri.

The C-ledge is visible on the dark rock precipice immediately below the summit.

Facing page 36

Bryn took the fateful step from the ledge to the chimney and was soon mixed up in the intricacies of the frozen waterfall, whose icicles were clustered together like the pipes of an organ. Skilfully cutting his way diagonally from left to right across them, he succeeded in finding a comparatively firm position whence he was able to take in Maxwell’s rope with his teeth and left hand, as the latter made the wide and difficult step from the end of the ledge to the foot of the waterfall. To add to the insecurity of the situation, the belay on the ledge proved worthless; it broke off as I was testing it, and nothing would have saved us in the event of a slip. The following fifteen minutes were indeed anxious ones. I contrived to make myself fairly comfortable on the ledge, but poor Maxwell, standing in a very shaky step and hanging on to an icicle, had patiently to submit to freezing while fragments of ice and snow were showered on him by Bryn’s hard-working axe. At last Bryn had come to the end of his rope, but there were still six feet separating him from the nearest belay at the top of the waterfall and almost directly under the cornice. During a moment of suspense both he and Maxwell had to climb together. Then, just as the latter began to tackle the worst bit of all, Bryn reached the belay and firm footing. We soon joined him, though not without thoroughly appreciating the great difficulties of the pitch. We avoided cutting through the cornice by climbing two short but stiff chimneys to the right of and above the frozen waterfall, and at 5.15 p.m. were beyond the bend of the great C-ledge, with only easy, though steep, rocks between us and the summit. Feeling that we were now safe from a forced bivouac, that constant nightmare of the last five hours, we indulged in a brief rest. While swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and dry bread we reviewed the many little episodes, exciting moments, disappointments and hopes of the last two hours. But so far the sun had eluded us. When we first viewed the frozen waterfall the sun was shining on the cornice above; now it had disappeared to the other side of the mountain in its haste to sink into the Mediterranean, for we had taken over two hours to master the last hundred feet. Anxious to get warmed in its last rays, we began work once more. The climb up the final rocks was pure joy; the plentiful handholds were still quite warm, and their touch was as welcome to our frozen fingers as the iced handholds had before been painful. We rose very rapidly and at 6 p.m. stepped out on to the top of Paglia Orba. A strong westerly wind somewhat counterbalanced the warming effect of the setting sun, but no discomfort could detract from the pleasure we all felt at the success of the day’s venture.

The summit of Paglia Orba is covered by a large snow field (at least, as long as the snow lasts) sloping down from the north to south and east. As near to the highest point as possible we built a little cairn, within which we hid a piece of paper giving our names and a description of the route and times of the ascent. To indicate the spot to future climbers we wound a piece of spare rope round the rock. Pausing once more to look down the wonderful precipice of the north-east face, we re-arranged the rope and set off towards the Col de Foggiale. We soon came upon a steep gully filled with firm, frozen snow and descended the first few feet cutting steps. Then, glissading down to the col, we dropped over the cornice and slid or ran down to the river and, wading through, regained our camp at 7.30 p.m., just one hour and a quarter after leaving the summit.

Our success was suitably celebrated by a grand bal masqué, followed up with the most glorious dinner of our lives. Two days later we struck camp and, casting many a look back towards the noble form of Paglia Orba, that Matterhorn of Corsica, slowly filed out of the Viro Valley towards Calaccucia, Corte, Ajaccio, and home, bidding Corsica au revoir but not adieu!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Col is a French term denoting a depression on a ridge connecting two summits.

[2] A rock pinnacle on a ridge.

CHAPTER III
THE WETTERHORN

Grindelwald, the most popular of the climbing centres of the Bernese Oberland, is dominated by the Eiger and the Wetterhorn. The former is so close to the village that, owing to foreshortening, much of the majesty of its huge precipices is lost to the casual observer below. But the Wetterhorn, standing well back at the head of the valley, its great limestone cliffs surmounted by terraced glaciers upon which the snow-capped summit cone is so gracefully poised, has long appealed to the artist—so much so, indeed, that the view of the Wetterhorn from Grindelwald vies for pride of place with those of the Jungfrau from the Wengernalp and of the Matterhorn from the Riffel Alp.

My first climbing acquaintance with the Wetterhorn was destined to be a rude one. My brother Max and I had, for five seasons, served a faithful apprenticeship to mountaineering in the lesser Alps of Northern Switzerland and, long before the arrival of the summer vacation of 1908, had drawn up the plan of an ambitious climbing campaign which, beginning with the Wetterhorn, should lead us over the principal peaks of the Bernese Oberland into the Zermatt district, that Mecca of the mountaineering world. Starting from Meiringen, we had, by a circuitous route over the Gauli Glacier and the Wetterlimmi, gained the Dossen club-hut, north-east of the Wetterhorn, whence the easiest way to the summit starts. A party of five Germans, likewise bound for the Wetterhorn, shared the hut with us.

We left the hut at 2 a.m. on July 24, closely followed by the Germans who were roped in two parties. Walking up the snow slopes at a furious rate, they soon left us behind, for, knowing that our strength would be needed later on, we preferred to take things leisurely. Max and I arrived at the depression south of the summit and known as the Wettersattel, to find the Germans already breakfasting and bringing by no means small appetites to bear upon the generous contents of their knapsacks. A chilly north wind was blowing, and the sun had not yet reached us, so we cut short our rest and were soon forging up the final snow slope to the summit. The new snow which had fallen two days before, though it had obliterated the steps and tracks of previous climbers, was now good and firmly frozen; the slopes were nowhere very steep, and with the help of our climbing irons we made rapid progress. Save for the last few feet there was no need to cut steps. The ascent had been easy—far easier than most of the climbs of our apprenticeship; indeed, it seemed little more than a short mountain walk, for in less than five hours after leaving the Dossen hut we stood on the summit. The facility with which we had conquered this, our first really great peak, however, did nothing to mar our feelings of happy pride in the achievement. The wind had dropped and the sun was warm. With our axes we scraped out comfortable seats for ourselves in the snow and sat down to rest. Westwards from our feet the summit snow slope curved gently outwards to fall away in ever-increasing steepness till it was lost to sight, and the eye rested on the green meadows above Grindelwald. To the south we saw the Schreckhorn, Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau and hosts of other giants of the Oberland, and in them beheld with happy vision a new world awaiting conquest.

Twenty minutes of supreme happiness stole away ere our solitude was interrupted by the arrival of two of the Germans. The other three had given up the ascent. The spell thus broken, we prepared to return and a few minutes later were making our way back to the Wettersattel, closely followed by the two Germans who there rejoined their friends.

It was our intention to descend on the Grindelwald side of the mountain. Part of the route leads down an immense gully to the Krinne Glacier. Arrived at the top of the gully, Max and I made our inspection and were satisfied. It seemed perfectly safe; it was broad and not very steep, and the new snow that had fallen had already consolidated and was reliable and so firm that it might even be necessary to use the axe to cut occasional steps. There were traces of a previous party who had attempted the descent but had given it up. By the time we had completed investigations, the two Germans had already set off down the tracks. They had decided to be the leading party on the descent, an arrangement which we disliked exceedingly, but there was nothing for it but to follow meekly. In the light of future developments, it was lucky that their three companions, more modest regarding their capabilities, elected to come behind us.

Now, unless it is extraordinarily steep, there is only one correct way of descending a snow slope; you go down with your back to the slope, facing outwards. Standing boldly erect with shoulders well back like a guardsman on parade, you walk unconcernedly downwards with toes well up, letting the impetus of your body drive the heel into the snow to make a good, reliable step. Do not take little mincing steps, one barely below the other, but plunge bravely. You will then be sure of your foothold and make good headway. The Germans were evidently not accustomed to snow. They advanced with hesitation. Indeed, one of those behind us nervously faced into the slope and descended on all fours. About four hundred feet below the saddle, the tracks ceased. For some few feet farther, the leader of the party preceding us made sufficiently firm steps by kicking with his heels, but soon we found ourselves on much steeper and harder snow where step-cutting was imperative. The Germans betrayed an inclination to take to the snow and ice-plastered rocks to the left, but we warned them that safety lay only in laboriously cutting a way down in the hard snow bed of the gully. The leading German, however, soon abandoned step-cutting and moved out on to the rocks where he and his companion sat down, one close behind the other. Throughout the climb they had appeared to find difficulty in managing the sixty feet of rope to which they were attached; seldom had it been taut from man to man, and now, as they rested, it lay in loose coils between them. Max and I carried on, cutting steps down the gully, and had passed below the level of the two Germans when I saw one of them stand up. He slipped. His legs shot out beneath him and he began to slide down over the slabs on to the hard snow slope below. He dropped his axe. I shouted out a warning to his companion who was, however, too startled to take up the slack of the rope which was fast running out as the man at the other end slid on with increasing impetus. He had by now turned over on to his face, and was scraping frantically into the hard snow with his fingers in a desperate endeavour to save himself. At length the sixty feet of rope had run out; with a terrific jerk the second man was dragged from the rock and hurled through the air. Striking against a projecting crag, his left arm was wrenched from the shoulder and his chest crushed in. The body went on until the rope’s length was spent. Again a jerk, and the first man, whose pace had slackened as his comrade was dragged from his seat, was in his turn hurled through the air—to smash his head in on the rocks below. It was a sickening spectacle. The bodies bounded over and over each other in wide curves until the edge of the first great precipice leading down to the Krinne Glacier hid them from our sight. Their three companions, who had looked on aghast, were naturally in a terrible state of nerves. There was nothing to do but to go steadily on, and, not yet realising the condition of the party behind, Max and I turned our attention once more to step-cutting. We had not proceeded far before they implored us to lead them back into the Wettersattel. Cutting steps up past them, therefore, we joined their rope to ours, charging them to keep it always taut from man to man, and so made our way back to the saddle. Thence we descended with all possible speed past the Dossen hut to Rosenlaui, from where we telephoned news of the accident to Grindelwald.

Rude as this our first experience had been, it was not to be the end of our acquaintance with the Wetterhorn. The Wetterhorn has three summits, all just over 12,100 feet. The Hasle Jungfrau, probably because of its more imposing appearance when seen from Grindelwald, is usually called the Wetterhorn, although the Mittelhorn is higher by a few feet; the Rosenhorn is by only a few feet the lowest of the three peaks. They are connected by a lofty ridge running roughly from east to west. Having been informed that a traverse of all three summits in one day was regarded as something of a tour de force, this was the climb which headed our programme for the summer of 1909.

Morning mists.

Facing page 44.

On July 24, Max and I once again made ourselves at home in the Dossen hut. A school friend of Max, Will Sturgess, aged seventeen, accompanied us, keen as mustard and looking forward to his first mountain climb. That evening the weather broke and remained bad until the following afternoon, when a fierce westerly wind set in which swept away the clouds and lashed up from the ridges the newly-fallen snow. Towards sunset the gale dropped, and numerous parties arrived from Rosenlaui and Meiringen. We prepared our simple evening meal—pea soup, tea and plenty of bread and jam—and before nightfall were already seeking sleep on the straw of the bunks. But the ceaseless chatter, the noise of other people’s cooking operations, and last but not least the insistence of the preponderating Teuton element on closed windows, despite the fact that the little hut harboured some thirty individuals, made rest impossible. Soon after midnight, no longer able to bear the stifling atmosphere, we jumped down from our beds and gathered round in front of the door to drink in the sweet, cool night air. A full moon shone from a cloudless sky, streaking the quiet snows with bands of silver.

We began to prepare breakfast, an example which was too soon followed by the other inmates, and so once more the little hut was filled with noise and bustle. Shortly after half-past one on the morning of July 26, we escaped into the peace of the night. In our rucksacks we carried only the essential needs for the day, it being our intention to return to the hut. Over the splendid, hard-frozen snow we mounted up to the Dossensattel—the little snow depression on the rock ridge at the lower end of which stands the hut—and within an hour had crossed it and were making our way horizontally over a fairly steep snow slope towards the Wetterkessel. Sturgess, who was in the middle of the rope, slipped twice, but as we always kept the rope taut from man to man he was easily held, while on both occasions he retained his grip upon his ice-axe—a promising sign on the part of a beginner. We walked quickly across the Wetterkessel, for the wind was bitingly cold, and about an hour below the Wettersattel halted for a second breakfast, finding shelter in a shallow crevasse. The first red flush of dawn was creeping down the Hasle Jungfrau as we set off once more. In the snow at the foot of a great rock pinnacle in the Wettersattel we deposited our knapsacks. Sturgess, wishing to reserve his strength for later in the day, elected to remain here and await our return from the Hasle Jungfrau. In a wind-sheltered hollow he got the little aluminium cooking apparatus into action, and promised that we should have hot drinks when we came back.

We found the remains of good steps leading up the final snow slope and, at 6 a.m., within twenty minutes after leaving the Wettersattel, stepped out on to the summit. Not a single step had we had to cut. The wind had died down, and the sky was cloudless. Again we gazed into the snow and ice-clad recesses of the Oberland, no longer land of mystery, for in the summer of 1908 we had successfully invaded its fastnesses. Far below in the Wettersattel, numerous climbers were coming up from the Grindelwald side—little black spots upon the white purity of the snows. Sturgess was evidently feeling the cold, for we could see him occasionally forsake the cooking-pot and indulge in short runs; altogether he seemed to be exerting himself much more than we two. After spending half an hour on the summit, we cut steps along the snow ridge in the direction of the Great Scheidegg, until we could look down on to the little Hühnergutz Glacier on the cliffs of the Wetterhorn overlooking the Scheidegg. On our return we found several parties in possession of the summit, so, carrying straight on and plunging down the good snow, we soon rejoined our companion who was waiting to welcome us with a cup of hot tea—veritable nectar to the climber on the heights. Max and his friend being inclined to dally over this, their third breakfast, I unroped and, leaving them to follow at their leisure, proceeded alone up the snow slopes leading to the Mittelhorn. There were no difficulties to be overcome, and presently I had gained the summit where I stretched myself out in the warm sun on some near by rocks and went to sleep.

At 9 a.m. Max, with Sturgess in tow, rudely awakened me, and we made ready for the serious part of the day’s work. Hitherto, though we had omitted none of the precautions so necessary for the safe carrying out of even the simplest of mountaineering excursions, the climb had seemed little more than a pleasant morning’s walk. Now, however, we were confronted by the long, be-pinnacled ridge connecting the Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn, and unless appearance and rumour belied it, we were not likely to have too little to do. We roped together. For the first half-hour along the snow-crest everything was straightforward, until we arrived on a rocky platform from which the ridge suddenly fell away in an almost vertical cliff. About thirty feet lower down was a ledge, narrow and sloping, but roomy enough to provide standing ground for all three. Max lowered himself over, while I, well-braced, held his rope and paid him out foot by foot until he reached the ledge. Then came Sturgess’ turn. He advanced boldly, but lacking my brother’s rock-climbing prowess, he completed the descent by a free use of the rope. Now it was my turn. Max warned me that the pitch was too difficult to descend without help from above; so I cut a short length off the end of our rope, tied the ends securely together to form a loop and hung it over a jutting out spike of firm rock. Meanwhile the others had untied themselves, thus giving me sufficient rope for subsequent manœuvres. Drawing up Max’s end of the rope, I passed it through the loop and back to him, so that as I descended he could hold me from below like a weight on a rope passing through a pulley—the loop in this case performing the functions of the pulley—and check any disposition on my part to fall. Safe on the ledge, I recovered the rope by simply pulling on my end until the other passed through the noose. This and similar methods of descending difficult pitches of rock or ice are known to the mountaineer as “roping down.”

A brief scramble over easy rocks led to the upper edge of another vertical step in the ridge, where we again roped down. This pitch, however, was much longer than the last and, in addition, it partially overhung. Here and there, also, it was plastered up with ice that was softening in the warm rays of the sun. It was practically impossible to climb, and for most of the way down I hung with my full weight on the rope while Max paid it out. The ledge on which we now stood was on the south side of the ridge, the backbone of which we soon regained by an easy traverse over good broken up rock to the left. Here we made the aggravating discovery that, by previously adhering to the crest, we had missed a perfectly simple line of descent on the other side.

Climbing down a steep ridge.

The short cut—roping down.

Facing page 48.

The way to the Mitteljoch, the depression on the ridge between the Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn, was now clear. A few easy rocks followed by soft snow slopes brought us to the foot of a great rock pinnacle or gendarme. This was easily avoided by skirting round its base on the north side, keeping as high as possible in the steep snow slopes below its rocky flank. Before midday, we arrived at the foot of the north-west ridge of the Rosenhorn and began climbing over the array of bold, red-brown rock teeth that form its crown. For nearly two hours, keeping well to the crest of the ridge, we scrambled merrily over gendarme after gendarme, finding the rock good and reliable on the whole, with little danger of foot- or handholds breaking away. Sturgess was feeling rather tired and occasionally required help. One extra long and steep crack taxed his powers to the utmost. A pull on the rope from above, however, and a push from below enabled him to drag himself on to the almost level platform at the top of the pinnacle, where for several minutes he lay and gasped like a fish out of water. Shortly after one o’clock the difficulties were over, and, seeing in front of us nothing more than an easy scramble to the summit, we settled down to a rest and a meal.

The cold wind to which we had hitherto been exposed had dropped, and the sun beat warmly down upon us from an almost cloudless sky. Presently I became assailed with doubts as to whether the highest point visible were really the summit or merely masking a loftier eminence farther along the ridge. To settle the question, I unroped and set off alone. An hour’s easy clamber brought me to the point in question, to discover to my intense satisfaction that it actually was the summit of the Rosenhorn. I shouted the good news down to the others who were already making their way up towards me. At the same moment I found that my knapsack had been left behind at our resting-place. As Max and Sturgess had both overlooked it, I hurried down past them, retrieved my property and, climbing back in all haste, overtook them just below the top. At 3 p.m. all three stood on the summit. Sturgess immediately set about finding a comfortable couch for himself on a smooth, horizontal slab where he dozed while Max and I got busy with the cooker. An hour sped by quickly enough to the pleasant accompaniment of the munching of stout sandwiches washed down by copious draughts of hot tea.

Meanwhile the weather was changing for the worse. A south wind had sprung up; great, woolly cumulus clouds had gathered on the horizon and were rolling over towards us. It was evident that a thunderstorm was imminent. So at four o’clock we packed up, re-roped and moved off along the south-west ridge over which the mountain is usually climbed. Relieving Sturgess of his knapsack, we climbed over a rocky point which is almost as high as the summit itself, and were soon making our way down over the easy rocks to the snow slopes leading to the Rosenegg. Curving round to the left, we then ploughed our way across the Wetterkessel in the direction of the Dossenhorn. The noonday sun had softened the snow, and at every step one sank almost to the knees in slush. Coming as it did at the end of a long day, the making of the track was toilsome in the extreme, and Max and I took the lead in turns. Sturgess, however, showed such hopeful signs of recovering his energies that we finally decided to regain the hut by climbing over the Dossenhorn instead of only crossing the Sattel. By so doing, one more summit would be added to the three already bagged—an important consideration in our early mountaineering days. The decision involved a slight change in route. Making for the Renfenjoch, the depression at the foot of the Dossenhorn, we struggled up through the soft, wet snow and at last gained the rocks of the south ridge of the mountain. Thence to the summit was an uneventful climb over good firm rock. We lost no time on the top. There was no view to be seen, for thick mists swirled round us and it began to sleet. Soon Max was swallowed up in fog as I paid out his rope while he descended the steep rocks in the direction of the hut. When he had called out that he had found good, firm standing ground, Sturgess followed, while by a steady hold on his rope I checked any tendency on his part to gain too much momentum. Soon after leaving the summit the electricity of the highly-charged atmosphere surrounding us began to discharge itself slowly through our axes and the sodden rope, making a noise like the tearing of linen. Fearing the possibility of a more violent lightning-like discharge, we moved out on to the western flank of the ridge and hurried along with the greatest speed compatible with safety. We encountered no further difficulties and at length, at 7 p.m., after an absence of over seventeen hours, regained the Dossen hut, but not before we had been drenched to the skin by a torrential downpour of rain that had superseded the sleet.

Our gallant beginner showed naturally great fatigue, but we rubbed him until he was warm again and rolled him up in blankets. Max and I then prepared a hot meal and changed our sodden clothing as far as the presence of a party of ladies, who with their guides were bent on climbing the Dossenhorn on the morrow, would permit. Good food followed by a night’s rest worked wonders for Sturgess who soon recovered from the effects of his hardships. He was a stout fellow, keen, uncomplaining and always ready to do his best, and had indeed acquitted himself splendidly on this, his first great mountain climb.

CHAPTER IV
THE JUNGFRAU

A glance at the map of the Bernese Oberland will show that a straight line drawn in a north-easterly direction from the Breithorn to the Eiger will pass through, or close to, the Grosshorn, Mittaghorn, Ebnefluh, Jungfrau and Mönch. The ridge connecting these great peaks forms a lofty watershed flanked on the south by gently-rising glacier slopes and on the north by precipitous ice-clad cliffs and icefalls. Almost every route, therefore, leading from the north across this great connecting ridge constitutes an arduous ice-climb followed by a comparatively easy descent on the south side. Small wonder, then, that the guides of the Oberland, who live in close proximity to such a wonderful training ground, excel all others in the art of snow and ice mountaineering.

The ascent of the north face of the Jungfrau is reputed to be one of the finest ice expeditions in the Alps and, as such, attracted the boyish attention of my brother and me, incited as we were even in the earliest days of our climbing career by the picture of Himalayan adventure that hovered in the background of our minds. In the event of the picture coming to life, ice work, we felt sure, would stand us in better stead than mere agility on rock, and it was, therefore, our endeavour to perfect ourselves as far as possible in the more serious side of mountaineering, that is, in the intricacies of snow and ice-craft. The north face of the Jungfrau presents itself to the eye as an imposing edifice built up of glistening, greenish-white terraces of ice and snow of such purity that it were almost desecration to set human foot upon them. To the mountaineer, who is perhaps actuated less by poetic imagination than by the virile desire to pit his puny strength against a much stronger force, these great terraces become but the stepping-stones on the road to the summit. In number they are five—the upper reaches of the Guggi Glacier, the Kühlauenen Glacier, the Giessenmulde, the Silbermulde and the Hochfirn—forming a wonderful spiral staircase, as it were, betwixt earth and heaven. No better field could be found in which to test our skill and improve our knowledge; and it was this ambitious climb that figured next to the Wetterhorn in our programme for the summer of 1909.

The north face of the Jungfrau.

“... an imposing edifice of glistening terraces of ice and snow....”

Facing page 52.

Max, Sturgess and I, after traversing the three summits of the Wetterhorn, left the Dossen hut on July 27 for Rosenlaui, and thence walked over the Great Scheidegg to Grindelwald where we arrived with barely an hour to spare before the last train of the day was due to leave for the Little Scheidegg. That hour was a crowded one. Boots required re-nailing and patching up, a stock of provisions sufficient for eight days had to be laid in, and all superfluous baggage bundled up and posted off to Zermatt, our next port of call in the valleys. We spread out into the village bazaar where, thanks to a good distribution of labour and unstinting use of what we were pleased to imagine was Swiss-German, we stirred up the kindly but stolid Grindelwald shopkeepers to unwonted activity and succeeded in arriving at the station just on time. The spectacle we presented—dissolving in perspiration, weighed down by bulging knapsacks, with climbing irons, cooking apparatus and ropes slung on anyhow, loaves of bread tucked under our arms—caused some merriment amongst the trippers who thronged the waiting train. However, we succeeded in finding room for ourselves and belongings and utilised the leisure afforded by the journey up to the Little Scheidegg in repacking stores in more convenient and comfortable fashion. We also made the acquaintance of the famous Swiss climber, the late Dr. Andreas Fischer who, with the two guides Hans Almer (son of Christian Almer, in his time the greatest of Swiss guides) and Ulrich Almer (son of Ulrich, Christian’s almost equally renowned brother), was, like us, bound for the Guggi hut. All three were extremely kind to us. We told Dr. Fischer that Max and I intended to climb the Jungfrau from the Guggi hut. Somewhat amazed and not a little concerned at this bold project on the part of two mere boys, he urged us to be careful. When we assured him, however, that we were fully aware of the toughness of the impending task and intended to spend at least one whole day in reconnoitring the way and cutting the necessary steps up as far as the Schneehorn, he saw that we meant business and returned our confidences by telling us of his own ambitious plans, from which it appeared that our roads would lie together as far as the Schneehorn. There, however, our ways would part, for it was his intention to cut up long and tremendously steep ice slopes to the then unascended north-east ridge of the Jungfrau and climb over that ridge to the summit.

In spite of the novelty of our surroundings and the wonderful aspect of the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau as seen from this side, the walk from the Scheidegg over the Eiger Glacier to the hut was, for us with our heavy loads, far from being a pleasure. More lightly laden, Fischer and his guides soon outstripped us, and it was with a sigh of relief that, just before nightfall, we arrived at our destination.

The old Guggi hut, now almost disused, is one of the smallest in the Alps, measuring as it does in floor space only ten feet by twelve. In 1909 more than half that space was taken up by two tiers of straw-filled sleeping bunks, and what remained was largely exhausted by a tiny stove and rickety table. Within comfortable walking distance of the Eiger Glacier station of the Jungfrau railway, the hut is frequently visited by trippers, a section of the community noted in the Alps for the trail of disorder they leave behind them; and we arrived to find the Almers endeavouring to clear up the pigsty condition in which they had found our resting-place for the night. We lent a hand and, a semblance of tidiness once more restored, prepared a simple dinner and turned in to sleep. There was a rug for each man and one huge horse blanket which sufficed to cover us all, so we slept warmly.

Shortly after midnight the disturbing ring of my alarum watch drove us forth to inspect the weather. The night air was warm, and long streaks of fish-shaped clouds in the west threatened trouble. Fischer’s party required settled weather for their expedition, and as on the first day we only intended prospecting as far as the Schneehorn and could, therefore, afford to wait for an hour or two, all turned in again to sleep while waiting for the weather to show its hand. At 1 a.m. Max and I became impatient. Prospects were still doubtful, though for our purposes fair enough. The Almers could not make up their minds to start; but we, not so dependent upon the weather, decided to clear for action. Dr. Fischer now came forward with a plan which, even then, I realised was prompted by his anxiety for our safety and the liking which he had already formed for us. He suggested that we should join forces and go together as far as the rocks of the Schneehorn and bivouac there for the night. Next morning, weather permitting, we could then complete our climb, and he and his guides would carry on with their great task. We at once fell in with this generous proposal. Hans and Ulrich, hitherto obviously downhearted at the idea of a day’s idleness, now brightened up. One by one we crawled out of our bunks—the cramped space would not allow all to get up together—and while the cooks monopolised the interior, the rest of us busied ourselves outside the hut, groping for clothes in the darkness, seeking the more elusive garments with matches and generally completing our toilet under difficulties. Breakfast, coming so soon after a late supper, was but a shadow of a meal; and it was barely half-past one when, shod with climbing irons, we put on the rope and, bidding good-bye to Sturgess who intended returning to Grindelwald in the course of the day, stepped forth with lighted lanterns into the night.

With a few steps we had left the ridge upon which the hut stands and were proceeding through the icefall of the Guggi Glacier. Max and I had an easy time of it here. We could not risk wounding the feelings of such splendid guides as the Almers by offering to take our share in finding the way, and therefore had to content ourselves by following in our best style, always paying attention to the correct handling of the rope. Once, while making our way round the corner of an ice pinnacle below which yawned the black depths of an appalling crevasse, Dr. Fischer expressed anxiety for our safety. But Hans, watching us coming along, reassured him: “They are sure-footed like cats; they know how to use the rope; they are quite safe”: ample reward for the self-restraint we had imposed upon ourselves in not attempting to take the lead. Young Ulrich, who went ahead, had plenty to do. The icefall is very broken up. Clambering over or round, or even under enormous séracs, towering all about us like the suddenly frozen waves of a storm-tossed sea, we gradually made our way upwards, amidst a brooding, gloomy silence that was rendered more vast and impressive by the occasional chipping of Ulrich’s axe, the tinkling of fragments of falling ice and the crunching sound of the climbing irons as their sharp points bit at each step into the ice.

The icefall of the Guggi Glacier.

Facing page 56.

Almost at the head of this first icefall we encountered the most serious of its defensive barriers. A huge crevasse, a great open gash, stretched across our path and was lost in the darkness, its bottom far beyond the reach of the dim light of the lanterns. Hans having paid us the compliment of asking us to explore out to the left while his party reconnoitred to the right, we were fortunate in soon discovering a solution to the problem in the shape of a slender flake of ice forming a fragile bridge. After some judicious step-cutting, the flake being too frail to endure much belabouring, we were across and shouting the news of our success to the others, already returning from a fruitless search.

All now lay clear before us up to the foot of the second icefall, where the Kühlauenen Glacier tumbles down on to the Guggi in a mighty mass of séracs. Uncrevassed slopes, gentle at first but rising up more steeply as we mounted higher, brought us rapidly to the foot of the icefall where we foregathered and studied the outlook while waiting for the pale light of dawn to enable us to stow away the lanterns. Beyond the frozen torrent of séracs merging into the Guggi Glacier stretched a great vertical wall of ice, a gaunt, lofty rampart forty to sixty feet high, which gleamed clear and unbroken in the cold, grey light from under the cliffs of the Mönch right round to the rocks of the Schneehorn. It was plain that the obstacle could not be turned; the flanks were too well guarded by steep ice-glazed and avalanche-swept rocks. Yet nowhere was there apparent a flaw which would aid the besieger. In Hans Almer, however, there was no lack of decision. He seemed to act on the principle of poking his nose right into a difficulty in searching for its key. Presently, with a cheery “Come along!” he cut ahead and, with amazing speed, worked his way through a steep tangle of crevasses and séracs, never at fault for a means of negotiating the many obstructions met with, until we arrived on a débris-strewn ledge at the base of the great ice cliff. Haste had been imperative, for almost throughout this passage we had been endangered by lurching monsters of séracs. It is true we were still in the shade, and according to the best authorities séracs do not fall until the warmth of the sun’s rays or the hot breath of the föhn wind strikes upon them. Later in the day Hans emphatically characterised such beliefs as “Unsinn,” and told me that, in his experience, séracs fell just when they thought fit and often displayed the greatest activity on cold and frosty nights when it behoved them to be asleep. My later observations tend to show that the falling of séracs is most likely to occur just before sunrise, during the coldest hours of the night. On the east face of Monte Rosa I once counted sixteen falls of ice and séracs between 3 and 4.30 a.m., eleven between 6 and 8 a.m. and two between 3 and 4 p.m.

The swift scramble up the séracs had somewhat robbed us of our breath, and we welcomed the brief halt which a search for a possible breach in the great ice wall before us demanded. Immediately above, the wall showed sure signs of disintegration; several great sheets of ice were in process of detaching themselves. One monster, fully fifty feet in height, leaned forward in an ominous manner. As its fall would have strewn with blocks the ledge where we stood, Hans moved over to the right where a great square-cut bastion of undoubted firmness afforded security from the perils of falling ice. From here we sighted the one and only weak spot we were ever able to detect in the great barrier. A huge crevasse in the glacier above cleft the wall in twain, and were it but possible to gain the floor of this crevasse, the problem of surmounting the wall itself would no more exist. But the approach to the chasm was defended by an immense archway of rickety séracs which looked ready to collapse at any moment. The presence of masses of very broken ice under the archway promised slow and, therefore, unsafe progress, and Hans decided that we must look round for another way out of our trouble. Max and I were told to climb to the top of the bastion now shielding us and to report on the prospects as seen from up there. The others, bent on a similar mission, moved along the ledge towards the Schneehorn rocks. But neither party had any luck; there remained nothing but to risk the archway passage or retire, beaten. We were on the point of leaving the issue to chance by tossing a coin, when nature stepped in and providentially staged a thrill. Suddenly a loud crashing as of thunder was heard, and the ground upon which we stood trembled and shook under the impact of tons of ice blocks; dense clouds of ice dust filled the air and, enveloping us, hid everything from view. As the mists slowly thinned we saw that the giant archway had fallen in. The ruins, choking up the floor of the crevasse, furnished us with a causeway giving egress to the glacier above. The god had indeed descended from his chariot. Without the necessity of cutting a single step, we arrived a few minutes later on the almost level plateau of the Kühlauenen Glacier, the second of the five glacier plateaux characteristic of the north face of the Jungfrau.

Meanwhile, the weather had not improved. By now we ought to have been able to bask in the warm rays of the rising sun, but fish-shaped clouds filled the morning sky, and great masses of clammy mist floated up the Guggi Glacier and rolled down upon us from the Jungfraujoch. A snowstorm was brewing. We sat down in the snow for a rest and, while eating a few biscuits, noted the best point for crossing the bergschrund which defends the approach to the rocks of the Schneehorn. The mists had closed in ere we began the final stage of the day’s work. Largely filled up with masses of snow and fallen stones, the schrund was easily crossed, and, walking up a short slope of good snow, we soon gained the rocks which were dry and firm and nowhere actually difficult. Knowing our dislike for merely following in the footsteps of others, Dr. Fischer tactfully encouraged us to choose our own line of ascent. So henceforward we climbed on a level with, and some distance out to the left of, his party.

At 9 a.m. we arrived at a point about half-way between the bergschrund and the summit of the Schneehorn and, observing that the rocks higher up were sprinkled with new snow, decided to look round for a suitable site to bivouac. Failing to find a platform large enough to seat all five together, we rummaged about in detachments for convenient ledges and eventually settled down within speaking distance of each other.

The ledge chosen by Max and myself was small and narrow. With our backs to the wall above and feet dangling over the cliff falling away to the glacier below, we planted the cooking apparatus between us. The next two hours were spent partly in attending to cooking operations and partly in chipping Hans Almer who, every few minutes thinking he espied a more suitable abode than the one he was occupying at the time, was continually on the move changing house. At 11 a.m. it began to snow in a desultory, intermittent manner. Then came a sleet and hail storm with chilly gusts of wind from which there was no sheltering. Before midday it snowed in real earnest, and it was obvious that, unless an immediate change set in, there could be no hope of our continuing the climb next day. New snow lay two inches deep over the rocks when, at one o’clock, Dr. Fischer gave the word for retreat.

The descent over the now snow-covered rocks demanded great care; but, once down on the glacier, we plunged in long strides over to the crevasse in the great ice wall. The steps of the morning were all obliterated, but, unhesitatingly and in spite of the mist and snow, Hans unravelled his way through the séracs and presently brought us out on to the Guggi Glacier. Dr. Fischer elected to rest here; but Hans told us to go straight on, advising us not to retrace the line of previous ascent, but to try and get through over on the right bank close under the rocks of the Mönch. Acting on his advice we found there a good way and at 3 p.m. were safely back in the hut.

Presently Dr. Fischer’s party arrived and, after a brief halt, returned to Grindelwald to await more auspicious weather. Max and I, having a stock of provisions sufficient for more than a week, could afford to wait on the spot, ready to drive home a renewed attack as soon as the weather cleared. In the early hours of the morning of July 29, the sky was still overcast; so we slept on well into the day, awaking, too late for breakfast yet too early for lunch, to find the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky and dissolving the rolling billows of cloud in the valleys below. After an orgy of a meal that we elected to call “brunch,” we basked on the roof of the hut until, early in the afternoon, the sun sank behind the Jungfrau. Towards evening we carried our surplus provisions over to the Eiger Glacier to be forwarded by rail to the Eismeer station. On returning to the Guggi hut, we found Dr. Fischer and his guides once more installed therein, full of confidence in the prospects.

At 2 a.m. on July 30, we again set forth on our quest. Not a breath of wind stirred; the sky was cloudless. Hans Almer sent us on ahead to lead the way. Knowing the ground well now, we forged up through the first icefall and came to a halt on the gentle snow slopes at the foot of the Kühlauenen Glacier icefall, there to await the arrival of the others. They had no sooner reached us than Dr. Fischer found that he had lost his tea flask, so he and Hans went back to look for it. In the meanwhile Ulrich and we two shivered and stamped about in a vain endeavour to keep warm. Just as it was becoming light enough to dispense with the lanterns, Dr. Fischer rejoined us, having found his precious flask in the snow at the very edge of an immense crevasse just above the Guggi icefall.

By 5 a.m. we were walking over the almost level basin of the Kühlauenen Glacier and soon afterwards were grappling with the rocks of the Schneehorn—no longer without difficulty, for much fresh snow hampered us in the finding of foot- and handholds. Beyond the site of our bivouac of two days ago, we found the rocks so buried in snow that Hans had to clear a way with his axe. Progress was accordingly slow, and it was not until 7 o’clock that, cutting through the little cornice at the head of the final, short, steep, snow slope over which the summit of the Schneehorn (11,200 ft.) is approached, we set foot on the Giessenmulde, the third of the five plateaux. Henceforward our ways lay apart. While Max and I were bound for the direction of the Little Silberhorn, Dr. Fischer and his guides were to turn off to the south towards the immense slopes of gleaming ice leading up to the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau. But so quickly are friendships formed in the mountains that already, after such a brief acquaintance, we were by no means loth to retard the hour of parting by settling down to breakfast.

“We basked on the roof of the Guggi hut.”

Facing page 62.

At a quarter past seven Dr. Fischer said, “Now then, you boys, it’s time you were off!” and, after bidding an “Au revoir” all-round and expressing the hope that we would meet on the summit, Max and I got under way. While crossing the level, hard-frozen snow surface of the Giessenmulde, we had ample time to study the icefall guarding the approach to the Silbermulde, the fourth glacier plateau. This icefall was obviously formidable, and it looked as if a huge, unbridged crevasse which cut across it might prove, if not insuperable, at all events a source of much delay. The icy north-east ridge of the little Silberhorn, however, offered a sure, even if arduous, means of flanking the obstacle; and we quickly decided to choose the harder work of cutting up this ridge in safety, in preference to the less laborious but much more uncertain and, on account of possible falls of ice, perhaps dangerous passage through the icefall. The ridge was covered with a thick layer of crystals of rotten ice, in which two, or at the most three, well-directed blows of the axe sufficed to make a good step. Working hard and as fast as possible, we rose so rapidly that, half an hour after leaving the others who were now just beginning to tackle their big ice slope, we arrived on the beautifully curved ice ridge which forms the summit of the little Silberhorn. After a brief descent, we crossed the Silbermulde and faced the next difficulties, a great bergschrund and a short, but very steep, ice slope below the Silbersattel. Over to the left, away from the Silbersattel, the two edges of the bergschrund approached more closely together, so that by discarding my rucksack and standing on Max’s shoulder I was able to effect a lodgment on the slope above. I then saw that, to get over to the Silbersattel, handholds and footholds would have to be cut round to the right, past an almost vertical ice bulge. Only the right hand could be used to ply the axe; the left would be fully occupied in holding on. Max unroped and tied himself on again, but this time at the extreme end of the hundred-and-fifty-foot rope; then, after carefully working round the bulge, I was able to cut straight up into the Silbersattel where, finding good standing ground, I held the rope firmly and afforded Max, with his double burden of rucksacks, the necessary assistance over the bergschrund and round the bulge. It is quite probable that in some seasons this obstacle may prove impassable. The Silberlücke, however, could always be gained by crossing the Silberhorn, a roundabout route which would entail some loss of time. The ridge known as the Silbergrat, stretching up before us to the Hochfirn, commences in a great rock pinnacle which looked difficult, but was, with the ensuing ridge of good firm rock, quite easy, though enthrallingly interesting in view of the dizzy precipices that fall away to the Lauterbrunnen Valley. Higher up, cornices, wind-whirled into fantastic shapes, crowned the ridge. We hacked them down and strode triumphant over their battered remains until at length the rocks merged into a slender snow-crest, along which, swinging the axe in rhythm with our pace and leaving a step after each blow, we passed quickly over to the Hochfirn, up which, almost knee-deep in soft snow, we laboriously plodded our way.

The day was now won; no further difficulty lay between us and the summit. It was still early, and time was our own to squander as we willed; so, veering towards the left, we stamped through deep snow up on to the Wengern Jungfrau (13,320 ft.), the lower summit of the Jungfrau, in order to see how Dr. Fischer’s party were progressing. They were still far below the north-east ridge—three tiny black dots sticking like flies to the smooth, glassy wall. Our shouts of triumph were faintly echoed by them; then, realising that there would be no chance of our meeting up here, we turned towards the true summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.) and, walking up the easy rocks of the south ridge, soon gained the top. It was 11 a.m.; we had been in all only nine hours en route, and of those nearly one hour had been spent down below the Kühlauenen icefall, awaiting dawn.

As on our last visit to the Jungfrau, the view was clear. To the north we looked down into the valleys of the Bernese Oberland, invitingly clad in the soft, restful colourings of forest, pastureland and lake. Southwards, the gaze passed over glaciers and snow-clad mountains, through the bluish haze rising from the dark rift of the Rhône Valley to beyond the Pennine Alps, and lingered at last on the glistening snow cap of Mont Blanc. The hardest part of the day’s work was over. The air was warm, still and languorous, so, after setting the cooking apparatus on to melt snow for a brew of tea and having, by way of precaution against the consequences of any tendency to sleep walk, belayed the rope to our axes driven deep into the snow, we lay down and were soon wrapt in slumber.

Two hours later we awoke at the chill touch of a gust of wind. Clouds hovered all around, warning us of the approach of yet another spell of bad weather. We finished lunch and made ready for the descent by the ordinary route to the Bergli hut. As was to be expected, we found a beautiful staircase of immense steps already cut in the moderately steep snow slope leading down to the Rotthal Sattel. The bergschrund below the saddle was smaller than we had ever known it before, and soon we were plodding a monotonous way over the Jungfrau Glacier through the now thoroughly softened snow towards the Mönchjoch. There was not a breath of wind; and so fiercely did the sun blaze that we almost marvelled that the whole glacier did not turn to water. At 4 p.m. we arrived at the Bergli hut. The sky had become completely overcast; but, though the sun was obscured, the air was hot and stifling. A break in the weather seemed certain; a matter of small concern to us, however, for our labours had been so strenuous that a day of enforced idleness was a welcome prospect. At 6 o’clock we turned in and slept peacefully and uninterruptedly until 8 a.m. next morning.

Dr. Fischer and the Almers had arrived at the hut about midnight. They had gained the north-east ridge, only to be driven down to the Jungfrau Glacier by bad weather. Snow-glasses are apt to disturb one’s aim when cutting steps, and as the Almers, for this reason, had not worn theirs during the ascent of the great ice slope, they were now snowblind and in considerable pain. But they were a merry pair of companions notwithstanding. After a joint breakfast, we all went over to the Eismeer station, Fischer and the Almers leaving for Grindelwald while Max and I returned to the Bergli hut with a fresh supply of stores. Early in the afternoon the weather showed unmistakable signs of mending, so we settled down to try and shape our somewhat uncertain plans for the future. Our first big ice-climb had left us with a voracious appetite for more. The wicked, green shimmer of the appallingly steep ice slope leading from the Kühlauenen Glacier up to the Jungfraujoch held out a persistent challenge. But how to get there from the Bergli hut? The solution was simple, if perhaps a little ambitious: climb the Jungfrau, descend the north face to the Kühlauenen Glacier, and then cross over the Jungfraujoch to the Concordia hut. The north face had already so far exceeded our expectations for ice work and wonderful scenery that there was no fear of our finding a renewed visit dull. The ascent to the Jungfraujoch would provide some hours of continuous step-cutting, and we were still in need of practice with the ice-axe. Furthermore, by descending to the Concordia hut we should find ourselves well on the way to Zermatt. Fair dreamstuff for the mountain-mad! Content and expectant, we turned in to sleep.

CHAPTER V
THE JUNGFRAU AND THE JUNGFRAUJOCH

On reading the early annals of the Alpine Club, one cannot but be struck by the outstanding popularity of snow and ice-climbs and by the standard of efficiency reached in such climbs by the pioneers. The climber of to-day has added but few to the long list of wonderful ice-climbs that stand to the credit of his forerunner in the sixties. Ice-climbing has fallen into disfavour, but immense progress has been made in rock-climbing—a deplorable but readily explicable state of affairs. Since the early days, the army of climbers has become greatly inflated and embraces many who can spend only some short two summer weeks in the mountains. It is but natural that they should take the shortest way of getting to the summit. The novice who is sound in wind and limb can do well on rocks even at his first attempt. The traces of the man who was there before him still show clearly. Little scratches tell where to look for hand- and footholds and are reassuring testimony that another has accomplished and, therefore, encouragement to emulate. The rocky way does not change from day to day and but little from year to year, and with every fresh scratch the route becomes more easy for the next climber, so powerful a stimulant to the human will is the knowledge that another has attained. Thus even the greatest rock-climb becomes in time a gymnastic feat, a trial of purely physical strength. But there is no royal road to becoming a great ice-climber. Much spade work, both practical and theoretical, and demanding time, hard work, conscientiousness and unbounded enthusiasm, has to be done. Snow, sun, wind and the eternal flow of ice obliterate all comforting tracks, and the ice-mountaineer has to choose and make his own route. Thus the true ice-climber is always a pioneer.

It is obvious that the would-be ice-climber must learn the art of cutting steps in ice or hard-frozen snow. A step can be fashioned with almost any sufficiently hard and pointed instrument. I once cut four steps with the big blade of a pocket-knife; on another occasion I made several with a sharp-pointed bit of granite. The steps were almost as good as if they had been hewn out by the orthodox weapon, the ice-axe; but in each instance the process involved a far greater expenditure of time and labour than would have been the case had I been properly equipped. The ice-axe is the best step-cutting implement known; but there are axes and axes. As differ the makeshift and the inferior axe, so differ the inferior axe and the good axe. Both the makeshift and the inferior axe are spendthrifts of time and energy. When only a few occasional steps have to be cut, the consideration of a moment’s waste here and there may be negligible; but on an expedition where step-cutting is the order of the day, prodigality of humble seconds makes a mighty total that cannot be ignored. A first-class axe is a sine quâ non. What, then, is the criterion of a really useful axe?

It may be stated without much fear of contradiction that only the craftsman who knows how to use the implement of his craft can express a sound opinion as to the merits of any particular example of that type of implement. Strange, then, it is that nearly all climbers will take hold of an ice-axe and, wisely shaking their heads and furrowing their brows, proceed to pronounce judgment upon it, despite the fact that it is common knowledge amongst trained and experienced mountaineers, both amateur and professional, that more than ninety-nine per cent. of the climbing fraternity are ignorant, not only of the art of step-cutting, but also of many of the other important uses to which an axe may be put. It should be noted that there is all the difference in the world between cutting a few incidental steps and undertaking the lead on an expedition where step-cutting is the rule. For the vast majority the ice-axe is, in reality, an unmitigated nuisance; a thing that is always getting in the way; too cumbersome to use as a walking-stick; a collection of sharp, steely points and edges ever making painful contact with the more vulnerable portions of both his and other people’s anatomy; an immobiliser of a hand sorely needed to clutch at handholds; twenty-five francs’ worth of uselessness, and often to be renewed because of its remarkable propensity for falling down cliffs and its owner’s no less remarkable propensity for throwing it away whenever he slips; an inferior opener of tins and a mangler of the contents thereof; a poor instrument for driving in nails and no respecter of fingers. All save a small minority of climbers would be far better served by a stout, crook-handled walking-stick which can almost always be induced to perform at least the one function implied in its name.

The two most important uses to which the mountaineer expects to put his axe being to cut steps in ice or snow and to employ it as a belay when driven into either, the design of an axe should be governed largely by these two requirements. The different parts of an ice-axe are as follows:—The head consists of the pick (with the straight, curve and point), the centre-piece, the blade (which is connected to the rest of the head by the neck), and the two fingers by means of which the head is attached to the thicker end of the shaft. The other end of the shaft carries the ferrule and spike. The head of the axe should be hand-forged, and the metal must be neither so soft that it bends easily nor so hard that it is readily fractured. Measured from the middle of the centre-piece, the lengths of pick and blade should be 8 in. to 8¹⁄₂ in. and 4¹⁄₄ in. respectively. The straight of the pick should form a right angle with the axis of the shaft. If the angle is more or less than a right angle, excessive vibration of most unpleasant character is readily set up while cutting steps. The width of the cutting edge of the blade should be from 2¹⁄₄ in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. The fingers should not be less than 6¹⁄₂ in. in length, and the rivets by means of which they are attached to the shaft must not exceed three in number. As they pass right through the wood, they tend to weaken the shaft and must not, therefore, be unduly multiplied. The shaft of the axe should be made from well-seasoned, straight and fairly close-grained ash and occasionally dressed with linseed oil. For a man about six feet in height, an overall length of 33 in. to 35 in. is the most suitable. A shorter man would do well to use a shorter axe. A longer axe gets in the way more easily, is more difficult to handle, disturbs the aim and, on account of the greater vibration set up at each blow, unduly tires the hands and is liable to cause blisters. For similar reasons, the shaft should not be round in section but elliptical. A round shaft does not fit so closely into the hand and, weight for weight, is also less strong than the oval one. At the head, where the fingers are attached to the shaft, the larger diameter should be 1¹⁄₂ in., the smaller ⁷⁄₈ in., tapering at the ferrule to 1¹⁄₄ in. and ¹³⁄₁₆ in. respectively. Some climbers tack a leather ring or similar protuberance round the shaft, a few inches above the ferrule, with the object of affording a better grip and so preventing the axe from slipping through the hand when cutting steps. Apart from the fact that there is no reason why an axe should not be grasped in such a manner that it does not slip in the hand, such a contrivance is liable to cause blisters and seriously interferes with an important function of the axe, namely, the testing of snow bridges over crevasses and otherwise sounding the condition of snow. Some makers construct the ferrule and spike in one piece. Such an arrangement lacks the strength of the simple ferrule and spike made separately. The ferrule should not be too short, or it may fail to hold the spike or give sufficient protection to the shaft. The protruding portion of the spike should be 2¹⁄₂ in. to 2³⁄₄ in. long, of square section ⁹⁄₁₆ in. where it emerges from the shaft and tapering off to a rounded point. Many amateur climbers adorn the heads of their axes with slings made of leather or of some woven material, the object being to enable the owner to carry his axe by passing the sling over the wrist and thus leave the hand free for climbing. This is a dangerous practice. An axe carried in this manner is liable to get caught up in the rock and may thus lead to a serious disturbance of the climber’s balance. Furthermore, such slings must be removed when step-cutting is necessary. The proper way to carry an axe, when climbing rock where one does not wish to have a hand encumbered, is either to tuck it into the rope at one’s waist or hang it through a small loop at the back of one’s rucksack. So placed, it can be readily and without loss of time taken out when wanted and as easily put back. On very long rock-climbs, where the axe is perhaps not needed for hours on end, probably the best way to carry it is to pack it head downwards into one’s rucksack with the spike end protruding at the top.

Climbing irons, also known as crampons, or ice-claws, are of the greatest assistance to those mountaineers who know how to use them. A climbing iron consists of a steel framework which can be attached to the climber’s boot by means of straps or thongs, and is provided on the under side with a number of sharp points, teeth or prongs. These should number either eight or ten, preferably the latter; four to the heel and the remainder to the sole. A badly-fitting climbing iron is worse than useless, inasmuch as it may prove a source of danger. The position of the teeth should be such that they approximately follow the contour of the sole and heel of the boot. Above all, it is essential that the front prongs should be placed well to either side of the toe and at least level with the tip of the boot, if not actually projecting. The two prongs at the back of the heel should be similarly placed. The prongs should be sharp and from 2 in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. in length, and, to obviate the necessity for frequent re-sharpening and consequent excessive shortening of the teeth, the use of the climbing irons on rock should be avoided as much as possible. When the prongs are worn down to a length of 1¹⁄₂ inches it is advisable to discard the irons altogether.

Nowadays, almost all climbers take crampons with them even on the simplest of ice excursions. Few, however, use them to the best advantage. When traversing across or climbing up a hard snow or ice slope without irons, the sole of the boot is always more or less at right angles to the slope. The edge nails on that side of the boot which is nearest the slope must do all the necessary gripping, and before the incline becomes so great that these slip, the axe must be resorted to and steps cut. Most people use climbing irons in a similar fashion, though, as a rule, the sole of the boot is kept nearer to the horizontal. In traversing an ice slope in this manner, it is true that the spikes of the crampons on the side nearest the slope will grip better than the boot nails alone would do and thus enable one to postpone the use of the axe. But in climbing vertically upwards only the two front prongs will bite into the ice, with the possible result that they may chip it away without securing reliable hold. To get the best use out of climbing irons, it is necessary to tread with the sole of the boot as far as is possible parallel to the slope. In this way all the points will be utilised. So used, sharp, long-toothed climbing irons will enable one to overcome extremely steep snow and ice slopes without the need of cutting steps. It is essential, however, that all members of the party be equally well equipped from the point of view of climbing irons and skill in using them. The inclusion of one who is deficient in either respect will make imperative the cutting of steps where it might well have been avoided. The climbing irons which Max and I had in 1909 were most defective in design. The teeth were short, barely one inch in length, and blunt, and the toe and heel prongs, instead of being level with, or projecting from, the toe and heel of the boot, came underneath. We were forced, in consequence, to cut almost as many steps as if we had had no crampons at all. They did assist, however, in that they enabled us to stand more securely in our ice steps and obviated the necessity of carefully cleaning out and making smooth the floor of each step.

At 12.30 a.m., on August 1, 1909, Max and I crept down from our sleeping bunks and stealthily, lest we should disturb the still slumbering occupants of the hut, proceeded to light the fire for breakfast and prepare for our departure. At 1.15 a.m. we were outside the hut putting on the rope and otherwise ready to move off. The night was calm. Up the snow slopes above the hut to the Mönchjoch we made our way, lighted by the fitful glare of the lantern through a black shadowland girdled by a belt of silver whence, under the brilliancy of the full moon, the grotesque séracs, like sheeted spirits, kept watch over the eternal solitudes. Our pace was good, and soon we topped the Mönchjoch and, stepping from out the shadow, crossed the head of the Ewigschneefeld. Rounding the corner of the south ridge of the Mönch, we strode through a glittering fairyland to the music of hobnailed boots crunching into the hard-frozen snow. On the Jungfrau Glacier, immediately below the Jungfraujoch, all superfluous baggage was dumped, to be picked up on the way down to the Concordia hut after the climb. We fastened on crampons, and were soon climbing up the snow slopes leading to the Rotthal Sattel, below the final bergschrund of which a brief halt was called for a scanty meal—a couple of biscuits, which should, as all climbers know, have been washed down by warm tea. We had, however, to dispense with the tea; the flask containing it eluded my grasp and, sliding down the slopes below, plunged into the black depths of a great crevasse. No loss, they say, is without its compensating gain; I had now, at any rate, less weight to carry, and snow would serve almost as well to assuage thirst. The Rotthal Sattel was swept by an icy west wind, so we raced full tilt up to the summit and arrived there on the stroke of five, just as the upper edge of the sun peeped over the horizon. For some moments we stood in wonder at the daily miracle of dawn as it skimmed from glacier to glacier, from mountain-top to mountain-top, and stirred the earth to blushing wakefulness. But all too soon we became aware of a cold wind seeking its way through our rather light clothing and noticed that our toes were beginning to lose sensation, our boots being badly fashioned with low toe-caps. Turning towards the north, we ran down over the Hochfirn at a breakneck pace, in the hope that hard exercise would chase away the chill. Along the Silbergrat and down past the Silberlücke the mad rush continued until, gasping for breath, we gained the shelter of the Silbermulde. Down the little Silberhorn fresh steps had to be cut, our old ones having vanished; and, as during this operation Max had felt the cold again, we ran across the Giessenmulde to the Schneehorn. Descending the rocks, now almost free from snow, we gained the Kühlauenen Glacier and crossed it in the direction of the huge bergschrund guarding the approach to the ice slope leading up to the Jungfraujoch. We sat down on the lower lip of the bergschrund to rest before tackling what promised to be the most arduous part of the day’s task, and also to satisfy hunger with a sparing meal of bread, chocolate and snow. Max having relieved me of my knapsack which he packed into his own, we readjusted the climbing irons, taking up all the slack in the thongs by which they were attached to our feet, and set off to discover a way across the schrund. Not until we had explored well over to the left, underneath the great séracs that flanked the left of the slope up which we intended to cut our way, did the great, overhanging upper lip of the bergschrund show a hopeful weakness in the shape of a disfiguring cleft. Notwithstanding this breach, however, a stiff struggle ensued ere the difficulty was overcome. Driving both axes to the head into the good snow of the wall of the upper lip, I clung to them with both hands and, little by little, helped by a shoulder and a push from Max, pulled myself up with all the strength of my arms to the top, where I hewed out a large, secure step in which I was able to stand safely and steadily as my brother made his way up to me. We were now, however, in the direct line of fire from the séracs above; so, cutting steps over towards the right until out of harm’s reach, we turned upwards to face the formidable slope which was to prove the hardest part of the day’s work.

Cutting steps over the upper lip of a bergschrund.

Facing page 76.

At first we had only hard snow to deal with, and four or five well-directed blows with the blade of the axe were sufficient to produce a good, firm step. We mounted straight upwards, keeping to a safe middle line between the slopes on the left, which were liable to be swept by falling ice, and those on the right, furrowed and scratched by stone-falls from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau. Many mountaineers, when cutting up ice or snow slopes, favour a zig-zag course, traversing diagonally upwards, first to one side and then to the other. Such tactics have their disadvantages. The making of such a stairway, for instance, involves the cutting of a greater number of steps, and, in addition, these steps must, in the interests of safety, be large enough to accommodate the whole foot; while those required if a vertical route is followed need afford room for only half the foot, that is, from the toe to the instep. Again, on a zig-zag course, should any member of the party slip, there is much less chance of arresting his fall, as the climbers are seldom, if ever, directly below each other. In the present case, however, we had no choice; any route save that leading straight upwards would have brought us into danger from ice on the left or from stones on the right. Already, though only about fifty feet above the bergschrund, the slope was so steep that it was necessary always to cut three to four steps ahead of that upon which one stood. But the hard, firm snow was ideal carving material. Always using the blade, two good hard blows marked out the base, and a further two, or at the most three, sufficed to break away the roof and leave a good solid step.

About one hundred and fifty feet above the schrund, conditions began to change. The snow gradually thinned out, and the pick of the axe had to be employed in finishing off the hard ice floor of each step. Eventually the snow disappeared, exposing smooth, bare ice, translucent and colourless when seen from close at hand, but faint blue-green as the glance travelled up the grim slope above. It was the real thing—an ice slope—a trial of strength to gladden heart and eye. The pick of the axe now came again into play. To economise labour and time, I cut large steps for the right foot only. These were deep enough to accommodate the four front spikes of the climbing iron, and thus afforded good support for the part of the foot below the ball of the big toe. By standing on the right foot alone, with the left knee in the small notches that served as steps for the left foot, I could work without tiring and in a well-balanced position. The ice was of the hardest. As many as thirty to forty blows went to the making of each large step, but a dozen served for the small, rough indentations into which the two front spikes of the left iron could bite as we climbed from one right foot step to the next above. Max kept close behind me; of shorter stature than I, he was kept busy hewing out here and there additional steps between my rather far apart ones. An hour went by. Away down at the bottom of the “blue precipitate stair” lay the bergschrund, but the upper end of the ice slope seemed to be as far off as ever. Then the ice steepened until it was so sheer that it was only just possible to retain one’s balance without having to make handholds. The work was really severe, and great care was needed in cutting; a single ill-aimed blow of the axe might easily have destroyed one’s equilibrium. Stones, freed from the grip of the frost by the warm rays of the sun, hurtled down past us in little avalanches from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau, or skimmed giddily by, one by one, within half a rope’s length of us, down the glassy surface of the wall. Max, who had kept count of the steps since leaving the bergschrund, helped to mark our progress by announcing their number as each tenth one was finished. The three-hundred-and-twentieth step brought us almost level with the snow slopes of the upper surface of the hanging glacier and its séracs, and, turning towards our left, we began to traverse over towards it. A small bergschrund was the only barrier in the way. It proved a difficult little customer, and as a slip on the part of either was not to be risked, every precaution known to us was employed to cross it in safety. After making a huge step as near the upper lip as was practicable, I carved out a knob in the ice. This done, Max passed the rope behind the knob and thus belayed me securely while I clambered over the bergschrund on to the hard snows of the hanging glacier. There I cut two more large steps and, driving my axe in to the head, belayed Max’s rope over it while he made his way towards me. Then Max, in his turn, drove his axe in as far as the head and belayed me as, still cutting steps, I moved over to the less steep slopes on the left. As soon as the rope was paid out Max followed while belayed by me in the same manner. After cutting a further hundred steps or so, the angle of the slope became so much gentler that the climbing irons alone could be relied upon to bite firmly into the snow.

Difficulties were over. Thenceforward a mere walk up easy snow slopes led to the gap that lies to the right of the well-known little snow peak in the Jungfraujoch (11,398 ft.), and at 10 a.m. we gained the ridge at a point about one hundred and fifty feet higher than the true pass. Below lay a black speck in the gleaming snow of the Jungfrau Glacier. It was the little pile of belongings which we had dumped there in the early morning, and in that dump were cooking apparatus, tea, sugar, biscuits—everything to gladden the heart of the mountaineer. For the doubtlessly magnificent view from the Jungfraujoch we had no eyes. Thirst and hunger hunted us forth. A short glissade down a snow slope, a little manœuvring that brought us safely across a diminutive bergschrund, and we were floundering knee-deep through soft, sodden snow to our provision depôt. There we made our first halt worthy of the name since leaving the Bergli hut nine hours previously and, at peace with ourselves and the world in general, enjoyed a well-earned rest while the cooking apparatus produced the means of ministering to our more material requirements.

Evening storm.

Morning calm.

Facing page 80.

Soon after 11 a.m. we were heading across the glacier to join the broad trail leading down from the Jungfrau towards the Concordia hut. The last lap in the journey proved to be the usual leaden finish to a golden day. The rucksacks containing our dumped belongings were unpleasantly heavy; the sun, so longed for in the chill, early hours of the morning, was now a source of discomfort, and the soft, moist snow under foot reflected a fierce glare. On nearing the Concordia Platz, that vast plain of ice, the meeting-place of four great glaciers of the Oberland, we took off the rope, having left the last of the concealed crevasses well behind. At 1.15 p.m., after boggling through innumerable puddles of icy water, we arrived on the rocky promontory on which stand the hôtel and the two Concordia huts. In all, we had been twelve hours en route.

CHAPTER VI
ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND

With the coming of the Christmas vacation of 1908, Max and I, in accordance with our well-established custom, returned to Grindelwald. Having in the preceding summer become more intimately acquainted with the towering, snow-bound heights at whose feet nestles the winter sport resort par excellence of the Oberland, short ski-ing expeditions to the Faulhorn, Männlichen and the other lesser satellites of the great Oberland giants no longer satisfied us. We were now eager to penetrate into the winter fastnesses of the glacier regions.

Prior to the advent of skis in Switzerland, winter ascents of first-class peaks were, as a rule, formidable undertakings. Winter conditions in the mountains are quite different from those met with in the summer. Deep snow, often soft and powdery and requiring extremely careful treatment to avoid the danger of starting avalanches, lies right down into the valleys. Thus the ascent to the mountain club-hut, usually a simple matter in summer, is often in the cold season a long and arduous expedition. Frequently it is impossible to follow the usual route, and deviations involving hours of fatiguing stamping in snow, into which one sinks to the knee, or even deeper, at each step, may be necessary to steer clear of dangerous slopes and gullies. Simple rocks, when laden with their wintry cloak of snow, become difficult and demand great care in climbing. The lower reaches of glaciers, snow-free or “dry” in summer, are in winter clad in a deep, white pall that obscures crevasses with a covering deceptive and insecure for the human tread. Higher up, above the hut, differences are not so obvious, though they are far from non-existent. Cold may be severe. Changes in the weather seem to occur more suddenly and with less warning. A summer storm in the high Alps can be serious enough; but it is nothing to the ruthless, inhuman and deadly force of the elements let loose in winter. The snow, to all appearances perhaps the same, is yet different. One must constantly be on one’s guard against avalanches and snow-shields; the snow bridges across crevasses are deceiving in their massiveness. In summer, the experienced mountaineer can readily detect the presence of a chasm in a snow-covered glacier; but in winter he may find his judgment sadly at fault. These changed conditions have naturally undergone no alteration with the coming of skis; but skis enable one to mount long snow slopes and cross wide expanses without sinking deeply in, and thus, by relieving one of the labours of snow stamping, they reduce the fatigue consequent upon walking in snow. Also, owing to the fact that one’s weight is distributed over a much larger area, they diminish the danger of falling into crevasses. And again, they enable one to descend snow slopes at a far greater speed and with much less expenditure of energy than is possible without them.

Christmas festivities and their usual after-effects failed to take the edge off our mountaineering keenness, and after breakfast on the 26th, Max and I strapped on our skis in front of the Eiger Hotel and shouldered our knapsacks containing provisions, a rope and an axe each. Dr. Odo Tauern, an experienced mountaineer and first-rate ski-er, joined us. He was to accompany us to the Bergli hut where two friends were due to meet him on the 28th. From Grindelwald we ski-ed down into the valley, and crossed the Lütschinen stream by the bridge of the railway connecting Grindelwald with the Little Scheidegg. In winter, of course, this railway is not open. As a preliminary to facing the long pull up before us, we fastened on seal-skins under our skis. These are long strips of seal-skin which one fixes to the skis in such a manner that the lie of the hairs is such as to prevent one’s skis from slipping backwards when going uphill. We followed the railway track, diverging only in one place where it crosses the middle of a long, steep slope. Here the snow had drifted so that a smooth slope was left, and no sign of the railway was visible. The snow on the slope was bad, and thinking it highly probable that the making of ski-tracks over it would result in the formation of an avalanche, we preferred to work down underneath the slope and so avoid danger. Before arriving at the Little Scheidegg, we turned up to the left towards the Eiger and, mounting steeply, gained the Eiger Glacier station where the tunnel of the Jungfrau railway begins. Active tunnelling operations on the railway were then in full progress, and it was our intention to travel by one of the workmen’s trains to the Eismeer Glacier station, in those days the most advanced station on the track. As luck would have it, we just missed the last train and had to spend the night at the office of the engineer-in-chief, Herr Liechti, who received us with every possible kindness.

At five o’clock next morning, with skis and other paraphernalia, we stepped out into the keen, cold air and trundled down to the entrance of the tunnel. Packed like the proverbial sardines into the railway carriage with a crowd of marvellously cheerful, Italian tunnelling workmen, who even at this miserable hour were able to sing their songs with zest, time passed rapidly enough until the Eismeer station was reached. Here we were led down a tunnel which broke through the rock at a point some thirty feet above the snow of the glacier, on to which we and our belongings were lowered on ropes. Strapping on our skis, we began to seek a way through the intricate icefall, over towards the Bergli hut. The ordinary summer route, which Max and I knew well enough, could not be used; it was far too much endangered by avalanches. The only alternative was to approach the lower Mönchjoch and descend to the hut. This involved finding a passage right up through the icefall, but by keeping close to the wonderful precipices of the Eiger, so steep that they were almost free from snow, a feasible way was found. In spite of our skis, it was hard work, so deep and soft was the snow. As the presence of crevasses in winter is often so extremely difficult of detection, and a fall into one cannot be arrested so quickly when on skis as without them, we were roped at a distance of seventy feet from man to man. In addition, Maxwell, who brought up the rear, carried a spare hundred-foot rope for use in case of emergency. Zig-zagging in and out between great pinnacles of ice, probing with the axe at each step for concealed crevasses, we had almost passed through the icefall and were not far below the lower Mönchjoch, when an opportunity of working over to the left, towards the snow slopes above the rocks whereon the Bergli hut stands, revealed itself. It was obvious that caution would be necessary in effecting the crossing, not on account of avalanches or the danger of treading loose a snow-shield, for the ground was hardly steep enough for that, but because the new route, instead of leading us at right angles across crevasses, led in the general direction in which the crevasses lay; that is, along instead of across them. Using the axe to discover the whereabouts of crevasses was by no means always effective; in places the snow was so soft and deep that the axe could be plunged in right to the head without meeting with the resistance that betokened the presence of firm, safe snow, or that lack of resistance indicating the void that meant danger. On this part of the journey, therefore, we had to rely to a great extent upon mere external appearances. We had all but gained the slopes just below the Mönchjoch and above the Bergli hut, when Tauern suddenly broke clean through a snow bridge. The violent shock of his weight coming on the rope dragged me backwards on my skis for a yard or two and my brother forward; thus Tauern had completely disappeared before we could arrest his fall. Try as we would, we were unable to pull him up. So Max crossed the crevasse at another point, and together, heaving with all our might and main, we managed to pull our companion over to one side of the chasm, and even raise him until his head was almost level with the edge of the hole through which he had broken. Still hanging in the crevasse, he unfastened and threw his skis up to us, and also gave us the much-needed information as to the direction in which the walls of his prison ran. It was then an easy matter for me to approach the brink of the crevasse and push the shaft of an axe in underneath the rope by which Max held Tauern suspended, and thus prevent its cutting more deeply into the snow. After I had cleared away some of the snow, leaving a channel, Tauern, aided by the united pull of my brother and I, was able at last to set foot above ground again.

The Eismeer icefall.

The Bergli hut stands on the rock ridge to the left centre.

Sounding a snowbridge.

Facing page 86.

This is the first and last time that I have seen a man fall into a crevasse in winter. It is not an experience to be repeated lightly; it had been by no means an easy task for two of us to get our comrade out, and had he been unequal to assisting us and not the capable and ready-witted mountaineer that he is, the task might well have been an insuperable one. Mountaineers to-day seem somewhat inclined to under-rate the dangers of falling into a crevasse. In summer, except perhaps immediately after heavy falls of fresh snow, it should be possible for a party to avoid this danger altogether. But in winter, the greatest care and experience, combined with keenness of vision, are necessary to steer clear of making the acquaintance of the interior of a crevasse—an acquaintance which may, if one is fortunate, be merely unpleasant, but is likely to result in very grave danger indeed.[3]

After Tauern had shaken his clothes as free from snow as possible and put on his skis, we set off once more. Meeting with no further adventure, we reached the slopes above the hut. Here we left our skis, planting them upright in the snow, and then plunged down thigh-deep to the hut. It was just on nightfall. Being mid-winter, it was not surprising that the thermometer inside the hut registered 42° F. of frost. But there was a compensating abundance of wood and blankets. Like most of the Swiss Alpine Club huts, the Bergli is soundly built with a view, inter alia, to conservation of heat in its interior; and it was not long after lighting the fire, upon which we placed pans full of snow to procure water for cooking purposes, that a pleasant, comforting warmth was suffused throughout the little building. In those days Max and I rather fancied ourselves as cooks. But Tauern, whose mountain experience was greater than ours, had stocked his knapsack with such a supply of well-chosen dainties, forming a marked contrast to our own stodgy and unromantic though filling and nourishing food, that there was nothing for it but to come off our pedestals and act as mere assistants. That evening we enjoyed a wonderful dinner of many courses. As it was the first really square meal we had indulged in since leaving Grindelwald, our appetites came well up to scratch. At peace with ourselves and the world, we presently turned in to sleep. Being alone in the hut, the supply of blankets was in excess of our needs; each man slept on three spread on the straw of the bunks and covered himself with half a dozen more. With the exception of boots and coats, we slept in our out-door clothes. The warmth inside the hut lasted until well past midnight; but long before daybreak, in spite of our many coverings, the cold disturbed our slumbers, and at five o’clock we were glad to throw back the blankets, all frosted where the moisture from our breath had condensed and frozen upon them, and get up and light the fire. After breakfast we thawed our boots against the stove, and put them and puttees on. Still inside the hut, we roped and shortly after sunrise set off towards the lower Mönchjoch.

It was laborious work forcing our way up towards the skis, for the snow was as soft as ever. The day was gloriously fine; the sky was cloudless; strange, cold, yellowish-green near the horizon, but deepening to a pale, hard blue overhead. Most of the peaks about us were already bathed in the warm light of the sun, but we ourselves were still in the shade. Presently we reached the spot where we had left our skis. Snow ploughing was at an end; with these useful things on our feet we no longer sank deeply into the snow and, forging a zig-zag track, soon arrived at the lower Mönchjoch and into the sunshine—a pleasant relief after the cold shadow. The bergschrund below the lower Mönchjoch was choked with masses of snow, and we ski-ed down over it and across a short slope on to the plateau of the Ewigschneefeld, stirring up merry clouds of snow dust in our wake. We had planned to cross the upper Mönchjoch and climb the Jungfrau. But from the lower Mönchjoch, the presence of fish-shaped clouds behind the Jungfrau and a fresh and gusty west wind gave warning of a possible change in the weather. However, we shuffled over the Ewigschneefeld, deciding to wait until arriving at the upper Mönchjoch before coming to a definite decision as to further movements. But no improvement in the weather outlook took place; on the contrary, things had taken a distinct turn for the worse, and the wind was occasionally strong enough to prove troublesome by whirling up streamers of snow dust in our faces. To try the Jungfrau under these conditions would have been unwise; so we decided to content ourselves with climbing the Mönch. From the upper Mönchjoch, the most convenient line of ascent to the summit lies over the south-east ridge. Using skis as far as possible, we mounted until we reached a point on the ridge where the wind had swept the rocks free from snow. These were perfectly easy; so gentle was the slope that it was not even necessary to use one’s hands. Beyond was a snow ridge, the steeper portion of which was quite simple, though the final part needed some care in negotiating. It was covered by an immense snow cornice, overhanging on the right, and, in order to avoid walking on it and incurring the risk of its breaking away, we had to keep well down to the left where the presence of ice occasionally necessitated the cutting of steps. Shortly after half-past ten we gained the spacious, snow-capped summit of the Mönch. A little way down on the north side, we found complete shelter from the wind which had now veered round and was blowing from the south. We sat for a whole hour, feeling none too warm perhaps, but revelling in the wonderful view spread out at our feet. A dense, moving sea of cloud, which rose to an altitude of seven or eight thousand feet, blotted out the plains; and here and there midst the softly-foaming billows, snow-capped summits, like little islands, thrust their gleaming heads.

On turning to make our way down again, we found that the wind had risen and was whipping up into our faces great streamers of snow from summit and from ridge. The stinging sensation of the wind-driven snow spicules as they struck the unprotected skin was painful if also exhilarating, and, retracing our steps as fast as we could, we eagerly sought the comparative shelter of the upper Mönchjoch. The descent was without incident, and, after regaining our skis, we sped back with all haste over the lower Mönchjoch towards the Bergli hut. Above the hut we espied two strange pairs of skis planted upright in the snow. No tracks, however, were visible; the wind-blown snow had levelled them out. We arrived at the hut at 1.30 p.m., an hour and a half after leaving the summit of the Mönch; and stepping into the pleasant shelter, were greeted by Tauern’s friends who had come to keep their tryst with him.

In view of the almost certain approach of bad weather, Max and I now made the mistake of not continuing our descent to the Eismeer. The others had ample provisions to tide them over an enforced stay in the hut, but our own stores were sufficient for only one, or at the most two, more meals. Loth to leave the pleasant companionship of the others and the warm, hospitable shelter of the hut, we decided to remain for the night and go down to the Eismeer on the following morning.

During the night snow fell heavily. Next day, after a belated breakfast, Max and I, in spite of the fresh snow and the fact that the weather, though quiet, was still uncertain, decided to set out. Everything was obscured in mist. Tauern, more aware of the danger of our plans than we, did his utmost to dissuade us. The thought, however, that our remaining in the hut would spoil his and his companions’ climbing programme, through unexpected depletion of their supplies, settled the matter. Max and I put on the rope and, with the others’ wishes for good luck, set off. The struggle up through the soft, deep snow to our skis, left sticking some two hundred feet above the hut, was most laborious. Less troublesome was the long traverse towards the head of the icefall, close under the cliffs of the Eiger. I doubt, however, if either of us realised the great danger we were incurring here. Owing to the recent snow fall, it was doubly difficult to detect the presence of crevasses, and, though we made use of every precaution then known to us, I have no doubt that it was sheer good luck that saw us across more than one snow bridge in safety. Had either broken well through into a crevasse, it is most unlikely that the other, unaided, could have pulled him out. But fortune was with us. Notwithstanding dense mists, wind, and lashing snow dust, we kept in the right direction, and when hard under the cliffs of the Eiger, of the proximity of which the reflected sound of a shout gave adequate indication, we turned down through the icefall. Struggling along through the deep snow had resulted in our underclothing getting wet, and we began to feel the cold. To add to our discomfort, the descent of particularly steep pitches necessitated the removal of our skis, and the continual taking off and refastening of these became a trying task for the fingers. However, things went passably well despite minor troubles, and we had almost reached the safe ground below the icefall when I felt a tremendous wind sweep down upon me from above. Next moment, almost before I had become aware of what was happening, I was choking for breath in the dense snow dust of an avalanche falling down upon us from the cliffs of the Eiger. Max was about a hundred feet behind me at the full length of the rope and, as luck would have it, clear of the falling stream of dust. He could see me disappear as the thick snow cloud enveloped me. The snow fell until I was buried to above my head, and, just as I thought I would be stifled, the avalanche mercifully ceased. By keeping my hands above me and moving them as if I were swimming, I had left a sort of funnel through which I could get some air. Fortunately the snow dust had not packed firmly, and after herculean efforts I succeeded in twisting my feet loose from my buried skis and, helped by Max’s pull on the rope, was able to free myself from the unpleasant situation. As my skis were absolutely indispensable for the completion of the descent, we had to set about recovering them; but it was not until we had grovelled for nearly an hour in the floury snow that they were found.

Five minutes later we stood below the entrance of the railway tunnel. This, it will be remembered, was separated from the snow upon which we now stood by a rocky wall some thirty feet high and unclimbable in its lower part. We shouted ourselves hoarse in an endeavour to attract the attention of workmen who might be in the tunnel, but all to no purpose. In the end we had to fall back upon self-help. Taking off the rope, we made a noose and then set to work to try and lasso a large iron pin which had been driven into the rock a few feet below the entrance of the tunnel. Cast after cast failed, each flung wide by the gusts of an erratic wind. A quarter of an hour at this game showed us that we had over-estimated our prowess with the lasso; but at last a throw succeeded. A twitch or two of the rope settled the noose firmly on the pin, and I then proceeded to try and haul myself up hand over hand; but the struggle in the avalanche had sapped my strength to such an extent that I failed miserably. Then Max tried, and after a desperate battle grasped the pin. As soon as he was up he hauled in the knapsacks, axes and skis. He next fastened one end of the rope to the pin while I tied the other about my waist. Then, with Max hauling with all his might, I struggled up. After a rest, we gathered together our belongings and walked up the tunnel towards the station. Even now, troubles were not at an end. The entrance to the station was barred by an iron grating. Outside was a bell with a polite invitation to ring. We accepted with all our hearts. But for nearly half an hour we stood there, shivering in the fierce, cold draught that swept up from the glacier world without. At last, just when we were beginning to despair of attracting anyone’s attention, a tunnelling foreman came and opened the gate. Noticing our plight at once, he led us to the engine house and tucked us in between two great compressed air cylinders belonging to the Ingersoll rock-drilling outfit. There we slept, warm and comfortable, until it was time to descend by one of the workmen’s trains. As night had fallen ere we arrived at the Eiger Glacier station, it was too late to continue our way to Grindelwald, but the engineer-in-chief once again proffered hospitality.

Next morning Max, who had suffered frost-bite in one heel, had difficulty in getting on his boots; but once this painful task was accomplished and our skis were strapped on, all went well. Three-quarters of an hour later we were mounting the slopes beyond the Lütschinen stream towards Grindelwald, the Eiger Hôtel and comfort.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] In connection with the wearing of the rope on glaciers, attention should be drawn to the fact that the so-called “middleman noose,” a knot which is warmly advocated in many quarters, must never be used. It is a slip-knot.

CHAPTER VII
ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND (continued)

In later years we visited many other parts of the Alps on skis; but it was not until the Easter of 1914 that we returned to the great glaciers of the Oberland. On April 9, I boarded the continental train at Charing Cross and, on the following day, joined my brother in Zürich, where he was completing his studies. My arrival being totally unexpected, I was indeed fortunate in finding him free from climbing plans and obligations. Next evening at eight o’clock we were in Wengen. After dinner, and having written a few letters informing relatives and friends that we were off for a week’s ski-ing mid the peaks of the Bernese Oberland, we put on skis and, at 10 p.m., left the Schönegg Hôtel. The moon shone brightly, and we strode up the buried railway track through a land of silver dominated by the great ghostly shapes of that wonderful Alpine trinity, the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau. All shuttered up and deserted were the railway station and collection of hôtels at the Little Scheidegg—a forlorn colony of the dead. In the eerie magic of an hour past midnight, we should not have been astonished had a ghostly throng of perspiring trippers appeared from nowhere and begun that fight for seats of vantage on the train, which we had more than once witnessed during the bright sunny days of a summer season. Braving the possible presence of the supernatural, however, we paused here to indulge in the infinitely prosaic—a meal of dry bread and raw bacon fat, our favourite winter tit-bit!

Soon we were off again up the railway track. The snow throughout was safe and in perfect condition, and at 3 a.m. we reached the Eiger Glacier station. We saw the engineer on duty, who most kindly undertook to make the necessary arrangements for a special train to be at our disposal after breakfast. Unwilling to disturb others, we contented ourselves with a table each for bed and slept soundly until after sunrise. The train left just after eight. During the six years that had elapsed since our last visit, considerable progress had been made, and the tunnel completed up to the Jungfraujoch. The railway track, however, was not yet finished, and the walk from the train to the Joch was no easy matter, as the final section of the tunnel was still in the rough stage. Thanks to the kind offers of one of the tunnelling foremen who remembered us from the winter of 1908, we were provided with a warm meal at a trifling cost.

With the good wishes of all the staff, we stepped out of the tunnel at noon on the 12th and, descending carefully over a steep snow slope, crossed a small snow-choked bergschrund on to the Jungfrau Glacier. Here we put on skis and, leaving the heavy knapsacks to be picked up on the return journey, headed for the Mönchjoch. We wore the rope, though, at this time of the year and with the snow in its present condition, there was no difficulty in detecting the presence of crevasses or in sounding with the axe and accurately estimating the strength of snow bridges. The weather was sunny and windless, and, though the temperature in the shade was far below freezing, we gradually divested ourselves of coats and shirts and arrived in the lower Mönchjoch stripped to the waist, but fresh and aglow from the exertion. There we were accosted by the gentlest of breezes; sufficient, nevertheless, to persuade us to resume some of our discarded coverings. The skis, not needed for the time being, were left behind as we turned up the south-east ridge of the Mönch. The climb up the ridge was as easy as I have ever known it, so good were the conditions. Along the final, almost level section, we found the remains of old steps which we at first followed. Presently, however, we forsook them. According to our views, they went dangerously close to, and were sometimes even on, the overhanging portion of the immense cornice which adorns the crest of this part of the ridge. We preferred to keep well down on the steep slope to the left, though such a procedure did involve a little step-cutting. At 3 p.m. we paid our third visit to the summit of the Mönch. Filmy mists of the kind that the mountaineer usually associates with fair, settled weather floated up from the north and enveloped us almost immediately. Despite a fresh breeze from the south-west, they clung tenaciously about us, completely obscuring the view. For nearly an hour we waited for things to clear; but in vain. Too chilled to prolong our stay, we sought warmth in action and turned back towards the Mönchjoch. As we passed along the highest section of the ridge, I re-cut one or two of the steps. Suddenly I was startled by a crashing noise, followed by a thunderous roar, as almost the whole of the great cornice broke away for a distance of about a hundred yards in front and fifty yards behind us and fell down in a mighty avalanche towards the Eismeer. Where a moment previously the view to the left had been shut off by a steep snow wall, I now had an uninterrupted survey down the precipice, from the brink of which I was separated by a distance of only an inch or two. At first we were a little startled by the suddenness of the happening, but later regarded it as merely another demonstration of the fact that, if mountaineering is to be a safe pursuit, knowledge and the exercise of care are indispensable. Although much of the ridge along which we now had to pass was still heavily corniced, we had faith in the safety of the tracks we had left on ascending and, following these, made our way down to our skis. Strapping them on and coiling up the rope, we skimmed in a sheer riot of exhilaration down towards the Jungfraujoch, keeping as much as possible to our previous tracks. It being our intention to make the Concordia hut our home for the next few days, we recovered our knapsacks and, at 5 p.m., set off down the Jungfrau Glacier on the last lap of the day’s journey.

The run down the glacier was somewhat spoilt by the fact that the weight of our knapsacks rendered crevasse-dodging rather difficult unless the pace of travel was kept down by frequent braking. Far from easy to negotiate, too, were the occasional patches of snow, hard-crusted by the action of the fierce winds that from time to time sweep up this glacier in winter. It was, however, a wonderful evening. There was no cause for haste, so we halted frequently to ease our shoulders of the weight of the knapsacks and to point out to each other old friends amongst the surrounding peaks. We had last crossed the Concordia Platz in the summer of 1909. Then we had found it a vast, almost level expanse of glacier covered with an abominable slush of snow and water. But now it was in the grip of winter. We ambled and slid over a dry, powdery snow surface, the soft, fresh breezes of dusk playing about us and cooling the flush that exercise had called to our faces. A little, fairly steep slope lay between the edge of the glacier and the rocks on which the Concordia hut stands. I ski-ed down this slope and brought up with a Christiania swing; but not in time to prevent twisting my left ankle against a stone—a painful experience, though no bones were broken, and, beyond the throbbing pain, I seemed to suffer no inconvenience. We climbed up the almost snow-free rocks and, at 7.30 p.m., arrived in the hut. By this time there remained to us but faded memories of our last meal, and it was not until ten o’clock that our ravenous appetites were satisfied.

Cornices on the Punta Margherita.

A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge.

Facing page 98.

Next morning, after a night of wonderful sleep, we awoke at 9.30. The weather was doubtful, with cloudy skies and a gusty wind varying in quarter from west to south. Shortly before midday, after alternating between hopes and fears as to the prospects of being able to do something by way of an excursion, we left the hut, carrying only the rope and a little chocolate, it being our humble intention to potter about on the Concordia Platz. However, after putting on the skis, which had been left down on the glacier, we decided that, though the clouds and the wind gusts were still as evident as ever, the weather might hold out sufficiently long to enable us to climb the Ebnefluh. We crossed the Concordia Platz and, mounting up the main Aletsch Glacier, eventually turned up the Ebnefluh Glacier and headed almost straight for the summit of our peak. We were able to keep the skis on until within a few hundred feet of the top. Had the snow been powdery and suitable for ski-ing instead of hard and frozen, we might have ski-ed right on to the summit. At 6 p.m. we had gained the highest point. The most striking feature of the view from the summit of the Ebnefluh (13,005 ft.) is the wonderful outlook it affords over the tremendous precipices falling away to the Rotthal Valley, one of the wildest and most secluded and, from the climber’s point of view, most interesting valleys in the Alps.

We had put on the rope on leaving the skis, but even on foot, by exercising ordinary, reasonable caution, there was no danger of falling into a crevasse. With the passage from early to late winter, glacier conditions suffer enormous change. I have previously pointed out how the winter snows form most unreliable bridges over crevasses and often mask them so effectively that the vision of even the most experienced mountaineer is sometimes unable to detect them. But later on, towards the close of the winter season, usually in March and almost always in April, the keen mountaineer will never be at fault in this respect. I am frequently at a loss to explain to a less experienced companion how this can be. Perhaps long experience in the mountains tends to develop in one an extra and particular sense which warns one of the proximity of hidden crevasses; but to those who wish a more scientific explanation, I would draw attention to the following facts. Towards the end of winter the snow is more consolidated, that is, packed more closely by reason of its own weight and the effect of wind. Where snow is unsupported from below, that is, where it lies over a crevasse, a slight, sometimes almost imperceptible hollow will be formed on its surface. These hollows, slight though they be, betray themselves to the experienced eye by the difference in the shade of the light that they reflect and thus give warning of the existence of a crevasse. In the earlier part of the winter, the snow, as a rule, has not had time to “pack” sufficiently to form such hollows, and the detection of chasms is therefore immeasurably more difficult. A heated controversy is now raging amongst ski-ing experts as to whether the rope should be worn when ski-ing on glaciers in winter. It is by no means easy for a party roped together to keep the rope taut while ski-ing down a glacier, without inflicting bad jerks and causing each other to fall. For this reason the rope is considered by many ski-ers to be an unmitigated nuisance. Hence the rise of the two contesting parties. To me, the question does not seem to admit of an answering unqualified “Yes” or “No.” Owing to the difficulty of sighting crevasses during the beginning and middle of winter, the wearing of the rope at these times should certainly be urged, even on the simplest of glaciers. But the rope must be worn properly, kept taut from man to man; and as one’s rate of travel is far greater on skis than without, and the difficulty of holding a man who has fallen into a crevasse is proportionally greater, there should be not less than a hundred feet of rope between each member of the party. Later on in the season, an experienced party may unhesitatingly dispense with the rope on glacier expeditions, provided that they are not only adept ski-ers with full command of their skis, but really skilled mountaineers, with eyes open, ever on their guard against the hidden dangers of the mountains.

Owing to the lateness of the hour, our halt on the top of the Ebnefluh was a brief one. Within five minutes of leaving the summit we were back at our skis, rubbing them fondly with grease in anticipation of a swift run home. With veils of snow dust flying out behind us, we whizzed down on to the Aletsch Glacier and, half sliding, half shuffling, worked across the Concordia Platz, arriving in the hut just after nightfall.

On the 14th we were up at the fairly reasonable hour of six, but though the weather was calm and fine we did not launch out on any ambitious programme. My ankle, though no longer very painful, was so swollen that I had great difficulty in getting on my boot. Thinking, however, that a little exercise would do no harm, we ski-ed up to the Grünhornlücke and climbed a neighbouring peak called the Weissnollen (11,841 ft.). What with my ankle and the deep powdery snow, it took us three hours to plough our way up to the former. The return from the Grünhornlücke to the hut, however, was accomplished in barely fifteen minutes.

Early next morning, dense mists surrounded the hut, and snow was falling fast. At 9 a.m. we looked out, to find the snow had ceased and the mists were being blown away by a fierce north-easter. But we dallied until the weather became more certain, and at a quarter to eleven set off for the Fiescherhorn. To climb the Fiescherhorn, it was necessary to gain the upper level of the Ewigschneefeld above its great icefall. By keeping to the left bank of the latter, we succeeded in finding a passage without having to remove our skis; but by the time the glacier above had been gained, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and in the end we had to content ourselves with climbing the Walcherhorn (12,155 ft.). Skis were kept on right up to the summit. No view rewarded our labours. Mists clung about us, and a cold wind hastened our retreat. Through the clouds, keeping to our former tracks, we ran down to the head of the icefall. Then came five wonderfully exciting minutes as, in and out of crevasses and séracs, we twisted and turned and sped, without a halt, out on to the unbroken slopes below the icefall and down to the Concordia Platz, to reach home in time for four o’clock tea.

We voted the next day to be one of rest. The strain of manœuvring through the icefall of the Ewigschneefeld had caused my ankle to swell up again, and Max was suffering from a cough which made him declare he felt ready for a coffin. It was beautifully clear weather when we rose from our sleeping bunks at one o’clock, and the rest of the day was spent sitting in the sun in front of the hut, Max wrapped up in layers of blankets in an attempt to sweat out his cold, while I, between meal times, endeavoured to allay the inflammation of my ankle with frequent applications of bandages soaked in ice-cold water.

On April 17, we were up before daybreak and left the hut at seven o’clock, bound for the Jungfrau. Once again a bright sun shone from a cloudless sky and a dead calm reigned. So warm was it that our progress was a most moderate one and punctuated by many rests. At one o’clock we gained the large bergschrund immediately under the Rotthal Sattel and there left the skis. Fifty minutes later, having mounted for the most part in perfect snow and having found it necessary to cut only a few steps, we were on the summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.). It was our fifth visit to the Queen of the Oberland; she had always received us well, but never so kindly as on this late winter afternoon of cloudless sky and total absence of wind. Much though we would have preferred to dally, our stay had to be cut short; for a deficiency in certain articles of provisions rendered necessary a visit to the Jungfraujoch on the way back. Threading a way down on to the glacier and then mounting a steep little snow slope, we arrived, in due course, at the tunnel of the Jungfraujoch station where we loaded up fresh supplies, not forgetting wax for the skis which were no longer slipping as freely as they should. After re-waxing them, we sped down to the edge of the Concordia Platz in ten short minutes. The temptation to loaf there in the sun proved irresistible, and it was not until six o’clock that we arrived back in our little winter home.

It was our plan to tackle the Grüneckhorn and the Gross Grünhorn on the following day; a more ambitious undertaking than any we had attempted this season. The weather was doubtful when we looked out just before sunrise. A south wind was driving rolling banks of mist up the Aletsch Glacier, and cloud caps, omens of evil weather, had settled on the summits of all the greater mountains. By eight o’clock no improvement had taken place, so we decided to shift our abode and cross the Grünhornlücke to the Finsteraarhorn hut. An hour later, just as we were preparing to leave, the north wind at last seemed on the point of gaining the ascendancy over the south, and the weather took a distinct turn for the better. We straightway made up our minds to adhere to our original plan. With a rope slung over Max’s shoulder, and a camera and a few provisions in my pockets, we ski-ed up towards the prominent gap in the south-west ridge of the Grüneckhorn. Before reaching it, the badly crevassed nature of the glacier and the icy condition of the snow forced us to leave the skis. We put on the rope and kicked a way up in snow that was so hard and good that we never sank in to more than ankle-depth. From the gap onwards, we followed a delightful ice ridge which forced us to a free use of the ice-axe in cutting steps. Knowing that there was not much time to spare, we worked with a will and, shortly after one o’clock, gained the summit of the Grüneckhorn (12,500 ft.). The climb from here along the snow-free rock ridge to the summit of the Gross Grünhorn was child’s play. The weather was perfect; and no cold wind whipped our faces. We might almost have been climbing on a fine summer’s day, so warm were the rocks, and so good the climbing conditions. We sat on the top of the Gross Grünhorn (13,278 ft.) till well after three. The view from this summit is almost unique. One is so closed in on all sides by great peaks that, no matter where the eye roves, it rests on nothing save rock and ice and perpetual snow. No green valleys suggesting the homes of human folk are there to offer a contrast to the sterner majesty of nature.

Within three-quarters of an hour of leaving the summit, we were back on the Grüneckhorn, and there conceived the idea of descending by the hitherto unclimbed south face, a tremendously steep snow slope through which rocks jutted out here and there. The wonderful condition of the snow tempted us to this decision. Under less favourable circumstances, indeed, such a venture might well have led to trouble. Facing inwards towards the steep snow, we kicked our way downwards step by step, surely but quickly, and crossed the bergschrund at the foot of the slope without the slightest difficulty. Twenty minutes after leaving the summit, we were back at our skis and a quarter of an hour later had entered the hut.

According to programme, we were due at the Finsteraarhorn hut on Sunday the 19th. The barometer had fallen so low, however, and the weather had become so threatening, that we entertained scant hopes of being able to carry our projects into effect. We waited till midday, but no improvement took place; so we packed up to return home via the Lötschenlücke and the Lötschberg railway. Steering by map and compass, we crossed the Concordia Platz and mounted the main Aletsch Glacier through thick mists and gently-falling snow. At four o’clock we left the Lötschenlücke, having paused at the Egon von Steiger hut, close to the pass, for lunch. In a few minutes we had run down below the cloud level. From the ski-ing point of view, the snow was bad, possessing almost throughout a hard, thick, frozen crust which made it difficult for one to exert proper control over the skis. The strap of one of Max’s bindings, cut by the crusted snow, gave way, and replacing it by a spare was no easy matter, for the narrow little slit in the ski, through which the spare had to be threaded, was partly blocked with ice. Lower down the snow was deep and wet and of such a consistency that we seemed to be running through treacle.

Just before reaching the little village of Blatten in the Lötschen Valley, we took off the skis and trudged down the long path to Goppenstein where we caught the train for Zürich, little thinking that we were turning our backs on the mountains and all that they meant to us for the next five years.

There is much to be said for winter mountaineering. In summer, if one wishes to climb the Jungfrau or any other similar mountain, the ascent of which involves a lengthy walk on snow-covered glaciers, one must start very early, well before daybreak; otherwise, the sun will have softened the snow so much that the ascent, and still more the descent, will be most laborious. On skis and in winter, this nightmare of a long and wearisome trudge in soft snow hardly exists. The return from a climb, especially, is a simple and almost effortless affair. Again, fewer people by far climb in the winter season, and, if one so wishes, one’s solitude need not be disturbed. Throughout this glorious week in the Oberland we had had the huts and the mountains all to ourselves.

CHAPTER VIII
A WINTER’S NIGHT ON THE TÖDI

By Maxwell B. I. Finch

Bad weather and unfavourable conditions had too often caused the postponement of several winter climbs, among them a long-planned ascent of the Tödi on skis. At length, towards the end of the winter term of 1911, a week-end arrived, sunny and bright, heralding the approach of spring. On the fourth eager inquiry the Meteorological Office gave a not too dismal reply, with the result that the laboratories and drawing-boards of Zürich’s Polytechnic suddenly seemed very unattractive. The reply came at 11 a.m. on Saturday, March 11. After rapid preparations and a hurried lunch, a party of five, consisting of Obexer, Morgenthaler, Weber, Forster, and myself, boarded the 1.30 p.m. train for Linthal. George was unable to join us, being in the throes of his final examinations. At Zürich-Enge, the first stop of the train, we were reduced to four, since Forster left us to chase after a porter to whose care he had entrusted his skis and rucksack, and who, of course, failed to put in an appearance at the right moment. Just beyond the village of Linthal, the terminus of our journey by rail, we put on the skis, the heavy snowfalls of the previous week having lowered the snow-line far down into the valleys. At Tierfehd, an hour beyond the village, the road ends. At the foot of the steep path which leads thence over the Panten bridge we adjusted seal-skins. At 11 p.m. we arrived at the alp-huts of Hintersand (4,285 ft.), where a halt of half an hour was made for supper. The following steep rise up to the Tentiwang showed various traces of avalanches, but was certainly safe at that hour of the night. Two members of our party were comparatively inexperienced mountaineers; Obexer and I were, therefore, disturbed when Weber, one of the two novices, led up this part rather too energetically, for a killing pace on the first day often means a winded man on the morrow. At one spot before reaching the Tentiwang pastures, a short but steep slope of ice-covered rocks cost us much hard labour and time. We had to replace the skis by crampons, cut steps and finally pull up rucksacks and skis on the rope.

From the Tentiwang (5,250 ft.) the usual summer route towards the Bifertenalpeli was chosen, the snow being firmly frozen and quite safe. Had the snow been unsafe, we should have mounted straight up to, and over, the end of the glacier which is generally the better and safer way to the hut in winter. At 3 a.m. we stepped into the St. Fridolin’s club-hut (6,910 ft.). Nowhere during the whole ascent had a lantern been required, as the full moon lit up the snows with almost dazzling brilliancy.

Much snow had to be cleared out of the hut, especially off straw on the bunks, before it became habitable. The woodshed was choked with snow, and we had great difficulty in lighting a fire. Unfortunately, none of us had brought a spirit lamp or cooking apparatus, so it was 5 a.m., nearly dawn, when we turned in.

The Tödi.

“King of the Little Mountains.”

Facing page 108.

Somewhat after 9 a.m. we awoke. Preparations for our departure proceeded unusually slowly, owing to the trouble again experienced in lighting the stove. Although it was noon when we at length started off, we were fully determined to accomplish the climb that day. The weather was perfect, clear and calm, the temperature being well below freezing-point. In summer the ascent would take some six hours. We reckoned rather more now, because in winter one must as a rule follow a different route, discovered by Mr. D. W. Freshfield, which passes through the two great icefalls of the Biferten Glacier. Therefore, allowing eight, or at the outside ten hours, in which to gain the summit, we counted on re-entering the hut not later than 3 a.m. Even should this not be the case, the moon would give us ample light till 5 a.m., and at 6 a.m. dawn would follow after a solitary hour’s darkness. All things considered, we looked forward to the climb in the light of a pleasant adventure and thanked the fate which had led us into making a midnight ascent.

Gaily rejoicing in the excellent weather and conditions, we broke trail in the deep snow from the hut across and up the glacier towards the Grünhorn icefall. The weakest spot in this obstacle is an almost crevasseless ledge which commences near the right bank of the glacier and, sloping towards the walls of the Tödi, leads to the next plateau of the glacier. Following this line of least resistance, we made slow but steady headway till close under the greater, steeper, and far more seriously broken icefall hard by the Gelbe Wand. The year before, in the spring, without skis, George had led a party up this icefall without encountering any real difficulty. Some distance below the base, and in clear view of the icefall, we called rather a lengthy halt in order to spy out the best line of ascent. After some deliberation, we decided to deliver an attack more or less at the same place as last spring. However, from the distance, we had our doubts about one step, where a wall of upright and partly overhanging ice stretched right across the glacier. This wall was probably the upper edge of a bridged-over crevasse and appeared to be some twelve feet high at the lowest point where we intended to launch our attack. Above it lay a very steep slope of ice terminating on the lower edge of another great crevasse. It must have been about 4 p.m. when we tackled the Gelbe Wand icefall. Using skis, we mounted with little difficulty as far as the foot of the ice wall; there, however, we had to replace the skis by climbing irons. A human ladder was out of the question, as the foot of the obstacle was a none too stable bridge over a crevasse. Deep holds for both hands and feet had to be cut, as the lower part of the ice overhung. It was a lengthy proceeding, for the ice was extremely hard and brittle. Some delicate balancing, aided by a crampon grasped in one hand, eventually landed me above the wall. On the lower lip of the next crevasse, behind a fallen block of ice, I found a firm position, whence the next man could be assisted up on the rope. Rucksacks and skis were then hauled up, and, finally, already after sunset, the whole party was gathered above the ice wall which had given so much trouble. On replacing the skis on our feet, a series of circumventing manœuvres was necessary to pass over bridges or round huge, open chasms.

Once more a steep slope necessitated the use of the crampons and even then a few steps had to be cut. The moonlight was ample; the smallest detail was as well lit up as if in broad daylight. All of us now looked forward to the march up the gentle slopes of the upper parts of the glacier, the so-called lower, middle and upper “Boden,” and we were confident of success. None of us inquired after the time, and no one even glanced at a watch; our surroundings and the novelty of the situation were too absorbing. Probably it was well on for 8 p.m. when the gaunt yellow crags of the Gelbe Wand became visible on our right above the icefall. Gradually the crevasses became less troublesome, and soon the lower Boden, a great expanse of gently-rising glacier, stretched before us, forming a natural line of ascent towards the foot of the Gliemspforte (10,800 ft.). On approaching the pass we took a sharp turn to the right, in the direction of Piz Rusein, the highest of the three summits of the Tödi, and were soon embarked on the ascent of the steep slopes separating the lower from the upper Boden. Here, where in summer a regular icefall is sometimes met with, we encountered some huge crevasses. The skis, however, carried us to the small bergschrund close under the south ridge of the Piz Rusein. Obexer glanced at his watch. The moonlight lit the hands at something after 11 p.m. Once more wearing climbing irons, and leaving sacks and skis by the bergschrund, we commenced the final ascent over the ridge to the summit. Some step-cutting was required. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing; the thermometer hanging from a rucksack marked 30° F. frost. It was after midnight, during the first half-hour of the Ides of March, when the great cornice, which forms the culminating point of the Tödi (11,887 ft.), was reached.

Bitterly cold it was; yet the fairy scene below and the feeling of complete content due to the unconventionality of our success held us spell-bound for a full half-hour. The valleys were filled with rolling silvery clouds, above which the peaks of over 10,000 feet in height appeared as islands in a sea of molten metal. Only the valley of the Biferten Glacier up which we had ascended was clear and free of mist. The sky above was cloudless and, owing to the brilliant rays of the moon, almost pale blue in colour, and not blue-black and starry as an Alpine firmament should be at night. One fact alone worried us and finally impelled us to retreat much sooner than we would otherwise have done; the weather began to take a decided turn for the worse. Through the Gliemspforte, the lowest gap at the head of the Biferten Glacier, the mist began to stream in from the Gliems Valley. Evidently it was rising rapidly, and this was the overflow. On looking closely, the sea of clouds no longer appeared solid and uniform like a great glacier or snow field; everywhere it moved, tossed up waves and rollers, breakers and billows, differing in its dead silence alone from a storm-tossed ocean.

Before stepping out on to the final ridge we had hardly felt so much as a breath of wind. On the ridge, however, a sharp south-wester had chilled us to the marrow, though, apart from its direction, we had seen little cause for alarm. But now, on the summit, we realised that below those rolling billows of mist a tempest of unusual degree was raging, and that we must race for the hut. Even then it might be too late, and we would have to battle with the unfettered fury of a winter storm.

Back at the skis, Obexer spent a busy and chilly ten minutes hunting for his watch which he believed he had deposited thereabouts. No luck, it had probably found a quiet resting-place in the blue depths of a near by crevasse, and will doubtless some day appear far below at the snout of the glacier. By the time we had our skis on, the wind had increased to a staggering gale. The lower Boden was submerged under fiercely wind-driven clouds of snow, and still more overflows were leaking from the Ponteglias Valley over the Piz Urlaun, and from the Rusein Valley through the Porta da Spescha. Evidently we would soon be well in the thick of the mists where fast running would hardly be to our liking, so we fixed the climbing irons under our skis. Owing to the powerful braking-action of the long spikes of these irons, we were able to cut short the many zig-zags of the way up, and our descending tracks were consequently somewhat steeper than the ascending. Long before the middle Boden was regained, we were path-finding in thick, driving mists where the light of the moon was all but useless. The storm rose to a shrieking gale, against the thundering gusts of which we often found it difficult to keep our feet. We kept as close as possible to the faint tracks of the ascent, which speedily became more and more dim as the storm ploughed up slope after slope of loose, powdery snow. Once or twice we hesitated, but always some faintly visible sign revealed to us our old tracks. On arriving at the middle of the Boden, the correct turn to the left was duly carried out, and right glad we were to have the gale now pushing us from behind instead of throwing us sideways. During the whole ascent and descent between the great icefall and the summit of the Tödi, we were climbing on two separate ropes, each about one hundred feet long; in summer forty to fifty feet between each man would suffice, but in winter, and on skis, a distance of one hundred feet is indispensable for safety. Before sighting the upper crevasses of the great icefall, Weber, who was on my rope, began to show signs of exhaustion. He tripped over the rope several times and finally succeeded in tangling it so thoroughly round his skis and feet, that we had to call a halt of some ten minutes to unravel him. During this process, Weber removed his frozen gloves and worked at the stiff cord with bare hands. On the greater part of the descent the two ropes marched side by side, Morgenthaler and I ahead, as four eyes were better than two in looking out for our previous tracks. The storm increased in violence. We crossed the first large crevasses above the icefall in a howling hurricane, where communication even by dint of shouting from mouth to ear was barely possible. In the thick mist and driving snow, one end of the rope was seldom visible from the other. The fiercest blasts had to be taken stooping low and propped on the ski-sticks, else they might have thrown us into the cold depths of the yawning, deep blue chasms which surrounded us on all sides. Under these conditions, questions began to force themselves upon us. Could we tackle the icefall against such odds? Could we fasten the stiff, frozen straps of the climbing irons with our painfully numb fingers? Some of us had already begun to feel the first pangs of frost-bite; Weber in particular remarked upon what formerly had been but a pain, but now was an absolute, unfeeling numbness in both hands. The cold was too intense (over 50° F. of frost) to risk removing gloves if we hoped to escape being seriously frost-bitten. Could we, from above, re-cut the steps which had led us up steep slopes over gaping crevasses? Could we carry our skis and cling to those steps, all the while buffeted, pushed, blinded and almost smothered by the storm? And if, in the great icefall, unable to see the tracks, we should fail to strike the right descent over the great overhanging ice wall, in many parts over a hundred feet high, what then? Could we reascend in the teeth of the storm and, trusting to luck to find the way, force a descent down that precipitous ice-swept gully, the Schneerunse, probably only to be buried in an avalanche? For above the roar of the tempest we frequently heard dull rumbles as ice and snow, crashing down from the cliffs high above, swept through that gloomy funnel, avalanche upon avalanche. Should we aim to the left and descend, by the ordinary summer route, the rocks of the Gelbe Wand hand over hand on the rope, throwing the skis down before us? Neither hands nor ropes were in fit condition for such tricky manipulations. Such were the thoughts which, flashing through our minds as we stood together on the brink of the icefall, gave rise to a hurried consultation. The result thereof was the unanimous decision to camp there and then; for, as long as the storm continued to rage with all its present fury, it would be nothing short of madness to attempt the descent of the icefall before daybreak. It was about 2 or 3 a.m., and the moon was not only behind the cold, opaque and driving mists, but evidently also hidden behind the crags of the Tödi itself. The grey shadows of night made the very surface we stood upon uncertain.

Once the decision to bivouac had been definitely arrived at, the next question was how best and quickest to protect ourselves from the biting wind. Obexer proposed to dig a hole, but a prod with the axe revealed ice under a layer of barely two feet of soft, powdery snow which would not bind together and was continually whirled about by the wind. Another suggestion was to seek the shelter provided by some shallow or otherwise suitable crevasse. This was my idea, so I promptly proceeded to look around for something after the nature of a harmless crevasse. Hardly had I moved a few feet downwards, when with a dull thump there I hung, with nothing but empty space under my skis. I clung to two ski-sticks up to my shoulders in a bottomless crevasse. As I began hauling myself out by the sticks, Weber noticed my disappearance and pulled wildly on the rope; an unfortunate move on his part, for it jerked me away from the sticks and threw me into the crevasse, where I hung, with my full weight on the rope, some four feet below the surface. In falling, the sudden jerk of the rope on my ribs winded me thoroughly. Communication with the others was quite impossible, unless I could contrive to raise my head to the level of the ground above. Even the united forces of all three of them could not pull me up on that rope, for it had cut deeply into the frozen, overhanging snow edge of the crevasse. To regain my wind and, indeed, to be able to breathe, I had to force the loop of the rope high up under my armpits. Then I threw the ski-sticks, which I had firmly retained in my grasp, up over the lower edge of the crevasse, and one after the other I unfastened my skis and threw them after the sticks. Propped with my feet against one wall and my shoulders against the other, I could now relieve the pressure on my ribs, and was able to sling the rucksack, on which I carried my ice-axe, off my back. I unfastened the axe and pushed it into the loop of the rope. Just as I was swinging the rucksack up to join my skis and sticks, the rope suddenly slackened, and down I rattled another couple of feet. The poor old rucksack, a dear friend, failed to gain the safety of the upper world, and fell, thud—thud—thud, far beyond reach down into the invisible depths of my grim prison. Gone with it, and most regretted, was one glove which had frozen to the strap that I had been holding. With my axe I managed to cut steps up one wall of this troublesome crevasse, knock a breach in the corniced edge, and work with my head above ground. Then I shouted to the others, who stood some distance off, to throw me an end of the other rope. Between us yawned the wide-open mouth of another crevasse which prevented them from approaching any nearer to me, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded in making my instructions understood above the roar of the storm. The wind flung wide three casts of the second rope, but the fourth succeeded. Putting my weight on this rope, I could pull up the other one, which was buried to a depth of some three feet into the snow at the edge. A few minutes more of hard struggling and we were once again united. We no longer felt inclined to hunt after safe crevasses, especially as the one I had so thoroughly inspected was full of draughts; indeed, the storm seemed rather increased when caught between those merciless, blue walls. Under Obexer’s able direction, the following half-hour was spent busily digging a ten-foot long and four-foot deep hole in the snow, into which we laid the skis and then ourselves. Three lay stretched out at full length, two on the skis, and the top man on those two. Morgenthaler preferred to sit with his hands round his feet and his head tucked well in between his knees.

The Tödi from the Bifertenlücke.

The dotted line indicates the route followed, and B the site of the bivouac on the Biferten Glacier.

The summit of the Tödi.

Facing page 116.

During the whole trip I had not worn any head-gear, and now all my own property in that line lay under the glacier. The first few minutes of inaction revealed two facts. Firstly, for all the protection from the wind our Palace Hotel, as Obexer named the happy home, afforded us we might almost as well have camped out on the normal, unprepared surface; secondly, that my head was covered with an inch of ice and snow, icicles were pendent from eyebrows and eyelashes, and one half of my face was dolefully sore as if from commencing frost-bite. So I borrowed the nearest rucksack and tucked my head into it. The dark interior was full of snow; but by now I was accustomed to snow, and the storm at least was outside. Feeling round inside my novel head-gear for apples, which the owner reported to be there, provided some excitement. One or two, and much sugarless ice-cream, I found and promptly gobbled. The gloveless hand found comparative warmth in the pocket of my sodden jacket.

Long before morning we were all wet through. Every little while the three who lay full length struggled, wriggled and rolled until top and bottom positions were exchanged. Everyone continually buffeted, slapped and shook his neighbours or himself, no one being allowed to remain silent or motionless for more than half an hour. To beguile the sleepless hours by songs, jests and yarns was out of the question, as the storm howled louder than any or all of us together. Morgenthaler and Weber, unluckily, had only woollen gloves, which were long since sodden and frozen. Spare socks helped somewhat, but anything woollen was soon soaked and rendered useless. Consequently, they chiefly complained of frost-bitten hands. Weber, whose vitality did not appear to equal that of his companions, required much attention, in spite of which he at times complained of the attacks of Jack Frost at his toes and other parts of his anatomy. Yet, all things considered, the time passed rapidly enough in the bivouac, and not half as unpleasantly as one might have expected under such conditions. Once the storm tore the mists apart for a second, and a glimpse of the sharp rock summit of the Grünhorn to the left served to reassure us as to our exact position. Later on, towards dawn, I fell sound asleep, only to awake when someone announced it to be 8 a.m. At first I could not account for the darkness which surrounded me, then suddenly I remembered my head was in the rucksack. Outside this “abode à la ostrich” it was broad daylight, but grey white, and there were no signs of any abatement in the fury of the storm. I must have slept quite an hour.

We all stood up and stamped about. The storm seemed fiercer than ever, and in our soaked condition the cold was doubly penetrating. We decided to attempt further descent on foot, leaving our skis to be recovered on some later occasion. Ski-sticks were planted to mark the scene of our camp, then the ropes re-arranged and joined together. The crevasse I had fallen into had no bridge on the left, so we headed horizontally to the right. Almost at once the steepness of the ground increased rapidly, and it was soon necessary to cut steps. When we had advanced but a few rope’s lengths, it became all too evident that we could not descend the icefall as long as the storm raged. Every few minutes terrific gusts would force us to our knees, all but sweeping us off our steps. So when we came to a fallen ice-block and found a four-foot-deep hollow in the snow beside it, we decided to camp anew, in the hope that the gusts were but a final effort on the part of the tempest and sign of its approaching exhaustion.

Later in the morning, deceived by lengthy pauses between the shrieking blasts of the gale, we made two more vain attempts to continue the descent. Soon after noon it commenced to snow very heavily, and we were glad, for surely now the wind would cease. Shortly after 2 p.m. the storm was all but a thing of the past. At 3 p.m., satisfied that no more fierce gusts were likely to surprise us, we resumed the descent which had been interrupted by a total of nearly twelve hours in bivouac.

Many steps had to be cut, as now all traces of our ascent had disappeared. It was hard work and cost much time, as all were very stiff, and none had escaped more or less severe frost-bite. We found the right way off the ice wall, letting ourselves down by the rope; but unravelling tangles and loosening knots was painfully hard on our fingers. Being on foot, we at first thought of returning past the Grünhorn hut and took a few steps in that direction; but when once again I made the acquaintance of the interior of a hidden longitudinal crevasse, the majority voted for the descent by the lower icefall. The walls of the Bifertenstock were alive with avalanches, invisible on account of the falling snow and dense mists, but ever crashing over the precipices and rumbling down close on our right. On the plateau below the icefall, the mist became so dense that we had to steer for the hut by compass. After some hours’ vain stumbling round about where we thought the hut should lie, we found it shortly before 9 p.m. On the table was a note from Forster, informing us that he had descended to collect a rescue party. Had we been in anything like undamaged condition, we should at once have continued our descent down to the Linthal Valley. As it was, we ate a frugal supper; then slept like logs till far into the next morning.

On Tuesday, owing to a temporary sleeping fit of our only remaining watch, we prepared to leave the hut two hours later than we had intended. Obexer and Morgenthaler started off immediately after breakfast, in the hope of preventing a rescue party from setting out. We did our level best to tidy the hut, and then had to spend over an hour softening Weber’s boots on the stove before he could force his sorely frozen feet into them. Arriving too late in Linthal to catch a train home, we passed the night in the comfortable quarters of the Raben Hôtel. During the evening, the welcome message arrived telling of Obexer’s success in telegraphically sending a rescue party composed of members of the Academic Alpine Club back to Zürich, before they had proceeded beyond Thalwil on their outbound journey.

On Wednesday, at noon, we two arrived at Zürich. Weber went off to bed at once and was more or less an invalid for the next six weeks. His hands and feet were badly frost-bitten, the result of wearing woollen gloves and tight, ill-fitting boots. Thanks to careful treatment, his hands recovered completely, but most toes of both feet had to be amputated.

More serious was Morgenthaler’s fate. Nearly all his fingers had to be amputated at the first or second joint, and the remaining ones will probably always be stiff. He, also, wore woollen gloves, but large, loose-fitting ski-ing boots had kept his feet in perfect condition.

Obexer and I suffered no serious consequences. A frost-bitten thumb worried the former for the next month. I lost a few teeth, and with a swollen, half-frozen face, hobbled about for a day or two in gouties. A fortnight later I was able to accompany Forster on a ski-ing trip over the Furka and Nägelisgrätli up the Oberaarhorn. A month later Obexer and I climbed Piz Urlaun, revisiting en route the scene of our bivouac. We succeeded in rescuing in all six skis (unfortunately not three pairs), two of which were recovered out of a great flat-bottomed crevasse which had split open just below our camp.

The story of this adventure has a moral; an old moral it is true, but one that will well bear repeating. In the first place, we should never have attempted a mountain like the Tödi with companions of whose equipment and experience we had no knowledge; and, secondly, methylated spirits and cooking apparatus, warm clothes, loose-fitting boots, sailcloth gloves lined with wool, and last, but not least, a reliable pocket barometer which would have warned us of an approaching change in the weather, are indispensable items of equipment for serious winter ascents.

CHAPTER IX
THE BIFERTENSTOCK

Far to the north of the main chain of the Alps there lies a range of mountains crowned by the two outstanding summits of the Tödi and the Bifertenstock. The former, rising from the lowlands of the Linth Valley to an altitude of 11,887 feet, is the loftier of the two and justly gives its name to the group; but the latter far excels it in beauty and impressiveness, and gives its name to the greatest glacier of the group, which flows down the deep cleft valley between the “King of the Little Mountains,” as the Tödi has appropriately been named, and the stupendous precipices of the north-west wall of the Bifertenstock. The range is within easy reach of Zürich by rail, and affords climbing of almost any degree of difficulty, from the simplest of snow trudges to the most desperately hard ice or rock ascents. Small wonder, then, that climbers flock hither in their numbers during the week-ends, and that daily throughout July and August the more accessible club-huts are crowded to overflowing. The vast majority of these mountaineers, however, have designs upon the Tödi alone. For hours on end they trudge up the wearisome upper slopes of the Biferten Glacier to the summit, whence, after enjoying one of the most wonderful panoramic views in the Alps, they return contented to the valleys. A few, imbued with the pioneering spirit, or to whom the spice of danger and the sense of achievement after hard-fought battles are of stronger allure than the wonders of the summit view, desert the well-trodden glacier track and sally forth to grapple with unsolved problems, or problems so seldom attacked that they are still clothed in the nimbus of the mysterious and superlatively difficult.

A glance at the three main stages in the history of the exploration of these “Little Mountains” is astonishingly interesting, not only for its own sake, but for the light it throws on the trend of modern mountaineering. The story of the conquest of the range begins with Pater Placidus à Spescha, a jovial monk and surely one of the stoutest-hearted men that ever lived. Climbing alone or with the most inefficient of companions, and inadequately equipped, he accomplished some astonishing feats, which even to-day would stand well to the credit of an expert mountaineer. To give the details of his many conquests and valuable contributions towards the topographical knowledge of the Bündner Alps, would be beyond the scope of this book; but as an example of his outstanding perseverance it may be mentioned that this Swiss priest made no less than six attempts to reach the summit of Piz Rusein, the highest of the three summits of the Tödi, and that his last attempt, also unsuccessful, was made at the age of seventy-two. When we consider that his explorations were carried out towards the close of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century, at a time when the belief had not yet died out that the mountains were the abode of fearsome and savage dragons, and when the inhabitants of a secluded valley, such as the one whence this valiant pioneer hailed, were still ready to condemn as sacrilegious any unwonted activities on the part of a member of their community, we are filled with amazed admiration at the intrepidity, resolution and prowess of this valiant monk. Contemptuous of discomfort and danger, defiant of criticism and defeat, ever aspiring towards the highest his little mountain world held forth to him, actuated only by love of the mountains and a lively, intelligent curiosity as to what secrets lay hidden therein, without hope of gain, Pater Placidus à Spescha well deserves recognition as one of the fathers of mountaineering. With the cessation of his climbing career in 1824 ends the first stage in the history of the exploration of the Tödi range.[4]

The second stage sees the rise of a protagonist of other mettle, the chamois hunter, strong, sure-footed, quick to grasp the use of rope and axe, and possessing valuable local knowledge, but for the most part lacking in initiative and slow to understand the joy in climbing for climbing’s sake. He was soon induced by offers of generous payment to turn guide and place his skill and physical strength at the disposal of the stranger, whose self-imposed task it was to supply the initiative in which his employee was deficient and to arouse in him the energy and will-power without which nothing would have been accomplished. From 1830 onwards, the summits of the range of the Tödi shared the fate of mountains throughout the length and breadth of the Alps, and fell before the onslaughts of parties composed of amateurs aided by professional mountaineers, or, in short, guided parties. But the conquest of the last virgin peak still left much work to be done; only the fringe of the pioneering had been touched, for, as a rule, the first ascent opened up but one way to the summit, and that usually the easiest and least interesting. And so it came about that, as the numbers of unclimbed mountains decreased, the attention of the more ambitious climber turned towards the discovery of new routes. In the greater mountain groups of the Alps, success in this new line again fell almost exclusively to guided parties, the amateur members of which, generally speaking, continued to supply the mental stimulus, while the guides, by virtue of their greater climbing ability, superior physical strength and improving knowledge in all practical matters pertaining to their new craft, were able not only to help them to overcome the mountaineering difficulties encountered, but also to ensure their immunity from the subjective—that is avoidable, given the exercise of due skill and precaution—dangers inherent in the pursuit. In the range of the Tödi, however, it was otherwise. After the conquest of the individual peaks, little was done by way of opening up new routes, and a period of comparative stagnation set in.

Towards the latter end of the last century, the old style amateur climber, a true lover of mountain adventure, was rarely seen in this corner of the Alps. Not that there was any deficiency of climbers, for even then had appeared the sure signs of the impending deluge. The little Grünhorn club-hut, the first of many huts built by the Swiss Alpine Club for the benefit of mountaineers, and which still stands on a rocky spur of the Tödi hard by the Biferten Glacier, no longer harboured an occasional party at distant intervals, but was regularly so overcrowded that a larger hut, the St. Fridolin’s, was built to relieve the congestion. Whence came these throngs of climbers, and who were they?

So far the Alps had been almost exclusively the playground of a small, select circle composed of men of leisure and means who could afford to pay for the by no means inexpensive services of guides and the charges for their upkeep while engaged. Within the circle there soon moved two classes; the first consisted of the real pioneers, true lovers of mountain adventure, and the second of imitators, who climbed because climbing was deemed fashionable. In course of time, here and there from out the ranks of these early amateur climbers would come one or two, vaguely moved perhaps by the supreme joys that unaided achievement might bring, to dispense for a space with professional help and climb “on their own.” From them sprang the modern guideless climber. Rendered inarticulate at first by the appearance of the new species, it was not long ere certain members of the climbing fraternity of the day had collected themselves enough to pour unstinted abuse upon those who dared to indulge in the new form of mountaineering. They condemned climbing without guides as suicidal, and therefore wicked and immoral, and started out to strangle the new tendency in its cradle. They all but succeeded. Yet one of their strongest contentions, to the effect that the practice was fraught with undue danger and likely to lead to unnecessary loss of life, will not bear the cold light of fact; statistics of mountaineering accidents show, if anything, that the percentage of casualties amongst the guided exceeds that amongst the unguided. In condemning climbing without guides, they were attempting to deny for ever to the youth, who could not afford the luxury of a guide, the adventure, health and happiness that are to be found in the mountains, and did their utmost to pinion his wings. Fortunately, the new movement weathered the storm and steadily pursued its course, until to-day purely amateur parties completely outnumber the guided. Nor are the ranks of the guideless recruited solely from those who cannot afford the expense of guides; on the contrary, many of the old faith, having once tasted of the more satisfying joys of the new, have definitely embraced the latter.