OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
Carrel had _carte blanche_ in the matter of guides, and his choice fell
upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet and two others whose names I do not
know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were
completed, as the weather was clearing up.
We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the
mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the
10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy
termination to our enterprise.
By going always, but gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before
nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the
platform whereon my tent had stood looked very forlorn; its stones had
been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared; and the
summit of the col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably
broad and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church
roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of
the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet
below the col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered
the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through
its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and
raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but just as it was highest
the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down
in serpentine streams, leaving long bare strips, which glittered in the
sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung
himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once
secured. He simply remarked, “It is time we were tied up,” and after we
had been tied up he went to work again as if nothing had happened.
We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of
a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced
generally in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another
man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet when
there was need; and when this couple were well placed, the second pair
advanced in similar fashion, the rope being drawn in by those above and
paid out gradually by those below. The leading men advanced, or the
third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow but sure.
One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did
slip), he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the
others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the
one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to
the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For
these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under
ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The
snow-water, which had trickled down for many days past in little
streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to
ascend; and, re-frozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we
had to pass—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of
paper, and sometimes so thickly that we could almost cut footsteps in
it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted
to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.
We went on gayly, passed the second tent-platform, the Chimney and the
other well-remembered points, and reckoned confidently on sleeping that
night upon the top of “the shoulder;” but before we had well arrived at
the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to
look out.
It was difficult to say where this air came from: it did not blow as a
wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath. All was
tranquil again: the atmosphere _showed_ no signs of disturbance: there
was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we
did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and
this time it was difficult to say where it did not come from. We jammed
down our hats as it beat against the ridge and screamed amongst the
crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower mists had been formed
above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in
several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn
into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were
united together and rent again, showing us the blue sky for a moment,
and blotting it out the next, and augmented incessantly until the whole
heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take
off our packs and get under any kind of shelter a hurricane of snow
burst upon us from the east. It fell so thickly that in a few minutes
the ridge was covered by it. “What shall we do?” I shouted to Carrel.
“Monsieur,” said he, “the wind is bad, the weather has changed, we are
heavily laden. Here is a fine _gîte;_ let us stop. If we go on we shall
be half frozen. That is _my_ opinion.” No one differed from him; so we
fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours
completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had
blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before
a thunder-storm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked lightning
shot out at the turrets above and at the crags below. It was so close
that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us: we were in the
very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes,
short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door violently slammed,
multiplied a thousand-fold, than any noise to which I can compare it.
When I say that the thunder was _simultaneous_ with the lightning, I
speak as an inexact person. My meaning is, that the time which elapsed
between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to
me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two
points in regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some
accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from
our party. We _might_ have been eleven hundred feet from it if a second
of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports;
and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was
certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the
lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the
ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably
less) than a thousand feet distant.
[Illustration: THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT,
AUGUST 10, 1863]
Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which
are merely echoes from true thunder or the noise which occurs
simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some
length in his Meteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would
ever be possible to determine whether echoes are _always_ the cause of
the rolling sounds commonly called thunder. I shall not attempt to show
whether the rolling sounds should ever or never be regarded as true
thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was
possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds
(rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first,
original sound.
At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one
so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw
crowds for its own sake): I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent
d’Hérens. It was a favorite amusement with us to rouse this echo, which
repeated any sharp cry in a very distinct manner several times, after
the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted
nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged
rollings from the surrounding mountains after one flash had not usually
ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and
maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a
pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a
single discharge, and after such times I could recognize the echoes
from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length
of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they
were the echoes.
If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have
supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which
had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely
distinguishable from the true thunder, which during this storm seemed
to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single harsh, instantaneous
sound.[13]
[13] The same has seemed to me to be the case at all times when I have
been close to the points of explosion. There has been always a
distinct interval between the first explosion and the rolling sounds
and secondary explosions which I have _believed_ to be merely echoes;
but it has never been possible (except in the above-mentioned case) to
_identify_ them as such.
Others have observed the same. “The geologist, Professor Theobald,
of Chur, who was in the Solferino storm, between the Tschiertscher
and Urden Alp, in the electric clouds, says that the peals were
short, like cannon shots, but of a clearer, more cracking tone, and
that the rolling of the thunder was only heard further on.”
Berlepsch’s _Alps_, English ed., p. 133.
Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand
feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report
almost in the same moment as we saw the flash, am the rollings after a
considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original
report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes,
we should probably have considered that the successive reports and
rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring
nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.
This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have
obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes, and
that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges
over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator,
and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment,
although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more
or less continuous.[14]
[14] Mr. J. Glaislier has frequently pointed out that all sounds in
balloons at some distance from the earth are notable for their
brevity. “It is one sound only; _there is no reverberation, no
reflection;_ and this is characteristic of all sounds in the balloon,
one clear sound, continuing during its own vibrations, then gone in a
moment.” (_Good Words_, 1863, p. 224.)
I learn from Mr. Glaislier that the thunder claps which have been
heard by him during his ‘travels in the air’ have been no exception
to the general rule, and the absence of rolling has fortified his
belief that the rolling sounds which accompany thunder are echoes,
and echoes _only_.
The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently
from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was
partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be
blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls,
we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind
changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took
the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of
some of the others a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would
accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was
variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a
dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin,
for when the clouds lifted we could see everything that could be seen
from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun
set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night
comfortably, even luxuriously, in our blanket-bags, but there was
little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the
thunder and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of
the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the
Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.
We turned out at 3.30 A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that
it still continued to snow. At 9 A.M. the snow ceased to fall, and the
sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage and set out to
try to get upon “the shoulder.” We struggled upward until eleven
o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council: the
opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I
decided to retreat; for we had risen less than three hundred feet in
the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which
Tyndall’s party left behind attached to the rocks, in 1862. At the same
rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to
get upon “the shoulder.” Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under
the existing circumstances; for, besides having to move our own weight,
which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to
transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, provisions, ladder and
four hundred and fifty feet of rope, besides many other smaller
matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations.
Supposing that we got upon “the shoulder,” we might find ourselves
detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.[15] I
could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in
London at the end of the week. We got to Breuil in the course of the
afternoon: it was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received
our statements with evident skepticism. They were astonished to learn
that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.
“Why,” said Favre, the innkeeper, “_we_ have had no snow: it has been
fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that
small cloud upon the mountain.” Ah! that small cloud! None except those
who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it
is.
[15] Since then (on at least one occasion), several persons have found
themselves in this predicament for five or six consecutive days!
[Illustration: MONSIEUR FAVRE.]
Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations
of weather? The ready answer is, “Oh, the mountain is so isolated, it
attracts the clouds.” This is not a sufficient answer. Although the
mountain _is_ isolated, it is not so much more isolated than the
neighboring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others
do so. It will not at all account for the cloud to which I refer, which
is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together
from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is
created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where
no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the
southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It
frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the
Glacier du Lion and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in
the finest weather—on cloudless and windless days.
I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather
than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I
am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere
of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days principally to the
fact that the mountain is a _rock_ mountain—that it receives a great
amount of heat, and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an
atmosphere of a higher temperature, than such peaks as the Weisshorn
and the Lyskamm, which are eminently _snow_ mountains.
In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably
uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the
thermometer to show seventy degrees in the shade at the top of an
Alpine peak more than thirteen thousand feet high, and but a very few
degrees higher six or seven thousand feet lower. At other times there
will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Fahrenheit) between two
stations, the higher not more than six or seven thousand feet above the
lower.
Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides
of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no
clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere
immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a
local “courant ascendant” must necessarily be generated; and portions
of the cooler superincumbent (or circumjacent) air will naturally be
attracted toward the mountain, where they will speedily condense the
moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the
down-rushes of cold air which occur on it when all the rest of the
neighborhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are
produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different
temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain
colorless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid when mixed together.
The order has been, wind of a low temperature, mist, rain, snow or
hail.
This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behavior of the
neighboring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche
(14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their
southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during
fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn;
whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889)--mountains of
about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to
the former pair--usually remain perfectly clear.
I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and
disconsolate, but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more
eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change; and
returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations and to form new
plans.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE CHANNEL]