ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN.
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 feet) to Chermontane. We slept that night at the châlets
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 feet), 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
neighbor, 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 Becs and Beccas, backed by the great Italian
peaks, whilst to the north Mont Pleureur (12,159 feet) holds its own
against the more distant Wildstrubel.
We gained the summit at 9.15, 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 neighboring peaks.
From thence we proceeded across the great Otemma glacier toward 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, but said afterward 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 after the centre of the glacier was passed, changed
it again and made directly for the summit of the Col d’Olen.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, after what has been before said,
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
course 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 thirteen times since then, and have invariably
insisted upon being tied.
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 tomfools, 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 my voice against the neglect of a precaution so
simple and so effectual. In my opinion, the very first thing a
glacier-traveler 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 Manila and another of Italian hemp. The former is
the heavier, and weighs a little more than an ounce per foot (103
ounces to 100 feet). The latter weighs 79 ounces per 100 feet, but I
prefer the Manila rope, because it is more easy to handle. Both of
these ropes will sustain 168 pounds falling 10 feet, or 196 pounds
falling 8 feet, and they break with a dead weight of two tons. In 1865
we carried two 100-feet lengths of the Manila 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 THE ROPE.]
[Illustration: THE RIGHT WAY TO USE THE ROPE.]
It is of the first importance to keep the rope taut from man to man.
There is no real security if this is not done, 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,[63] 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.
[63] For example, when the leader suspects crevasses, and _sounds_ for
them, in the manner shown in the engraving, he usually loses half a
step or more. The second man should take a turn of the rope around his
hand to draw it back in case the leader goes through.
The distance from man to man must be neither too great nor too small.
About twelve feet is sufficient. If there are only two or three
persons, it is prudent to allow a little more—say fifteen feet. More
than this is unnecessary, and less than nine or ten 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 Manila 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.
From the Col d’Olen we proceeded down the combe of the same name to the
châlets 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 Cornere Pass, en route for Breuil. 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 Breuil, 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 Breuil, fully expecting to meet them. Nor was I
disappointed. About halfway up I saw a group of men clustered around a
châlet 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, thev 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
Breuil, and discharged Almer and Biener—with much regret, for no two
men ever served me more faithfully or more willingly.[64] On the next
day they crossed to Zermatt.
[64] During the preceding eighteen clays (I exclude Sundays and other
non-working days) we ascended more than 100,000 feet, and descended
98,000 feet.
The 8th was occupied with preparations. The weather was stormy, and
black, rainy vapors obscured the mountains. Toward 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,
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 Breuil, 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
Breuil.” “No, sir: when the storm 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 Breuil. The
two Carrels were again hovering about the above-mentioned châlet, 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[65] 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.”
[65] Tourists usually congregate at Zermatt upon Sundays, and large
gangs and droves cross the Theodule pass on Mondays.
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![66]
[66] The Italian Minister. Signor Giordano had undertaken the business
arrangements for Signor Sella.
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-load of
provisions.” That is _one_ point in my favor, 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 favor. “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 Breuil 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 Breuil 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 Breuil. 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, 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.[67] 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,[68] 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.
[67] Peter Taugwalder, the father, is called to distinguish him from
his eldest son, _young_ Peter. In 1860 the father’s age was about 45.
[68] Brother of the present Marquis of Queensberry.
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 Theodulgletscher, crossed the
Furggengletscher, and deposited tent, blankets, ropes and other things
in the little chapel at the Schwarz-see. All four were heavily laden,
for we brought across the whole of my stores from Breuil. Of rope alone
there were about six hundred feet. There were three kinds: first, two
hundred feet of Manila rope; second, one hundred and fifty feet of a
stouter and probably stronger rope than the first; and third, more than
two hundred 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 accidental 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!