LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
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.
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 suppose, about halfway up, when a
little thin cloud dropped down upon us from above, but it was so light,
so gauzy, that we did not for a moment suppose that 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 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, but then, it seemed to me, 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 tiptop 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, but 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 châlet in due
course, and went to bed supper-less, 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 of little use afterward,
except to tell us when we were going _wrong._
We arrived at Zermatt in six and a half hours’ walking from Abricolla,
and Seiler’s hospitable reception set us all right again. On the 20th
we crossed the Théodule pass, and diverged from its summit up the
Theodulhorn (11,391) to examine a route which I suggested for the
ascent of the Matterhorn; but 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 Matterhorn may be divided into three sections—the first facing the
Z’Muttgletscher, which looks, and is, completely unassailable; the
second facing the east, which seems inaccessibility itself; the third
facing Breuil, which does not look entirely hopeless. It was from this
last direction that all my previous attempts were made. It was by the
southwestern 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?
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG]
I gave it up for four reasons: 1. On account of my growing
disinclination for arêtes, and preference for snow and rock faces. 2.
Because I was persuaded that meteorological disturbances (by which we
had been baffled several times) might be expected to occur again and
again. 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.
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
halfway 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 Görnergrat, 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 seventy degrees. If the
tourist continues to go southward, 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 in the accompanying engraving about halfway 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°.[49] 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
châlets 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°.
[49] I prefer to be on the safe side. My impression is that snow
cannot accumulate in large masses _at_ 45°.
A great step was made when this was learned. 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 three thousand feet.
1 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, which rise toward 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 outward, and that
fractured edges overhang. This is shown very clearly in the annexed
diagram, Fig. 1. It will be readily understood that such an arrangement
is not favorable 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.[50]
[50] Weathered granite is an admirable rock to climb; its gritty
texture giving excellent hold to the nails in one’s boots. But upon
such metamorphic schists as compose the mass of the great peak of the
Matterhorn, the texture of the rock itself is of no value.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
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.[51]
[51] I refer here only to that portion of the ridge which is between
the Col du Lion and the Great Tower. The remarks would not apply to
the rocks higher up (see p. 118); higher still the rocks are firm
again; yet higher (upon the “Shoulder”) they are much disintegrated;
and then, upon the final peak, they are again firm.
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 forty-five degrees.” Forbes noticed it also, but
gave it as his opinion that the beds were “less inclined, or nearly
horizontal.” He added, “De Saussure is no doubt correct.” 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.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
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 inward;
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, so 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; 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.
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, 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 downward; in short, that
the character of the whole of that side is similar to Fig. 1; and that
upon the left hand (or south-east) ridge the forms, so far as they go,
are suggestive of the structure shown by Fig. 2, above. 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. 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. 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 Breuil. 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 Breuil.
We started at 5.45 A.M. on June 21, and followed the route of the
Breuiljoch 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
favorable 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 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 toward 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 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 more 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, while all four cowered under defending rocks,
endeavoring 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.
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 you are out
of harm’s way if you follow 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, but 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 (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 il 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 Breuil, and on to Val
Tournanche, where we slept; and the next day proceeded to Chatillon,
and thence up the valley of Aosto to Cormayeur.
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
afterward he perished before my eyes on the very mountain from which we
turned away, at his advice on the 21st of June.