THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE.
“God help thee, Trav’ller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o’erlays
The hidden pits, and dang’rous hollow-ways,
And darkness will involve thee.—No kind star
To-night will guide thee.”...
H. KIRKE WHITE.
Croz and Biener did not return until past 5 A.M. on June 17, and we then
set out at once for Zermatt, intending to cross the Col d’Hérens. But we
did not proceed far before the attractions of the Dent Blanche were felt
to be irresistible, and we turned aside up the steep lateral glacier which
descends along its south-western face.
The Dent Blanche is a mountain that is little known except to the climbing
fraternity. It was, and is, reputed to be one of the most difficult
mountains in the Alps. Many attempts were made to scale it before its
ascent was accomplished. Even Leslie Stephen himself, fleetest of foot of
the whole Alpine brotherhood, once upon a time returned discomfited from
it.
[Illustration: LESLIE STEPHEN.]
It was not climbed until 1862; but in that year Mr. T. S. Kennedy, with
Mr. Wigram, and the guides Jean B. Croz(167) and Kronig, managed to
conquer it. They had a hard fight though before they gained the victory; a
furious wind and driving snow, added to the natural difficulties, nearly
turned the scale against them.(168)
Mr. Kennedy started from Abricolla between 2 and 3 A.M. on July 18, 1862,
and ascending the glacier that is mentioned in the opening paragraph, went
towards the point marked 3912 mètres upon the map;(169) then turned to the
left (that is, to the north), and completed the ascent by the southern
ridge—that which overhangs the western side of the Schönbühl glacier.
Mr. Kennedy described his expedition in a very interesting paper in the
_Alpine Journal_. His account bore the impress of truth; yet unbelievers
said that it was impossible to have told (in weather such as was
experienced) whether the summit had actually been attained, and sometimes
roundly asserted that the mountain, as the saying is, still remained
virgin.
I did not share these doubts, although they influenced me to make the
ascent. I thought it might be possible to find an easier route than that
taken by Mr. Kennedy, and that if we succeeded in discovering one we
should be able at once to refute his traducers, and to vaunt our superior
wisdom. Actuated by these elevated motives, I halted my little army at the
foot of the glacier, and inquired, “Which is best for us to do?—to ascend
the Dent Blanche, or to cross to Zermatt?” They answered, with befitting
solemnity, “We think Dent Blanche is best.”
From the chalets of Abricolla the south-west face of the Dent Blanche is
regarded almost exactly in profile. From thence it is seen that the angle
of the face scarcely exceeds thirty degrees, and after observing this I
concluded that the face would, in all probability, give an easier path to
the summit than the crest of the very jagged ridge which was followed by
Mr. Kennedy.
We zigzagged up the glacier along the foot of the face, and looked for a
way on to it. We looked for some time in vain, for a mighty _bergschrund_
effectually prevented approach, and, like a fortress’ moat, protected the
wall from assault. We went up and up, until, I suppose, we were not more
than a thousand feet below the point marked 3912 mètres; then a bridge was
discovered, and we dropped down on hands and knees to cross it.
[Illustration: THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865]
A bergschrund, it was said on p. 182, is a schrund, and something more
than a schrund. A schrund is simply a big crevasse. A bergschrund is
frequently, although not always, a big crevasse. The term is applied to
the last of the crevasses that one finds, in ascending, before quitting
the glacier, and taking to the rocks which bound it. It is the mountains’
schrund. Sometimes it is _very_ large, but early in the season (that is to
say in the month of June or before) bergschrunds are usually snowed up, or
well bridged over, and do not give much trouble. Later in the year, say in
August, they are frequently very great hindrances, and occasionally are
completely impassable.
They are lines of rupture consequent upon unequal motion. The glaciers
below move quicker than the snow or ice which clings immediately to the
mountains; hence these fissures result. The slower motion of that which is
above can only be attributed to its having to sustain greater friction;
for the rule is that the upper portion is set at a steeper angle than the
lower. As that is the case, we should expect that the upper portion would
move _quicker_ than the lower, and it would do so, doubtless, but for the
retardation of the rocks over which, and through which, it passes.(170)
We crossed the bergschrund of the Dent Blanche, I suppose, at a height of
about 12,000 feet above the level of the sea. Our work may be said to have
commenced at that point. The face, although not steep in its general
inclination, was so cut up by little ridges and cliffs, and so seamed with
incipient couloirs, that it had all the difficulty of a much more
precipitous slope. The difficulties were never great, but they were
numerous, and made a very respectable total when put together. We passed
the bergschrund soon after nine in the morning, and during the next eleven
hours halted only five-and-forty minutes. The whole of the remainder of
the time was occupied in ascending and descending the 2400 feet which
compose this south-western face; and inasmuch as 1000 feet per hour
(taking the mean of ascent and descent) is an ordinary rate of
progression, it is tolerably certain that the Dent Blanche is a mountain
of exceptional difficulty.
The hindrances opposed to us by the mountain itself were, however, as
nothing compared with the atmospheric obstructions. It is true there was
plenty of, “Are you fast, Almer?” “Yes.” “Go ahead, Biener.” Biener, made
secure, cried, “Come on, sir,” and _Monsieur_ endeavoured. “No, no,” said
Almer, “not there,—_here_,”—pointing with his bâton to the right place to
clutch. Then ’twas Croz’s turn, and we all drew in the rope as the great
man followed. “Forwards” once more—and so on.
Five hundred feet of this kind of work had been accomplished when we were
saluted (not entirely unexpectedly) by the first gust of a hurricane which
was raging above. The day was a lovely one for dwellers in the valleys,
but we had, long ago, noted some light, gossamer clouds, that were
hovering round our summit, being drawn out in a suspicious manner into
long, silky threads. Croz, indeed, prophesied before we had crossed the
schrund, that we should be beaten by the wind, and had advised that we
should return. But I had retorted, “No, my good Croz, you said just now
‘Dent Blanche is best’; we must go up the Dent Blanche.”
I have a very lively and disagreeable recollection of this wind. Upon the
outskirts of the disturbed region it was only felt occasionally. It then
seemed to make rushes at one particular man, and when it had discomfited
him, it whisked itself away to some far-off spot, only to return,
presently, in greater force than before.
My old enemy—the Matterhorn—seen across the basin of the Z’Muttgletscher,
looked totally unassailable. “Do you think,” the men asked, “that you, or
any one else, will ever get up _that_ mountain?” And when, undismayed by
their ridicule, I stoutly answered, “Yes, but not upon that side,” they
burst into derisive chuckles. I must confess that my hopes sank; for
nothing can look more completely inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its
northern and north-west sides.
“Forwards” once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens. “Not a thousand
feet more; in three hours we shall be on the summit.” “You mean _ten_,”
echoed Croz, so slow had been the progress. But I was not far wrong in the
estimate. At 3.15 we struck the great ridge followed by Mr. Kennedy, close
to the top of the mountain. The wind and cold were terrible there.
Progress was oftentimes impossible, and we waited, crouching under the lee
of rocks, listening to “the shrieking of the mindless wind,” while the
blasts swept across, tearing off the upper snow and blowing it away in
streamers over the Schönbühl glacier—“nothing seen except an indescribable
writhing in the air, like the wind made visible.”
Our goal was concealed by mist, although it was only a few yards away, and
Croz’s prophecy, that we should stay all night upon the summit, seemed
likely to come true. The men rose with the occasion, although even _their_
fingers had nearly lost sensation. There were no murmurings, nor
suggestions of return, and they pressed on for the little white cone which
they knew must be near at hand. Stopped again; a big mass perched loosely
on the ridge barred the way; we could not crawl over, and scarcely dared
creep round it. The wine went round for the last time. The liquor was
half-frozen,—still we would more of it. It was all gone; the bottle was
left behind, and we pushed on, for there was a lull.
The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds opened, and I saw
that we were all but upon the highest point, and that, between us and it,
about twenty yards off, there was a little artificial pile of stones.
Kennedy was a true man,—it was a cairn which he had erected. “What is
that, Croz?” “_Homme des pierres_,” he bawled. It was needless to proceed
farther; I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we should go
back. He did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately. _They_ did not
see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and misinterpreted the
reason of the retreat. Voices were inaudible, and explanations
impossible.(171)
We commenced the descent of the face. It was hideous work. The men looked
like impersonations of Winter, with their hair all frosted, and their
beards matted with ice. My hands were numbed—dead. I begged the others to
stop. “_We cannot afford to stop; we must continue to move_,” was their
reply. They were right; to stop was to be entirely frozen. So we went
down; gripping rocks varnished with ice, which pulled the skin from the
fingers. Gloves were useless; they became iced too, and the bâtons slid
through them as slippery as eels. The iron of the axes stuck to the
fingers—it felt red-hot; but it was useless to shrink, the rocks and the
axes had to be firmly grasped—no faltering would do here.
We turned back at 4.12 P.M., and at 8.15 crossed the bergschrund again,
not having halted for a minute upon the entire descent. During the last
two hours it was windless, but time was of such vital importance that we
pressed on incessantly, and did not stop until we were fairly upon the
glacier. Then we took stock of what remained of the tips of our fingers.
There was not much skin left; they were perfectly raw, and for weeks
afterwards I was reminded of the ascent of the Dent Blanche by the twinges
which I felt when I pulled on my boots. The others escaped with some
slight frost-bites; and, altogether, we had reason to congratulate
ourselves that we got off so lightly. The men complimented me upon the
descent, and I could do the same honestly to them. If they had worked less
vigorously, or harmoniously, we should have been benighted upon the face,
where there was not a single spot upon which it was possible to sit; and
if that had happened, I do not think that one would have survived to tell
the tale.
We made the descent of the glacier in a mist, and of the moraine at its
base, and of the slopes below, in total darkness, and regained the chalets
of Abricolla at 11.45 P.M. We had been absent eighteen and a half hours,
and out of that time had been going not less than seventeen. That night we
slept the sleep of those who are thoroughly tired.(172)
[Illustration: T. S. KENNEDY.]
Two days afterwards, when walking into Zermatt, whom should we meet but
Mr. Kennedy. “Hullo!” we said, “we have just seen your cairn on the top of
the Dent Blanche.” “No, you haven’t,” he answered, very positively. “What
do you mean?” “Why, that you cannot have seen my cairn, because I didn’t
make one!” “Well, but we saw _a_ cairn.” “No doubt; it was made by a man
who went up the mountain last year with Lauener and Zurfluh,” “O-o-h,” we
said, rather disgusted at hearing news when we expected to communicate
some, “O-o-h! good morning, Kennedy.” Before this happened, we managed to
lose our way upon the Col d’Hérens; but an account of that must be
reserved for the next chapter.