LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS.—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
“Oh! ye immortal gods, where in the world are we?”
CICERO.
We should have started for Zermatt about 7 A.M. on the 18th, had not
Biener asked to be allowed to go to mass at Evolène, a village about two
and a half hours from Abricolla. He received permission, on the condition
that he returned not later than mid-day, but he did not come back until
2.30 P.M., and we thereby got into a pretty little mess.
The pass which we were about to traverse to Zermatt—the Col d’Hérens—is
one of the few glacier-passes in this district which have been known
almost from time immemorial. It is frequently crossed in the summer
season, and is a very easy route, notwithstanding that the summit of the
pass is 11,417 feet above the level of the sea.(173)
From Abricolla to the summit the way lies chiefly over the flat Glacier de
Ferpècle. The walk is of the most straightforward kind. The glacier rises
in gentle undulations; its crevasses are small and easily avoided; and all
you have to do, after once getting upon the ice, is to proceed due south,
in the most direct manner possible. If you do so, in two hours you should
be upon the summit of the pass.
We tied ourselves in line, of course, when we entered upon the glacier,
and placed Biener to lead, as he had frequently crossed the pass;
supposing that his local knowledge might save us some time upon the other
side. We had proceeded, I believe, about half-way up, when a little, thin
cloud dropped down upon us from above. It was so light and gauzy, that we
did not for a moment suppose it would become embarrassing, and hence I
neglected to note at the proper moment the course which we should
steer,—that is to say, to observe our precise situation, in regard to the
summit of the pass.
For some little time Biener progressed steadily, making a tolerably
straight track; but at length he wavered, and deviated sometimes to the
right, and sometimes to the left. Croz rushed forward directly he saw
this, and taking the poor young man by his shoulders gave him a good
shaking, told him that he was an imbecile, to untie himself at once, and
to go to the rear. Biener looked half-frightened, and obeyed without a
murmur. Croz led off briskly, and made a good straight track for a few
minutes. Then, it seemed to me, he began to move steadily round to the
left. I looked back, but the mist was now too thick to see our traces, and
so we continued to follow our leader. At last the others (who were behind,
and in a better position to judge) thought the same as I did, and we
pulled up Croz to deliver our opinion. He took our criticism in good part,
but when Biener opened his mouth that was too much for him to stand, and
he told the young man again, “_You_ are imbecile; I bet you twenty francs
to one that _my_ track is better than _yours_; twenty francs, now then,
imbecile!”
Almer went to the front. He commenced by returning in the track for a
hundred yards or so, and then started off at a tangent from Croz’s curve.
We kept this course for half-an-hour, and then were certain that we were
not on the right route, because the snow became decidedly steep. We bore
away more and more to the right, to avoid this steep bank, but at last I
rebelled, as we had for some time been going almost south-west, which was
altogether the wrong direction. After a long discussion we returned some
distance in our track, and then steered a little east of south, but we
continually met steep snow-slopes, and to avoid them went right or left as
the case might require.
We were greatly puzzled, and could not in the least tell whether we were
too near the Dent Blanche or too close to the Tête Blanche. The mists had
thickened, and were now as dense as a moderate London fog. There were no
rocks or echoes to direct us, and the guidance of the compass brought us
invariably against these steep snow-banks. The men were fairly beaten;
they had all had a try, or more than one, and at last gave it up as a bad
job, and asked what was to be done. It was 7.30 P.M. and only an hour of
daylight was left. We were beginning to feel used up, for we had wandered
about at tip-top speed for the last three hours and a half, so I said,
“This is my advice; let us turn in our track, and go back as hard as ever
we can, not quitting the track for an instant.” They were well content,
but just as we were starting off, the clouds lifted a little, and we
thought we saw the Col. It was then to our right, and we went at it with a
dash. Before we had gone a hundred paces down came the mist again. We kept
on nevertheless for twenty minutes, and then, as darkness was perceptibly
coming on, and the snow was yet rising in front, we turned back, and by
running down the entire distance managed to get clear of the Ferpècle
glacier just as it became pitch dark. We arrived at our cheerless chalet
in due course, and went to bed supperless, for our food was gone; all very
sulky—not to say savage—agreeing in nothing except in bullying Biener.
At 7 A.M. on the 19th, we set out, for the third time, for the Col
d’Hérens. It was a fine day, and we gradually recovered our tempers as we
saw the follies which had been committed on the previous evening. Biener’s
wavering track was not so bad; but Croz had swerved from the right route
from the first, and had traced a complete semicircle, so that when we
stopped him we were facing Abricolla—whence we had started. Almer had
commenced with great discretion; but he kept on too long, and crossed the
proper route. When I stopped them (because we were going south-west), we
were a long way up the Tête Blanche! Our last attempt was in the right
direction; we were actually upon the summit of the pass, and in another
ten yards we should have commenced to go down hill! It is needless to
point out that if the compass had been looked to at the proper moment—that
is, immediately the mist came down—we should have avoided all our
troubles. It was little use afterwards, except to tell us when we were
going _wrong_. We arrived at Zermatt in six and a half hours’ walking from
Abricolla, and Seller’s hospitable reception set us all right again.
On the 20th we crossed the Théodule pass, and diverged from its summit up
the Théodulhorn (11,391) to examine a route which I suggested for the
ascent of the Matterhorn. Before continuing an account of our proceedings,
I must stop for a minute to explain why this new route was proposed, in
place of that up the south-western ridge.
The main peak of the Matterhorn may be divided into three sections.(174)
The first, facing the Z’Muttgletscher, looks completely unassailable; the
second, facing the east, seems inaccessibility itself; whilst the third,
facing Breil, does not look entirely hopeless. It was from this last
direction that all my previous attempts were made. It was by the
south-western ridge, it will be remembered, that not only I, but Mr.
Hawkins, Professor Tyndall, and the chasseurs of Val Tournanche, essayed
to climb the mountain. Why then abandon a route which had been shown to be
feasible up to a certain point?
I gave it up for four reasons. 1. On account of my growing disinclination
for arêtes, and preference for snow and rock-faces (see Chap. XII.). 2.
Because I was persuaded that meteorological disturbances (by which we had
been baffled several times) might be expected to occur again and
again(175) (see Chaps. IV. and VI.). 3. Because I found that the east face
was a gross imposition—it looked not far from perpendicular; while its
angle was, in fact, scarcely more than 40°. 4. Because I observed for
myself that the strata of the mountain dipped to the west-south-west. It
is not necessary to say anything more than has been already said upon the
first two of these four points, but upon the latter two a few words are
indispensable. Let us consider, first, why most persons receive such an
exaggerated impression of the steepness of the eastern face.
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG.]
When one looks at the Matterhorn from Zermatt, the mountain is regarded
(nearly) from the north-east. The face that fronts the east is
consequently neither seen in profile nor in full front, but almost
half-way between the two; it looks, therefore, more steep than it really
is. The majority of those who visit Zermatt go up to the Riffelberg, or to
the Gornergrat, and from these places, the mountain naturally looks still
more precipitous, because its eastern face (which is almost all that is
seen of it) is viewed more directly in front. From the Riffel hotel the
slope seems to be set at an angle of 70°. If the tourist continues to go
southwards, and crosses the Théodule pass, he gets, at one point,
immediately in front of the eastern face, which then seems to be
absolutely perpendicular. Comparatively few persons correct the erroneous
impressions they receive in these quarters by studying the face in
profile, and most go away with a very incorrect and exaggerated idea of
the precipitousness of this side of the mountain, because they have
considered the question from one point of view alone.
Several years passed away before I shook myself clear of my early and
false impressions regarding the steepness of this side of the Matterhorn.
First of all, I noticed that there were places on this eastern face where
snow remained permanently all the year round. I do not speak of snow in
gullies, but of the considerable slopes which are seen upon the
accompanying engraving, about half-way up the face. Such beds as these
could not continue to remain throughout the summer, unless the snow had
been able to accumulate in the winter in large masses; and snow cannot
accumulate and remain in large masses, in a situation such as this, at
angles much exceeding 45°.(176) Hence I was bound to conclude that the
eastern face was many degrees removed from perpendicularity; and, to be
sure on this point, I went to the slopes between the Z’Muttgletscher and
the Matterhorngletscher, above the chalets of Staffel, whence the face
could be seen in profile. Its appearance from this direction would be
amazing to one who had seen it only from the east. It looks so totally
different from the apparently sheer and perfectly unclimbable cliff one
sees from the Riffelberg, that it is hard to believe the two slopes are
one and the same thing. Its angle scarcely exceeds 40°.
A great step was made when this was learnt. This knowledge alone would
not, however, have caused me to try an ascent by the eastern face instead
of by the south-west ridge. Forty degrees may not seem a formidable
inclination to the reader, nor is it for only a small cliff. But it is
very unusual to find so steep a gradient maintained continuously as the
general angle of a great mountain-slope, and very few instances can be
quoted from the High Alps of such an angle being preserved over a rise of
3000 feet.
I do not think that the steepness or the height of this cliff would have
deterred climbers from attempting to ascend it, if it had not, in
addition, looked so repulsively smooth. Men despaired of finding anything
to grasp. Now, some of the difficulties of the south-west ridge came from
the smoothness of the rocks, although that ridge, even from a distance,
seemed to be well broken up. How much greater, then, might not have been
the difficulty of climbing a face which looked smooth and unbroken close
at hand?
A more serious hindrance to mounting the south-west ridge is found in the
dip of its rocks to the west-south-west. The great mass of the Matterhorn,
it is now well ascertained, is composed of regularly stratified
rocks,(177) which rise towards the east. It has been mentioned in the
text, more than once, that the rocks on some portions of the ridge leading
from the Col du Lion to the summit dip outwards, and that fractured edges
overhang.(178) This is shown in the illustrations facing pp. 76 and 84;
and the annexed diagram, Fig. 1, exhibits the same thing still more
clearly. It will be readily understood that such an arrangement is not
favourable for climbers, and that the degree of facility with which rocks
can be ascended that are so disposed, must depend very much upon the
frequency or paucity of fissures and joints. The rocks of the south-west
ridge are sufficiently provided with cracks, but if it were otherwise,
their texture and arrangement would render them unassailable.(179)
[Illustration: Diagrams to show dip of strata on the Matterhorn]
It is not possible to go a single time upon the rocks of the south-west
ridge, from the Col du Lion to the foot of the Great Tower, without
observing the prevalence of their outward dip, and that their fractured
edges have a tendency to overhang; nor can one fail to notice that it is
upon this account the débris, which is rent off by frost, does not remain
_in situ_, but pours down in showers over the surrounding cliffs. Each
day’s work, so to speak, is cleared away; the ridge is swept clean; there
is scarcely anything seen but firm rock.(180)
The fact that the mountain is composed of a series of stratified beds was
pointed out long ago. De Saussure remarked it, and recorded explicitly, in
his _Travels_ (§ 2243), that they “rose to the north-east at an angle of
about 45°.” Forbes noticed it also; and gave it as his opinion that the
beds were “less inclined, or nearly horizontal.” He added, “De Saussure is
no doubt correct.”(181) The truth, I think, lies between the two.
I was acquainted with both of the above-quoted passages, but did not turn
the knowledge to any practical account until I re-observed the same fact
for myself. It was not until after my repulse in 1863, that I referred the
peculiar difficulties of the south-west ridge to the dip of the strata;
but when once persuaded that structure and not texture was the real
impediment, it was reasonable to infer that the opposite side, that is to
say the eastern face, might be comparatively easy. In brief, that an
arrangement should be found like Fig. 2, instead of like Fig. 1. This
trivial deduction was the key to the ascent of the Matterhorn.
The point was, Did the strata continue with a similar dip throughout the
mountain? If they did, then this great eastern face, instead of being
hopelessly impracticable, should be quite the reverse.—In fact, it should
be a great natural staircase, with steps inclining inwards; and, if it
were so, its smooth aspect might be of no account, for the smallest steps,
inclined in this fashion, would afford good footing.
They did so, as far as one could judge from a distance. When snow fell in
the summer time, it brought out long, terraced lines upon the mountain;
rudely parallel to each other; inclined in the direction shown
(approximately) upon the figures in the accompanying plate; and the
eastern face, on those occasions, was often whitened almost completely
over; while the other sides, with the exception of the powdered terraces,
remained black—for the snow could not rest upon them.
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST.]
THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PARALLEL RED LINES REPRESENT ON AN AVERAGE
A VERTICAL HEIGHT OF ABOUT 60 FEET, BUT, ON ACCOUNT OF
FORESHORTENING, THE HEIGHT BETWEEN THE UPPERMOST LINES IS SOMEWHAT
MORE THAN THIS AMOUNT.
The very outline of the mountain, too, confirmed the conjecture that its
structure would assist an ascent on the eastern face, although it opposed
one on all other sides. Look at any photograph of the peak from the
north-east (or, failing one, the outline facing page 230, which is
carefully traced from one), and you will see that upon the right-hand side
(that facing the Z’Muttgletscher) there is an incessant repetition of
overhanging cliffs, and of slopes all trending downwards; in short, that
the character of the whole of that side is similar to Fig. 1, p. 229; and
that upon the left hand (or south-east) ridge, the forms, as far as they
go, are suggestive of the structure of Fig. 2. There is no doubt that the
contours of the mountain, seen from this direction, have been largely
influenced by the direction of its beds.
It was not, therefore, from a freak, that I invited Mr. Reilly to join in
an attack upon the eastern face, but from a gradually-acquired conviction
that it would prove to give the easiest path to the summit; and, if we had
not been obliged to part, the mountain would, doubtless, have been
ascended in 1864.
My guides readily admitted that they had been greatly deceived as to the
steepness of the eastern face, when they were halted to look at it in
profile, as we came down the Z’Muttgletscher, on our way to Zermatt; but
they were far from being satisfied that it would turn out to be easy to
climb, and Almer and Biener expressed themselves decidedly averse to
making an attempt upon it. I gave way temporarily before their evident
reluctance, and we made the ascent of the Théodulhorn to examine an
alternative route, which I expected would commend itself to them in
preference to the other, as a great part of it led over snow.
There is an immense gully in the Matterhorn, which leads up from the
Glacier du Mont Cervin to a point high up on the south-eastern ridge.(182)
I proposed to ascend this to its head, and to cross over the south-east
ridge on to the eastern face. This would have brought us on a level with
the bottom of the great snow-slope shown upon the centre of the eastern
face in the engraving facing p. 227. This snow-slope was to be crossed
diagonally, with the view of arriving at the snow upon the north-east
ridge, which is shown upon the same engraving, about half-an-inch from the
summit. The remainder of the ascent was to be made by the broken rocks,
mixed with snow, upon the north side of the mountain. Croz caught the idea
immediately, and thought the plan feasible; details were settled, and we
descended to Breil. Luc Meynet, the hunchback, was summoned, and expressed
himself delighted to resume his old vocation of tent-bearer; and Favre’s
kitchen was soon in commotion preparing three days’ rations, for I
intended to take that amount of time over the affair—to sleep on the first
night upon the rocks at the top of the gully; to make a push for the
summit, and to return to the tent on the second day; and upon the third to
come back to Breil.
We started at 5.45 A.M. on June 21, and followed the route of the
Breuiljoch(183) for three hours. We were then in full view of our gully,
and turned off at right angles for it. The closer we approached, the more
favourable did it look. There was a good deal of snow in it, which was
evidently at a small angle, and it seemed as if one-third of the ascent,
at least, would be a very simple matter. Some suspicious marks in the snow
at its base suggested that it was not free from falling stones, and, as a
measure of precaution, we turned off on one side, worked up under cover of
the cliffs, and waited to see if anything should descend. Nothing fell, so
we proceeded up its right or northern side, sometimes cutting steps up the
snow and sometimes mounting by the rocks. Shortly before 10 A.M. we
arrived at a convenient place for a halt, and stopped to rest upon some
rocks, immediately close to the snow, which commanded an excellent view of
the gully.
While the men were unpacking the food I went to a little promontory to
examine our proposed route more narrowly, and to admire our noble couloir,
which led straight up into the heart of the mountain for fully one
thousand feet. It then bent towards the north, and ran up to the crest of
the south-eastern ridge. My curiosity was piqued to know what was round
this corner, and whilst I was gazing up at it, and following with the eye
the exquisitely drawn curves which wandered down the snow in the gully,
all converging to a large rut in its centre, I saw a few little stones
skidding down. I consoled myself with thinking that they would not
interfere with us if we adhered to the side. But then a larger one came
down, a solitary fellow, rushing at the rate of sixty miles an hour—and
another—and another. I was unwilling to raise the fears of the men
unnecessarily, and said nothing to them. They did not hear the stones.
Almer was seated on a rock, carving large slices from a leg of mutton, the
others were chatting, and the first intimation they had of danger was from
a crash—a sudden roar—which reverberated awfully amongst the cliffs, and,
looking up, they saw masses of rocks, boulders and stones, big and little,
dart round the corner eight hundred feet or so above us, fly with fearful
fury against the opposite cliffs, rebound from them against the walls on
our side, and descend; some ricochetting from side to side in a frantic
manner; some bounding down in leaps of a hundred feet or more over the
snow; and others trailing down in a jumbled, confused mass, mixed with
snow and ice, deepening the grooves which, a moment before, had excited my
admiration.
The men looked wildly around for protection, and, dropping the food,
dashed under cover in all directions. The precious mutton was pitched on
one side, the wine-bag was let fall, and its contents gushed out from the
unclosed neck, whilst all four cowered under defending rocks, endeavouring
to make themselves as small as possible. Let it not be supposed that their
fright was unreasonable, or that I was free from it. I took good care to
make myself safe, and went and cringed in a cleft until the storm had
passed. But their scramble to get under shelter was indescribably
ludicrous. Such a panic I have never witnessed, before or since, upon a
mountain-side.(184)
This ricochet practice was a novelty to me. It arose, of course, from the
couloir being bent, and from the falling rocks having acquired great pace
before they passed the angle. In straight gullies it will, probably, never
be experienced. The rule is, as I have already remarked, that falling
stones keep down the centres of gullies, and they are out of harm’s way if
one follows the sides.
[Illustration: MY TENT-BEARER—THE HUNCHBACK.]
There would have been singularly little amusement, and very great risk, in
mounting this gully, and we turned our backs upon it with perfect
unanimity. The question then arose, “What is to be done?” I suggested
climbing the rocks above us, but this was voted impossible. I thought the
men were right, yet would not give in without being assured of the fact,
and clambered up to settle the question. In a few minutes I was brought to
a halt. My forces were scattered; the little hunchback alone was closely
following me—with a broad grin upon his face, and the tent upon his
shoulder; Croz, more behind, was still keeping an eye upon his _Monsieur_;
Almer, a hundred feet below, sat on a rock with his face buried in his
hands; Biener was nowhere, out of sight. “Come down, come down,” shouted
Croz; “it is useless,” and I turned at length, convinced that it was even
as he said. Thus my little plan was knocked on the head, and we were
thrown back upon the original scheme.
We at once made a straight track for Mr. Morshead’s Breuiljoch(185) (which
was the most direct route to take in order to get to the Hörnli, where we
intended to sleep, preparatory to attacking the eastern face), and arrived
upon its summit at 12.30 P.M. We were then unexpectedly checked. The pass,
as one, had vanished! and we found ourselves cut off from the
Furggengletscher by a small but precipitous wall of rock;—the glacier had
shrunk so much that descent was impracticable. During the last hour clouds
had been coming up from the south; they now surrounded us, and it began to
blow hard. The men clustered together, and advocated leaving the mountain
alone. Almer asked, with more point than politeness, “Why don’t you try to
go up a mountain which _can_ be ascended?” “It is impossible,” chimed in
Biener. “Sir,” said Croz, “if we cross to the other side we shall lose
three days, and very likely shall not succeed. You want to make ascents in
the chain of Mont Blanc, and I believe they can be made. But I shall not
be able to make them with you if I spend these days here, for I must be at
Chamounix on the 27th.” There was force in what he said, and his words
made me hesitate. I relied upon his strong arms for some work which it was
expected would be unusually difficult. Snow began to fall; that settled
the matter, and I gave the word to retreat. We went back to Breil, and on
to the village of Val Tournanche, where we slept; and the next day
proceeded to Chatillon, and thence up the Valley of Aosta to Courmayeur.
I cannot but regret that the counsels of the guides prevailed. If Croz had
not uttered his well-intentioned words, he might still have been living.
He parted from us at Chamounix at the appointed time, but by a strange
chance we met again at Zermatt three weeks later, and two days afterwards
he perished before my eyes on the very mountain from which we turned away,
at his advice, on the 21st of June.
On June 23 we mounted to the top of Mont Saxe, to scan the Grandes
Jorasses, with the view of ascending it. Five thousand feet of
glacier-covered precipices rose above us, and up all that height we
tracked a way to our satisfaction. Three thousand feet more of glacier and
forest-covered slopes lay beneath, and _there_, there was only one point
at which it was doubtful if we should find a path. The glaciers were
shrinking, and were surrounded by bastions of rounded rock, far too
polished to please the rough mountaineer. We could not track a way across
them. However, at 4 A.M. the next day, under the dexterous leading of
Michel Croz, we passed the doubtful spot. Thence it was all plain sailing,
and at 1 P.M. we gained the summit. The weather was boisterous in the
upper regions, and storm-clouds driven before the wind, and wrecked
against our heights, enveloped us in misty spray, which danced around and
fled away, which cut us off from the material universe, and caused us to
be, as it were, suspended betwixt heaven and earth, seeing both
occasionally, but seeming to belong to neither.
The mists lasted longer than my patience, and we descended without having
attained the object for which the ascent was made. At first we followed
the little ridge shown upon the accompanying engraving, leading from our
summit towards the spectator, and then took to the head of the corridor of
glacier on its left, which in the view is left perfectly white. The slopes
were steep and covered with new-fallen snow, flour-like and evil to tread
upon. On the ascent we had reviled it, and had made our staircase with
much caution, knowing full well that the disturbance of its base would
bring down all that was above. In descending, the bolder spirits
counselled trusting to luck and a glissade; the cautious ones advocated
avoiding the slopes and crossing to the rocks on their farther side. The
advice of the latter prevailed, and we had half-traversed the snow, to
gain the ridge, when the crust slipped and we went along with it. “Halt!”
broke from all four, unanimously. The axe-heads flew round as we started
on this involuntary glissade. It was useless, they slid over the
underlying ice fruitlessly. “Halt!” thundered Croz, as he dashed his
weapon in again with superhuman energy. No halt could be made, and we slid
down slowly, but with accelerating motion, driving up waves of snow in
front, with streams of the nasty stuff hissing all around. Luckily, the
slope eased off at one place, the leading men cleverly jumped aside out of
the moving snow, we others followed, and the young avalanche which we had
started, continuing to pour down, fell into a yawning crevasse, and showed
us where our grave would have been if we had remained in its company five
seconds longer. The whole affair did not occupy half-a-minute. It was the
solitary incident of a long day, and at nightfall we re-entered the
excellent house kept by the courteous Bertolini, well satisfied that we
had not met with more incidents of a similar description.(186)
[Illustration: THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, FROM THE
ITALIAN VAL FERRET.]