THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE
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 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 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.
Mr. Kennedy described his expedition in a very interesting paper in the
_Alpine Journal_. His account bore the impress of truth, but
unbelievers said that it was impossible to have told (in weather such
as was then experienced) whether the summit had actually been attained,
and sometimes roundly asserted that the mountain, as the saying is, yet
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 châlets of Abricolla the southwest 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.
[Illustration: THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865]
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 metres: then a bridge was discovered, and we dropped down on hands
and knees to cross it.
A bergschrund, it has been said, is a schrund and something more than a
schrund. A schrund is simply a big crevasse: a bergschrund is
frequently, but not always, a big crevasse. The term is applied to the
last of the crevasses 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.
We crossed the bergschrund of the Dent Blanche, I suppose, at a height
of about twelve thousand 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 twenty-four hundred feet which compose this
south-western face; and inasmuch as one thousand 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 bàton to the
right place to clutch. Then ’twas Croz’s turn, and we all drew in the
rope as the great man followed. “Forward” 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, or be, more completely
inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its northern and north-west sides.
“Forward” 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 the mist, though 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 de pierres_,” he bawled. It was needless
to proceed farther: I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we
would 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.
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
bàtons 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 afterward 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 by 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
châlets 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.[48]
[48] The ascent of the Dent Blanche is the hardest that I have made.
There was nothing upon it so difficult as the last 500 feet of the
Pointe des Ecrins; but, on the other hand, there was hardly a step
upon it which was positively easy. The whole of the face required
actual climbing. There was, probably, very little difference in
difficulty between the route we took in 1865, and that followed by Mr.
Kennedy in 1862.
Two days afterward, 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.
[Illustration: T. S. KENNEDY]