THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN.
“In almost every art, experience is worth more than precepts.”
QUINTILIAN.
All of the excursions that were set down in my programme had been carried
out, with the exception of the ascent of the Matterhorn, and we now turned
our faces in its direction, but instead of returning _viâ_ the Val
Tournanche, we took a route across country, and bagged upon our way the
summit of the Ruinette.
We passed the night of July 4, at Aosta, under the roof of the genial
Tairraz, and on the 5th went by the Val d’Ollomont and the Col de la
Fenêtre (9140) to Chermontane. We slept that night at the chalets of
Chanrion (a foul spot, which should be avoided), left them at 3.50 the
next morning, and after a short scramble over the slope above, and a
half-mile tramp on the glacier de Breney, we crossed directly to the
Ruinette, and went almost straight up it. There is not, I suppose, another
mountain in the Alps of the same height that can be ascended so easily.
You have only to go ahead: upon its southern side one can walk about
almost anywhere.
Though I speak thus slightingly of a very respectable peak, I will not do
anything of the kind in regard to the view which it gives. It is happily
placed in respect to the rest of the Pennine Alps, and as a stand-point it
has not many superiors. You see mountains, and nothing but mountains. It
is a solemn—some would say a dreary—view, but it is very grand. The great
Combin (14,164), with its noble background of the whole range of Mont
Blanc, never looks so big as it does from here. In the contrary direction,
the Matterhorn overpowers all besides. The Dent d’Hérens, although closer,
looks a mere outlier of its great neighbour, and the snows of Monte Rosa,
behind, seem intended for no other purpose than to give relief to the
crags in front. To the south there is an endless array of Bec’s and
Becca’s, backed by the great Italian peaks, whilst to the north Mont
Pleureur (12,159) holds it own against the more distant Wildstrubel.
We gained the summit at 9.15,(203) and stayed there an hour and a half. My
faithful guides then admonished me that Prerayen, whither we were bound,
was still far away, and that we had yet to cross two lofty ridges. So we
resumed our harness and departed; not, however, before a huge cairn had
been built out of the blocks of gneiss with which the summit is bestrewn.
Then we trotted down the slopes of the Ruinette, over the glacier de
Breney, and across a pass which (if it deserves a name) may be called the
Col des Portons, after the neighbouring peaks. Thence we proceeded across
the great Otemma glacier towards the Col d’Olen.
The part of the glacier that we traversed was overspread with snow which
completely concealed its numerous pitfalls. We marched across it in single
file, and, of course, roped together. All at once Almer dropped into a
crevasse up to his shoulders. I pulled in the rope immediately, but the
snow gave way as it was being done, and I had to spread out my arms to
stop my descent. Biener held fast, and said afterwards, that his feet went
through as well; so, for a moment, all three were in the jaws of the
crevasse. We now altered our course, so as to take the fissures
transversely, and changed it again after the centre of the glacier was
passed, and made directly for the summit of the Col d’Olen.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, after what I have said before, that
it is my invariable practice to employ a rope when traversing a
snow-covered glacier. Many guides, even the best ones, object to be roped,
more especially early in the morning, when the snow is hard. They object
sometimes, because they think it is unnecessary. Crevasses that are
bridged by snow are almost always more or less perceptible by undulations
on the surface; the snow droops down, and hollows mark the courses of the
chasms beneath. An experienced guide usually notices these almost
imperceptible wrinkles, steps one side or the other, as the case may
require, and rarely breaks through unawares. Guides think there is no
occasion to employ a rope because they think that they will not be taken
by surprise. Michel Croz used to be of this opinion. He used to say that
only imbeciles and children required to be tied up in the morning. I told
him that in this particular matter I was a child to him. “You see these
things, my good Croz, and avoid them. I do _not_, except you point them
out to me, and so that which is not a danger to you, _is_ a danger to me.”
The sharper one’s eyes get by use, the less is a rope required as a
protective against these hidden pitfalls; but, according to my experience,
the sight never becomes so keen that they can be avoided with unvarying
certainty, and I mentioned what occurred upon the Otemma glacier to show
that this is so.
I well remember my first passage of the Col Théodule—the easiest of the
higher Alpine glacier passes. We had a rope, but my guide said it was not
necessary, he knew all the crevasses. However, we did not go a quarter of
a mile before he dropped through the snow into a crevasse up to his neck.
He was a heavy man, and would scarcely have extricated himself alone;
anyhow, he was very glad of my assistance. When he got on to his legs
again, he said, “Well, I had no idea that there was a crevasse there!” He
no longer objected to use the rope, and we proceeded; upon my part, with
greater peace of mind than before. I have crossed the pass fourteen times
since then, and have invariably insisted upon being tied together.
Guides object to the use of the rope upon snow-covered glacier, because
they are afraid of being laughed at by their comrades; and this, perhaps,
is the more common reason. To illustrate this, here is another Théodule
experience. We arrived at the edge of the ice, and I required to be tied.
My guide (a Zermatt man of repute) said that no one used a rope going
across that pass. I declined to argue the matter, and we put on the rope;
though very much against the wish of my man, who protested that he should
have to submit to perpetual ridicule if we met any of his acquaintances.
We had not gone very far before we saw a train coming in the contrary
direction. “Ah!” cried my man, “there is R—— (mentioning a guide who used
to be kept at the Riffel Hotel for the ascent of Monte Rosa); it will be
as I said, I shall never hear the end of this.” The guide we met was
followed by a string of tom-fools, none of whom were tied together, and
had his face covered by a mask to prevent it becoming blistered. After we
had passed, I said, “Now, should R—— make any observations to you, ask him
why he takes such extraordinary care to preserve the skin of his face,
which will grow again in a week, when he neglects such an obvious
precaution in regard to his life, which he can only lose once.” This was
quite a new idea to my guide, and he said nothing more against the use of
the rope so long as we were together.
I believe that the unwillingness to use a rope upon snow-covered glacier
which born mountaineers not unfrequently exhibit, arises—First, on the
part of expert men, from the consciousness that they themselves incur
little risk; secondly, on the part of inferior men, from fear of ridicule,
and from aping the ways of their superiors; and, thirdly, from pure
ignorance or laziness. Whatever may be the reason, I raise up my voice
against the neglect of a precaution so simple and so effectual. In my
opinion, the very first thing a glacier traveller requires is plenty of
good rope.
A committee of the English Alpine Club was appointed in 1864 to test, and
to report upon, the most suitable ropes for mountaineering purposes, and
those which were approved are probably as good as can be found. One is
made of Manilla and another of Italian hemp. The former is the heavier,
and weighs a little more than an ounce per foot (103 ozs. to 100 feet).
The latter weighs 79 ozs. per 100 feet; but I prefer the Manilla rope,
because it is more handy to handle. Both of these ropes will sustain 168
lbs. falling 10 feet, or 196 lbs. falling 8 feet, and they break with a
dead weight of two tons.(204) In 1865 we carried two 100 feet lengths of
the Manilla rope, and the inconvenience arising from its weight was more
than made up for by the security which it afforded. Upon several occasions
it was worth more than an extra guide.
Now, touching the _use_ of the rope. There is a right way, and there are
wrong ways of using it. I often meet, upon glacier-passes, elegantly
got-up persons, who are clearly out of their element, with a guide
stalking along in front, who pays no attention to the innocents in his
charge. They are tied together as a matter of form, but they evidently
have no idea _why_ they are tied up, for they walk side by side, or close
together, with the rope trailing on the snow. If one tumbles into a
crevasse, the rest stare, and say, “La! what is the matter with Smith?”
unless, as is more likely, they all tumble in together. This is the wrong
way to use a rope. It is abuse of the rope.
[Illustration: The wrong way to use a rope on glacier]
It is of the first importance to keep the rope taut from man to man. If
this is not done, there is no real security, and your risks may be
considerably magnified. There is little or no difficulty in extricating
one man who breaks through a bridged crevasse if the rope is taut; but the
case may be very awkward if two break through at the same moment, close
together, and there are only two others to aid, or perhaps only one other.
Further, the rope ought not upon any account to graze over snow, ice, or
rocks, otherwise the strands suffer, and the lives of the whole party may
be endangered. Apart from this, it is extremely annoying to have a rope
knocking about one’s heels. If circumstances render it impossible for the
rope to be kept taut by itself, the men behind should gather it up round
their hands,(205) and not allow it to incommode those in advance. A man
must either be incompetent, careless, or selfish, if he permits the rope
to dangle about the heels of the person in front of him.
[Illustration: THE RIGHT WAY TO USE THE ROPE.]
The distance from man to man must neither be too great nor too small.
About 12 feet between each is sufficient. If there are only two or three
persons, it is prudent to allow a little more—say 15 feet. More than this
is unnecessary, and less than 9 or 10 feet is not much good.
It is essential to examine your rope from time to time to see that it is
in good condition. If you are wise you will do this yourself every day.
Latterly, I have examined every inch of my rope overnight, and upon more
than one occasion have found the strands of the Manilla rope nearly half
severed through accidental grazes.
Thus far the rope has been supposed to be employed upon level,
snow-covered glacier, to prevent any risk from concealed crevasses. On
rocks and on slopes it is used for a different purpose (namely, to guard
against slips), and in these cases it is equally important to keep it
taut, and to preserve a reasonable distance one from the other. It is much
more troublesome to keep the rope taut upon slopes than upon the level;
and upon difficult rocks it is all but impossible, except by adopting the
plan of moving only one at a time (see p. 115).
There is no good reason for employing a rope upon easy rocks, and I
believe that its needless use is likely to promote carelessness. On
difficult rocks and on snow-slopes (frequently improperly called
ice-slopes) it is a great advantage to be tied together, provided the rope
is handled properly; but upon actual ice-slopes, such as that on the Col
Dolent (p. 240), or upon slopes in which ice is mingled with small and
loose rocks, such as the upper part of the Pointe des Ecrins, it is almost
useless, because a slip made by one person might upset the entire
party.(206) I am not prepared to say, however, that men should not be tied
together upon similar slopes. Being attached to others usually gives
confidence, and confidence decidedly assists stability. It is more
questionable whether men should be in such places at all. If a man can
keep on his feet upon an _escalier_ cut in an ice-slope, I see no reason
why he should be debarred from making use of that particular form of
staircase. If he cannot, let him keep clear of such places.(207)
There would be no advantage in discoursing upon the use of the rope at
greater length. A single day upon a mountain’s side will give a clearer
idea of the value of a good rope, and of the numerous purposes for which
it may be employed, than any one will obtain from reading all that has
been written upon the subject; but no one will become really expert in its
management without much experience.
From the Col d’Olen we proceeded down the Combe of the same name to the
chalets of Prerayen, and passed the night of the 6th under the roof of our
old acquaintance, the wealthy herdsman. On the 7th we crossed the Va
Cornère pass, _en route_ for Breil. My thoughts were fixed on the
Matterhorn, and my guides knew that I wished them to accompany me. They
had an aversion to the mountain, and repeatedly expressed their belief
that it was useless to try to ascend it. “_Anything_ but Matterhorn, dear
sir!” said Almer; “_anything_ but Matterhorn.” He did not speak of
difficulty or of danger, nor was he shirking _work_. He offered to go
_anywhere_; but he entreated that the Matterhorn should be abandoned. Both
men spoke fairly enough. They did not think that an ascent could be made;
and for their own credit, as well as for my sake, they did not wish to
undertake a business which, in their opinion, would only lead to loss of
time and money.
I sent them by the short cut to Breil, and walked down to Val Tournanche
to look for Jean-Antoine Carrel. He was not there. The villagers said that
he, and three others, had started on the 6th to try the Matterhorn by the
old way, on their own account. They will have no luck, I thought, for the
clouds were low down on the mountains; and I walked up to Breil, fully
expecting to meet them. Nor was I disappointed. About half-way up I saw a
group of men clustered around a chalet upon the other side of the torrent,
and, crossing over, found that the party had returned. Jean-Antoine and
Cæsar were there, C. E. Gorret, and J. J. Maquignaz. They had had no
success. The weather, they said, had been horrible, and they had scarcely
reached the glacier du Lion.
I explained the situation to Carrel, and proposed that we, with Cæsar and
another man, should cross the Théodule by moonlight on the 9th, and that
upon the 10th we should pitch the tent as high as possible upon the east
face. He was unwilling to abandon the old route, and urged me to try it
again. I promised to do so provided the new route failed. This satisfied
him, and he agreed to my proposal. I then went up to Breil, and discharged
Almer and Biener—with much regret, for no two men ever served me more
faithfully or more willingly.(208) On the next day they crossed to
Zermatt.
The 8th was occupied with preparations. The weather was stormy; and black,
rainy vapours obscured the mountains. Towards evening a young man came
from Val Tournanche, and reported that an Englishman was lying there,
extremely ill. Now was the time for the performance of my vow;(209) and on
the morning of Sunday the 9th I went down the valley to look after the
sick man. On my way I passed a foreign gentleman, with a mule and several
porters laden with baggage. Amongst these men were Jean-Antoine and Cæsar,
carrying some barometers. “Hullo!” I said, “what are you doing?” They
explained that the foreigner had arrived just as they were setting out,
and that they were assisting his porters. “Very well; go on to Breil, and
await me there; we start at midnight as agreed.” Jean-Antoine then said
that he should not be able to serve me after Tuesday the 11th, as he was
engaged to travel “with a family of distinction” in the valley of Aosta.
“And Cæsar?” “And Cæsar also.” “Why did you not say this before?”
“Because,” said he, “it was not settled. The engagement is of long
standing, but _the day_ was not fixed. When I got back to Val Tournanche
on Friday night, after leaving you, I found a letter naming the day.” I
could not object to the answer; but the prospect of being left guideless
was provoking. They went up, and I down, the valley.
The sick man declared that he was better, though the exertion of saying as
much tumbled him over on to the floor in a fainting fit. He was badly in
want of medicine, and I tramped down to Chatillon to get it. It was late
before I returned to Val Tournanche, for the weather was tempestuous, and
rain fell in torrents. A figure passed me under the church porch. “_Qui
vive?_” “Jean-Antoine.” “I thought you were at Breil.” “No, sir: when the
storms came on I knew we should not start to-night, and so came down to
sleep here.” “Ha, Carrel!” I said; “this is a great bore. If to-morrow is
not fine we shall not be able to do anything together. I have sent away my
guides, relying on you; and now you are going to leave me to travel with a
party of ladies. That work is not fit for _you_ (he smiled, I supposed at
the implied compliment); can’t you send some one else instead?” “No,
monsieur. I am sorry, but my word is pledged. I should like to accompany
you, but I can’t break my engagement.” By this time we had arrived at the
inn door. “Well, it is no fault of yours. Come presently with Cæsar, and
have some wine.” They came, and we sat up till midnight, recounting our
old adventures, in the inn of Val Tournanche.
The weather continued bad upon the 10th, and I returned to Breil. The two
Carrels were again hovering about the above mentioned chalet, and I bade
them adieu. In the evening the sick man crawled up, a good deal better;
but his was the only arrival. The Monday crowd(210) did not cross the
Théodule, on account of the continued storms. The inn was lonely. I went
to bed early, and was awoke the next morning by the invalid inquiring if I
had “heard the news.” “No; what news?” “Why,” said he, “a large party of
guides went off this morning to try the Matterhorn, taking with them a
mule laden with provisions.”
I went to the door, and with a telescope saw the party upon the lower
slopes of the mountain. Favre, the landlord, stood by. “What is all this
about?” I inquired, “who is the leader of this party?” “Carrel.” “What!
Jean-Antoine?” “Yes; Jean-Antoine.” “Is Cæsar there too?” “Yes, he is
there.” Then I saw in a moment that I had been bamboozled and humbugged;
and learned, bit by bit, that the affair had been arranged long
beforehand. The start on the 6th had been for a preliminary
reconnaissance; the mule, that I passed, was conveying stores for the
attack; the “family of distinction” was Signor F. Giordano, who had just
despatched the party to facilitate the way to the summit, and who, when
the facilitation was completed, was to be taken to the top along with
Signor Sella!(211)
I was greatly mortified. My plans were upset; the Italians had clearly
stolen a march upon me, and I saw that the astute Favre chuckled over my
discomfiture, because the route by the eastern face, if successful, would
not benefit his inn. What was to be done? I retired to my room, and
soothed by tobacco, re-studied my plans, to see if it was not possible to
outmanœuvre the Italians.
“They have taken a mule’s load of provisions.” “That is _one_ point in my
favour, for they will take two or three days to get through the food, and,
until that is done, no work will be accomplished.” “How is the weather?” I
went to the window. The mountain was smothered up in mist. “Another point
in my favour.” “They are to facilitate the way. Well, if they do that to
any purpose, it will be a long job.” Altogether, I reckoned that they
could not possibly ascend the mountain and come back to Breil in less than
seven days. I got cooler, for it was evident that the wily ones might be
outwitted after all. There was time enough to go to Zermatt, to try the
eastern face, and, should it prove impracticable, to come back to Breil
before the men returned; and then, it seemed to me, as the mountain was
not padlocked, one might start at the same time as the Messieurs, and yet
get to the top before them.
The first thing to do was to go to Zermatt. Easier said than done. The
seven guides upon the mountain included the ablest men in the valley, and
none of the ordinary muleteer-guides were at Breil. Two men, at least,
were wanted for my baggage, but not a soul could be found. I ran about,
and sent about in all directions, but not a single porter could be
obtained. One was with Carrel; another was ill; another was at Chatillon,
and so forth. Even Meynet, the hunchback, could not be induced to come; he
was in the thick of some important cheese-making operations. I was in the
position of a general without an army; it was all very well to make plans,
but there was no one to execute them. This did not much trouble me, for it
was evident that so long as the weather stopped traffic over the Théodule
pass, it would hinder the men equally upon the Matterhorn; and I knew that
directly it improved company would certainly arrive.
About midday on Tuesday the 11th a large party hove in sight from Zermatt,
preceded by a nimble young Englishman, and one of old Peter Taugwalder’s
sons.(212) I went at once to this gentleman to learn if he could dispense
with Taugwalder. He said that he could not, as they were going to recross
to Zermatt on the morrow, but that the young man should assist in
transporting my baggage, as he had nothing to carry. We naturally got into
conversation. I told my story, and learned that the young Englishman was
Lord Francis Douglas,(213) whose recent exploit—the ascent of the
Gabelhorn—had excited my wonder and admiration. He brought good news. Old
Peter had lately been beyond the Hörnli, and had reported that he thought
an ascent of the Matterhorn was possible upon that side. Almer had left
Zermatt, and could not be recovered, so I determined to seek for old
Peter. Lord Francis Douglas expressed a warm desire to ascend the
mountain, and before long it was determined that he should take part in
the expedition.
Favre could no longer hinder our departure, and lent us one of his men. We
crossed the Col Théodule on Wednesday morning the 12th of July, rounded
the foot of the Ober Théodulgletscher, crossed the Furggengletscher, and
deposited tent, blankets, ropes, and other matters in the little chapel at
the Schwarzsee.(214) All four were heavily laden, for we brought across
the whole of my stores from Breil. Of rope alone there was about 600 feet.
There were three kinds. First, 200 feet of the Manilla rope; second, 150
feet of a stouter, and probably stronger rope than the first; and third,
more than 200 feet of a lighter and weaker rope than the first, of a kind
that I used formerly (stout sash-line).
We descended to Zermatt, sought and engaged old Peter, and gave him
permission to choose another guide. When we returned to the Monte Rosa
Hotel, whom should we see sitting upon the wall in front but my old _guide
chef_, Michel Croz. I supposed that he had come with Mr. B——, but I
learned that that gentleman had arrived in ill health, at Chamounix, and
had returned to England. Croz, thus left free, had been immediately
engaged by the Rev. Charles Hudson, and they had come to Zermatt with the
same object as ourselves—namely, to attempt the ascent of the Matterhorn!
Lord Francis Douglas and I dined at the Monte Rosa, and had just finished
when Mr. Hudson and a friend entered the _salle à manger_. They had
returned from inspecting the mountain, and some idlers in the room
demanded their intentions. We heard a confirmation of Croz’s statement,
and learned that Mr. Hudson intended to set out on the morrow at the same
hour as ourselves. We left the room to consult, and agreed it was
undesirable that two independent parties should be on the mountain at the
same time with the same object. Mr. Hudson was therefore invited to join
us, and he accepted our proposal. Before admitting his friend—Mr. Hadow—I
took the precaution to inquire what he had done in the Alps, and, as well
as I remember, Mr. Hudson’s reply was, “Mr. Hadow has done Mont Blanc in
less time than most men.” He then mentioned several other excursions that
were unknown to me, and added, in answer to a further question, “I
consider he is a sufficiently good man to go with us.” Mr. Hadow was
admitted without any further question, and we then went into the matter of
guides. Hudson thought that Croz and old Peter would be sufficient. The
question was referred to the men themselves, and they made no objection.
So Croz and I became comrades once more; and as I threw myself on my bed
and tried to go to sleep, I wondered at the strange series of chances
which had first separated us and then brought us together again. I thought
of the mistake through which he had accepted the engagement to Mr. B——; of
his unwillingness to adopt my route; of his recommendation to transfer our
energies to the chain of Mont Blanc; of the retirement of Almer and
Biener; of the desertion of Carrel; of the arrival of Lord Francis
Douglas; and, lastly, of our meeting at Zermatt; and as I pondered over
these things I could not help asking, “What next?” If any one of the links
of this fatal chain of circumstances had been omitted, what a different
story I should have to tell!