THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT.
On July 10, Croz and I went to Sierre, in the Valais, viâ the Col de
Balme, the Col de la Forclaz and Martigny. The Swiss side of the
Forclaz is not creditable to Switzerland. The path from Martigny to the
summit has undergone successive improvements in these latter years, but
mendicants permanently disfigure it.
We passed many tired pedestrians toiling up this oven, persecuted by
trains of parasitic children. These children swarm there like maggots
in a rotten cheese. They carry baskets of fruit with which to plague
the weary tourist. They flit around him like flies; they thrust the
fruit in his face; they pester him with their pertinacity. Beware of
them!—taste, touch not their fruit. In the eyes of these children each
peach, each grape, is worth a prince’s r ansom. It is of no use to be
angry: it is like flapping wasps—they only buzz the more. Whatever you
do or whatever you say, the end will be the same. “Give me something”
is the alpha and omega of all their addresses. They learn the phrase,
it is said, before they are taught the alphabet. It is in all their
mouths. From the tiny toddler up to the maiden of sixteen, there is
nothing heard but one universal chorus of “Give me something: will you
have the goodness to give me something?”
From Sierre we went up the Val d’Anniviers to Zinal, to join our former
companions, Moore and Almer. Moore was ambitious to discover a shorter
way from Zinal to Zermatt than the two passes which were known.[33] He
had shown to me, upon Dufour’s map, that a direct line connecting the
two places passed exactly over the depression between the
Zinal-Rothhorn and the Schallhorn. He was confident that a passage
could be effected over this depression, and was sanguine that it would
(in consequence of its directness) prove to be a quicker route than the
circuitous ones over the Triftjoch and the Col Durand.
[33] The Col de Zinal or Triftjoch, between the Trifthorn and the Ober
Gabelhorn; and the Col Durand between the last-mentioned mountain and
the Dent Blanche.
For our route from Zinal to Zermatt, see the map of the valley of
Zermatt.
He was awaiting us, and we immediately proceeded up the valley and
across the foot of the Zinal glacier to the Arpitetta Alp, where a
châlet was supposed to exist in which we might pass the night. We found
it at length[34], but it was not equal to our expectations. It was not
one of those fine timbered châlets with huge overhanging eaves, covered
with pious sentences carved in unintelligible characters. It was a
hovel, growing, as it were, out of the hillside, roofed with rough
slabs of slaty stone, without door or window, surrounded by quagmires
of ordure and dirt of every description.
[34] High above the Glacier de Moming at the foot of the Crête de
Milton.
A foul native invited us to enter. The interior was dark, but when our
eyes became accustomed to the gloom we saw that our palace was in plan
about fifteen by twenty feet: on one side it was scarcely five feet
high, but on the other was nearly seven. On this side there was a
raised platform about six feet wide, littered with dirty straw and
still dirtier sheepskins. This was the bed-room. The remainder of the
width of the apartment was the parlor. The rest was the factory. Cheese
was the article which was being fabricated, and the foul native was
engaged in its manufacture. He was garnished behind with a regular
cowherd’s one-legged stool, which gave him a queer, uncanny look when
it was elevated in the air as he bent over into his tub, for the making
of his cheese required him to blow into a tub for ten minutes at a
time. He then squatted on his stool to gain breath, and took a few
whiffs at a short pipe, after which he blew away more vigorously than
before. We were told that this procedure was necessary: it appeared to
us to be nasty. It accounts, perhaps, for the flavor possessed by
certain Swiss cheeses.
Big black and leaden-colored clouds rolled up from Zinal, and met in
combat on the Morning glacier with others which descended from the
Rothhorn. Down came the rain in torrents and crash went the thunder.
The herd-boys hurried under shelter, for the frightened cattle needed
no driving, and tore spontaneously down the Alp as if running a
steeple-chase: Men, cows, pigs, sheep and goats forgot their mutual
animosities, and rushed to the only refuge on the mountain. The spell
was broken which had bound the elements for some weeks past, and the
cirque from the Weisshorn to Lo Besso was the theatre in which they
spent their fury.
A sullen morning succeeded an angry night. We were undecided in our
council whether to advance or to return down the valley. Good seemed
likely to overpower bad; so, at 5.40, we left the châlet _en route_ for
our pass [amidst the most encouraging assurances from all the people on
the Alp that we need not distress ourselves about the weather, as it
was not possible to get to the point at which we were aiming].[35]
[35] Moore’s Journal.
Our course led us at first over ordinary mountain-slopes, and then over
a flat expanse of glacier. Before this was quitted it was needful to
determine the exact line which was to be taken. We were divided betwixt
two opinions. I advocated that a course should be steered due south,
and that the upper plateau of the Moming glacier should be attained by
making a great detour to our right. This was negatived without a
division. Almer declared in favor of making for some rocks to the
south-west of the Schallhorn, and attaining the upper plateau of the
glacier by mounting them. Croz advised a middle course, up some very
steep and broken glacier. Croz’s route seemed likely to turn out to be
impracticable, because much step-cutting would be required upon it.
Almer’s rocks did not look good: they were, possibly, unassailable. I
thought both routes were bad, and declined to vote for either of them.
Moore hesitated, Almer gave way, and Croz’s route was adopted.
He did not go very far, however, before he found that he had undertaken
too much, and after [glancing occasionally round at us, to see what we
thought about it, suggested that it might, after all, be wiser to take
to the rocks of the Schallhorn]. That is to say, he suggested the
abandonment of his own and the adoption of Almer’s route. No one
opposed the change of plan, and in the absence of instructions to the
contrary he proceeded to cut steps across an ice-slope toward the
rocks.
When we quitted the slopes of the Arpitetta Alp we took a
south-easterly course over the Morning glacier. We halted to settle the
plan of attack shortly after we got upon the ice. The rocks of the
Schallhorn, whose ascent Almer recommended, were then to our southeast.
Croz’s proposed route was to the south-west of the rocks, and led up
the southern side of a very steep and broken glacier.[36] The part he
intended to traverse was, in a sense, undoubtedly practicable. He gave
it up because it would have involved too much step-cutting. But the
part of this glacier which intervened between his route and Almer’s
rocks was, in the most complete sense of the word, impracticable. It
passed over a continuation of the rocks, and was broken in half by
them. The upper portion was separated from the lower portion by a long
slope of ice that had been built up from the débris of the glacier
which had fallen from above. The foot of this slope was surrounded by
immense quantities of the larger avalanche blocks. These we cautiously
skirted, and when Croz halted they had been left far below, and we were
halfway up the side of the great slope which led to the base of the
ice-wall above.
[36] Through what is technically called an “ice-fall.”
Across this ice-slope Croz now proceeded to cut. It was executing a
flank movement in the face of an enemy by whom we might be attacked at
any moment. The peril was obvious. It was a monstrous folly. It was
foolhardiness. A retreat should have been sounded.[37]
[37] The responsibility did not rest with Croz. His part was to
advise, but not to direct.
“I am not ashamed to confess,” wrote Moore in his Journal, “that during
the whole time we were crossing this slope my heart was in my mouth,
and I never felt relieved from such a load of care as when, after, I
suppose, a passage of about twenty minutes, we got on to the rocks and
were in safety…I have never heard a positive oath come from Almer’s
mouth, but the language in which he kept up a running commentary, more
to himself than to me, as we went along, was stronger than I should
have given him credit for using. His prominent feeling seemed to be one
of _indignation_ that we should be in such a position, and
self-reproach at being a party to the proceeding; while the emphatic
way in which, at intervals, he exclaimed, ‘Quick! be quick!’
sufficiently betokened his alarm.”
It was not necessary to admonish Croz to be quick. He was as fully
alive to the risk as any of the others. He told me afterward that this
place was not only the most dangerous he had ever crossed, but that no
consideration whatever would tempt him to cross it again. Manfully did
he exert himself to escape from the impending destruction. His head,
bent down to his work, never turned to the right or to the left. One,
two, three, went his axe, and then he stepped on to the spot where he
had been cutting. How painfully insecure should we have considered
those steps at any other time! But now we thought of nothing but the
rocks in front, and of the hideous _séracs_, lurching over above us,
apparently in the act of falling.
We got to the rocks in safety, and if they had been doubly as difficult
as they were, we should still have been well content. We sat down and
refreshed the inner man, keeping our eyes on the towering pinnacles of
ice under which we had passed, but which now were almost beneath us.
Without a preliminary warning sound one of the largest—as high as the
Monument at London Bridge—fell upon the slope below. The stately mass
heeled over as if upon a hinge (holding together until it bent thirty
degrees forward), then it crushed out its base, and, rent into a
thousand fragments, plunged vertically down upon the slope that we had
crossed! Every atom of our track that was in its course was
obliterated: all the new snow was swept away, and a broad sheet of
smooth, glassy ice showed the resistless force with which it had
fallen.
[Illustration: ICE-AVALANCHE ON THE MOMING PASS]
It was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy to
understand why it was taken. To have retreated from the place where
Croz suggested a change of plan, to have descended below the reach of
danger, and to have mounted again by the route which Almer suggested,
would have been equivalent to abandoning the excursion, for no one
would have passed another night in the châlet on the Arpitetta Alp.
“Many,” says Thucydides, “though seeing well the perils ahead, are
forced along by fear of dishonor, as the world calls it, so that,
vanquished by a mere word, they fall into irremediable calamities.”
Such was nearly the case here. No one could say a word in justification
of the course which was adopted; all were alive to the danger that was
being encountered; yet a grave risk was deliberately, although
unwillingly incurred, in preference to admitting, by withdrawal from an
untenable position, that an error of judgment had been committed.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1861.]
After a laborious trudge over many species of snow, and through many
varieties of vapor—from the quality of a Scotch mist to that of a
London fog—we at length stood on the depression between the Rothhorn
and the Schallhorn.[38] A steep wall of snow was upon the Zinal side of
the summit, but what the descent was like on the other side we could
not tell, for a billow of snow tossed over its crest by the western
winds, suspended over Zermatt with motion arrested, resembling an ocean
wave frozen in the act of breaking, cut off the view.[39] Croz, held
hard in by the others, who kept down the Zinal side, opened his
shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away the cornice to its
junction with the summit; then boldly leaped down, and called on us to
follow him.
[38] The summit of the pass has been marked on Dufour’s map 3793
mètres, or 12,444 feet.
[39] These snow-cornices are common on the crests of high mountain
ridges, and it is always prudent (just before arriving upon the summit
of a mountain or ridge) to _sound_ with the alpenstock, that is to
say, drive it in, to discover whether there is one or not. Men have
often narrowly escaped losing their lives from neglecting this
precaution.
These cornices are frequently rolled round in a volute, and
sometimes take most extravagant forms. See page 34.
It was well for us now that we had such a man as leader. An inferior or
less daring guide would have hesitated to enter upon the descent in a
dense mist, and Croz himself would have done right to pause had he been
less magnificent in _physique_. He acted rather than said, “Where snow
lies fast, there man can go; where ice exists, a way may be cut; it is
a question of power: I have the power—all you have to do is to follow
me.” Truly, he did not spare himself, and could he have performed the
feats upon the boards of a theatre that he did upon this occasion, he
would have brought down the house with thunders of applause. Here is
what Moore wrote in _his_ Journal:
[The descent bore a strong resemblance to the Col de Pilatte, but was
very much steeper and altogether more difficult, which is saying a good
deal. Croz was in his element, and selected his way with marvelous
sagacity, while Almer had an equally honorable, and perhaps more
responsible, post in the rear, which he kept with his usual steadiness…
One particular passage has impressed itself on my mind as one of the
most nervous I have ever made. We had to pass along a crest of ice, a
mere knife-edge—on our left a broad crevasse, whose bottom was lost in
blue haze, and on our right, at an angle of seventy degrees or more, a
slope falling to a similar gulf below. Croz, as he went along the edge,
chipped small notches in the ice, in which we placed our feet, with the
toes well turned out, doing all we knew to preserve our balance. While
stepping from one of these precarious footholds to another, I staggered
for a moment. I had not really lost my footing, but the agonized tone
in which Almer, who was behind me, on seeing me waver, exclaimed, “Slip
not, sir!” gave us an even livelier impression than we already had of
the insecurity of the position…One huge chasm, whose upper edge was far
above the lower one, could neither be leaped nor turned, and threatened
to prove an insuperable barrier. But Croz showed himself equal to the
emergency. Held up by the rest of the party, he cut a series of holes
for the hands and feet, down and along the almost perpendicular wall of
ice forming the upper side of the _schrund_. Down this slippery
staircase we crept, with our faces to the wall, until a point was
reached where the width of the chasm was not too great, for us to drop
across. Before we had done we got quite accustomed to taking flying
leaps over the _schrunds_.... To make a long story short: after a most
desperate and exciting struggle, and as bad a piece of ice-work as it
is possible to imagine, we emerged on to the upper plateau of the
Hohlicht glacier.]
The glimpses which had been caught of the lower part of the Hohlicht
glacier were discouraging, so it was now determined to cross over the
ridge between it and the Rothhorn glacier. This was not done without
great trouble. Again we rose to a height exceeding twelve thousand
feet. Eventually we took to the track of the despised Triftjoch, and
descended by the well-known but rough path which leads to that pass,
arriving at the Monte Rosa hotel at Zermatt at 7.20 P.M. We occupied
nearly twelve hours of actual walking in coming from the châlet on the
Arpitetta Alp (which was two and a half hours above Zinal), and we
consequently found that the Moming pass was not the shortest route from
Zinal to Zermatt, although it was the most direct.
Two dozen guides—good, bad and indifferent, French, Swiss and
Italian—can commonly be seen sitting on the wall in front of the Monte
Rosa hotel, waiting on their employers and looking for employers,
watching new arrivals, and speculating on the number of francs which
may be extracted from their pockets. The _Messieurs_—sometimes
strangely and wonderfully dressed—stand about in groups, or lean back
in chairs, or lounge on the benches which are placed by the door. They
wear extraordinary boots, and still more remarkable head-dresses. Their
peeled, blistered and swollen faces are worth studying. Some, by the
exercise of watchfulness and unremitting care, have been fortunate
enough to acquire a fine raw sienna complexion. But most of them have
not been so happy. They have been scorched on rocks and roasted on
glaciers. Their cheeks—first puffed, then cracked—have exuded a
turpentine-like matter, which has coursed down their faces, and has
dried in patches like the resin on the trunks of pines. They have
removed it, and at the same time have pulled off large flakes of their
skin. They have gone from bad to worse—their case has be come
hopeless—knives and scissors have been called into play: tenderly and
daintily they have endeavored to reduce their cheeks to one uniform
hue. It is not to be done. But they have gone on, fascinated, and at
last have brought their unhappy countenances to a state of helpless and
complete ruin. Their lips are cracked, their cheeks are swollen, their
eyes are bloodshot, their noses are peeled and indescribable.
Such are the pleasures of the mountaineer! Scornfully and derisively
the last-comer compares the sight with his own flaccid face and dainty
hands, unconscious that he too, perhaps, will be numbered with those
whom he now ridicules.
There is a frankness of manner about these strangely-appareled and
queer-faced men which does not remind one of drawing-room or city life;
and it is good to see—in this club-room of Zermatt—those cold bodies,
our too-frigid countrymen, melt together when they are brought into
contact; and it is pleasant to witness the hearty welcome given to the
new-comers by the host and his excellent wife.[40]
[40] This opportunity has been taken to introduce to the reader some
of the most expert amateur mountaineers of the time; and a few of the
guides who have been, or will be, mentioned in the course of the book.
Peter Perrn is on the extreme right. Then come young Peter
Taugwalder (upon the bench); and J. J. Maquignaz (leaning against
the door-post). Franz Andermatten occupies the steps, and Ulrich
Lauener towers in the background.
[Illustration: THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT, IN 1864]
I left this agreeable society to seek letters at the post. They yielded
disastrous intelligence. My holiday was brought to an abrupt
termination, and I awaited the arrival of Reilly (who was convoying the
stores for the attack on the Matterhorn) only to inform him that our
arrangements were upset; then traveled home, day and night, as fast as
express-trains would carry me.