THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.
We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July at half-past five, on a
brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. We were eight in
number—Croz, old Peter and his two sons,[69] Lord Francis Douglas,
Hadow, Hudson[70] and I. To ensure steady motion, one tourist and one
native walked together. The youngest Taugwalder fell to my share, and
the lad marched well, proud to be on the expedition and happy to show
his powers. The wine-bags also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout
the day, after each drink, I replenished them secretly with water, so
that at the next halt they were found fuller than before! This was
considered a good omen, and little short of miraculous.
[69] The two young Taugwalders were taken as porters, by desire of
their father, and carried provisions amply sufficient for three days,
in case the ascent should prove more troublesome than we anticipated.
[70] I remember speaking about pedestrianism to a well-known
mountaineer some years ago, and venturing to remark that a man who
averaged thirty miles a-day might be considered a good walker. “A fair
walker,” he said, “a _fair_ walker.“ “What then would you consider
_good_ walking?” “Well,” he replied, “I will tell you. Some time back
a friend and I agreed to go to Switzerland, but a short time
afterwards he wrote to say he ought to let me know that a young and
delicate lad was going with him who would not be equal to great
things, in fact, he would not be able to do more than fifty miles
a-day!” “What became of the young and delicate lad?” “He lives.” “And
who was your extraordinary friend?” “Charles Hudson.” I have every
reason to believe that the gentlemen referred to _were_ equal to
walking more than fifty miles a-day, but they were exceptional, not
_good_ pedestrians.
Charles Hudson, Vicar of Skillington in Lincolnshire, was
considered by the mountaineering fraternity to be the best amateur
of his time. He was the organiser and leader of the party of
Englishmen who ascended Mont Blanc by the Aig. du Goûter, and
descended by the Grands Mulets route, without guides, in 1855. His
long practice made him surefooted, and in that respect he was not
greatly inferior to a born mountaineer. I remember him as a
well-made man of middle height and age, neither stout nor thin,
with face pleasant—though grave, and with quiet unassuming manners.
Although an athletic man, he would have been overlooked in a crowd;
and although he had done the greatest mountaineering feats which
have been done, he was the last man to speak of his own doings. His
friend Mr. Hadow was a young man of nineteen, who had the looks and
manners of a greater age. He was a rapid walker, but 1865 was his
first season in the Alps. Lord Francis Douglas was about the same
age as Mr. Hadow. He had had the advantage of several seasons in
the Alps. He was nimble as a deer, and was becoming an expert
mountaineer. Just before our meeting he had ascended the Ober
Gabelhorn (with old Peter and Jos. Viennin), and this gave me a
high opinion of his powers; for I had examined that mountain all
round, a few weeks before, and had declined its ascent on account
of its apparent difficulty.
My personal acquaintance with Mr. Hudson was very slight—still I
should have been content to have placed myself under his orders if
he had chosen to claim the position to which he was entitled. Those
who knew him will not be surprised to learn that, so far from doing
this, he lost no opportunity of consulting the wishes and opinions
of those around him. We deliberated together whenever there was
occasion, and our authority was recognised by the others. Whatever
responsibility there was devolved upon us. I recollect with
satisfaction that there was no difference of opinion between us as
to what should be done, and that the most perfect harmony existed
between all of us so long as we were together.
On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great height, and
we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely, picked up the things which
were left in the chapel at the Schwarzsee at 8.20, and proceeded thence
along the ridge connecting the Hörnli with the Matterhorn. At half-past
eleven we arrived at the base of the actual peak, then quitted the
ridge and clambered round some ledges on to the eastern face. We were
now fairly upon the mountain, and were astonished to find that places
which from the Riffel, or even from the Furggengletscher, looked
entirely impracticable, were so easy that we could _run about._
Before twelve o’clock we had found a good position for the tent, at a
height of eleven thousand feet.[71] Croz and young Peter went on to see
what was above, in order to save time on the following morning. They
cut across the heads of the snow-slopes which descended toward the
Furggengletscher, and disappeared round a corner, but shortly afterward
we saw them high up on the face, moving quickly. We others made a solid
platform for the tent in a well-protected spot, and then watched
eagerly for the return of the men. The stones which they upset told
that they were very high, and we supposed that the way must be easy. At
length, just before 3 P.M., we saw them coming down, evidently much
excited. “What are they saying, Peter?” “Gentlemen, they say it is no
good.” But when they came near we heard a different story: “Nothing but
what was good—not a difficulty, not a single difficulty! We could have
gone to the summit and returned to-day easily!”
[71] Thus far the guides did not once go to the front. Hudson or I
led, and when any cutting was required we did it ourselves. This was
done to spare the guides, and to show them that we were thoroughly in
earnest. The spot at which we camped was just four hours’ walking from
Zermatt, and is marked upon the map—CAMP (1865). It was just upon a
level with the Furggengrat, and its position is indicated upon the
engraving facing p. 285 by a little circular white spot, in a line
with the word CAMP.
We passed the remaining hours of daylight—some basking in the sunshine,
some sketching or collecting—and when the sun went down, giving, as it
departed, a glorious promise for the morrow, we returned to the tent to
arrange for the night. Hudson made tea, I coffee, and we then retired
each one to his blanket-bag, the Taugwalders, Lord Francis Douglas and
myself occupying the tent, the others remaining, by preference,
outside. Long after dusk the cliffs above echoed with our laughter and
with the songs of the guides, for we were happy that night in camp, and
feared no evil.
We assembled together outside the tent before dawn on the morning of
the 14th, and started directly it was light enough to move. Young Peter
came on with us as a guide, and his brother returned to Zermatt. We
followed the route which had been taken on the previous day, and in a
few minutes turned the rib which had intercepted the view of the
eastern face from our tent platform. The whole of this great slope was
now revealed, rising for three thousand feet like a huge natural
staircase. Some parts were more and others were less easy, but we were
not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment, for when an
obstruction was met in front it could always be turned to the right or
to the left. For the greater part of the way there was indeed no
occasion for the rope, and sometimes Hudson led, sometimes myself. At
6.20 we had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet,
and halted for half an hour: we then continued the ascent without a
break until 9.55, when we stopped for fifty minutes at a height of
fourteen thousand feet. Twice we struck the north-eastern ridge, and
followed it for some little distance—to no advantage, for it was
usually more rotten and steep, and always more difficult, than the
face. Still, we kept near to it, lest stones perchance might fall.
We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the Riffelberg
or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging, and could no
longer continue upon the eastern side. For a little distance we
ascended by snow upon the arête—that is, the ridge—descending toward
Zermatt, and then by common consent turned over to the right, or to the
northern side. Before doing so we made a change in the order of ascent.
Croz went first, I followed, Hudson came third: Hadow and old Peter
were last. “Now,” said Croz as he led off—“now for something altogether
different.” The work became difficult, and required caution. In some
places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that those should
be in front who were least likely to slip. The general slope of the
mountain at this part was _less_ than forty degrees, and snow had
accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face,
leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there. These were
at times covered with a thin film of ice, produced from the melting and
refreezing of the snow. It was the counterpart, on a small scale, of
the upper seven hundred feet of the Pointe des Écrins; only there was
this material difference—the face of the Écrins was about, or exceeded,
an angle of fifty degrees, and the Matterhorn face was less than forty
degrees. It was a place over which any fair mountaineer might pass in
safety, and Mr. Hudson ascended this part, and, as far as I know, the
entire mountain, without having the slightest assistance rendered to
him upon any occasion. Sometimes, after I had taken a hand from Croz or
received a pull, I turned to offer the same to Hudson, but he
invariably declined, saying it was not necessary. Mr. Hadow, however,
was not accustomed to this kind of work, and required continual
assistance. It is only fair to say that the difficulty which he found
at this part arose simply and entirely from want of experience.
This solitary difficult part was of no great extent. We bore away over
it at first nearly horizontally, for a distance of about four hundred
feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet,
and then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward Zermatt. A
long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more.
The last doubt vanished! The Matterhorn was ours! Nothing but two
hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted!
You must now carry your thoughts back to the seven Italians who started
from Breuil on the 11th of July. Four days had passed since their
departure, and we were tormented with anxiety lest they should arrive
on the top before us. All the way up we had talked of them, and many
false alarms of “men on the summit” had been raised. The higher we rose
the more intense became the excitement. What if we should be beaten at
the last moment? The slope eased off, at length we could be detached,
and Croz and I, dashing away, ran a neck-and-neck race which ended in a
dead heat. At 1.40 P.M. the world was at our feet and the Matterhorn
was conquered! Hurrah! Not a footstep could be seen.
It was not yet certain that we had not been beaten. The summit of the
Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge, about 350 feet long,[72]
and the Italians might have been at its farther extremity. I hastened
to the southern end, scanning the snow right and left eagerly. Hurrah
again! it was untrodden. “Where were the men?” I peered over the cliff,
half doubting, half expectant. I saw them immediately, mere dots on the
ridge, at an immense distance below. Up went my arms and my hat. “Croz!
Croz! come here!” “Where are they, monsieur?” “There—don’t you see them
down there?” “Ah! the _coquins!_ they are low down.” “Croz, we must
make those fellows hear us.” We yelled until we were hoarse. The
Italians seemed to regard us—we could not be certain. “Croz, we _must_
make them hear us—they _shall_ hear us!” I seized a block of rock and
hurled it down, and called upon my companion, in the name of
friendship, to do the same. We drove our sticks in and prized away the
crags, and soon a torrent of stones poured down the cliffs. There was
no mistake about it this time. The Italians turned and fled.[73]
[72] The highest points are towards the two ends. In 1865 the northern
end was slightly higher than the southern one. In bygone years Carrel
and I often suggested to each other that we might one day arrive upon
the top, and find ourselves cut off from the very highest point by a
notch in the summit-ridge which is seen from the Theodule and from
Breil (marked D on the outline on p. 128). This notch is very
conspicuous from below, but when one is actually upon the summit it is
hardly noticed, and it can be passed without the least difficulty.
[73] I have learnt since from J.-A. Carrel that they heard our first
cries. They were then upon the south-west ridge, close to the
‘Cravate,’ and _twelve hundred and fifty_ feet below us; or, as the
crow flies, at a distance of about one-third of a mile.
[Illustration: “CROZ! CROZ! COME HERE!”]
Still, I would that the leader of that party could have stood with us
at that moment, for our victorious shouts conveyed to him the
disappointment of the ambition of a lifetime. He was _the_ man, of all
those who attempted the ascent of the Matterhorn, who most deserved to
be the first upon its summit. He was the first to doubt its
inaccessibility, and he was the only man who persisted in believing
that its ascent would be accomplished. It was the aim of his life to
make the ascent from the side of Italy for the honor of his native
valley. For a time he had the game in his hands: he played it as he
thought best, but he made a false move, and lost it. Times have changed
with Carrel. His supremacy is questioned in the Val Tournanche; new men
have arisen, and he is no longer recognized as _the_ chasseur above all
others; but so long as he remains the man that he is to-day it will not
be easy to find his superior.
The others had arrived, so we went back to the northern end of the
ridge. Croz now took the tent-pole[74] and planted it in the highest
snow. “Yes,” we said, “there is the flagstaff, but where is the flag?”
“Here it is,” he answered, pulling off his blouse and fixing it to the
stick. It made a poor flag, and there was no wind to float it out, yet
it was seen all around. They saw it at Zermatt, at the Riffel, in the
Val Tournanche. At Breuil the watchers cried, “Victory is ours!” They
raised “bravos” for Carrel and “vivas” for Italy, and hastened to put
themselves _en fête_. On the morrow they were undeceived. All was
changed: the explorers returned sad—cast
down—disheartened—confounded—gloomy. “It is true,” said the men. “We
saw them ourselves—they hurled stones at us! The old traditions _are_
true—there are spirits on the top of the Matterhorn!”[75]
[74] At our departure the men were confident that the ascent would be
made, and took one of the poles out of the tent. I protested that it
was tempting Providence; they took the pole, nevertheless.
[75] Signor Giordano was naturally disappointed at the result, and
wished the men to start again. _They all refused to do so, with the
exception of Jean-Antoine_. Upon the 16th of July he set out again
with three others, and upon the 17th gained the summit by passing (at
first) up the south-west ridge, and (afterwards) by turning over to
the Z’Mutt, or north-western side. On the 18th he returned to Breil.
Whilst we were upon the southern end of the summit-ridge, we paid
some attention to the portion of the mountain which intervened
between ourselves and the Italian guides. It seemed as if there
would not be the least chance for them if they should attempt to
storm the final peak directly from the end of the ‘shoulder.’ In
that direction cliffs fell sheer down from the summit, and we were
unable to see beyond a certain distance. There remained the route
about which Carrel and I had often talked, namely, to ascend
directly at first from the end of the ‘shoulder,’ and afterwards to
swerve to the left—that is, to the Z’Mutt side—and to complete the
ascent from the north-west. When we were upon the summit we laughed
at this idea. The part of the mountain that I have described upon
p. 388, was not easy, although its inclination was moderate. If
that slope were made only ten degrees steeper, its difficulty would
be enormously increased. To double its inclination would be to make
it impracticable. The slope at the southern end of the
summit-ridge, falling towards the north-west, was _much_ steeper
than that over which we passed, and we ridiculed the idea that any
person should attempt to ascend in that direction, when the
northern route was so easy. Nevertheless, the summit was reached by
that route by the undaunted Carrel. From knowing the final slope
over which he passed, and from the account of Mr. F. C. Grove—who
is the only traveller by whom it has been traversed—I do not
hesitate to term the ascent of Carrel and Bich in 1865 the most
desperate piece of mountain-scrambling upon record. In 1869 I asked
Carrel if he had ever done anything more difficult. His reply was,
“Man cannot do anything much more difficult than that!” See
Appendix.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865 (NORTHERN END)]
We returned to the southern end of the ridge to build a cairn, and then
paid homage to the view.[76] The day was one of those superlatively
calm and clear ones which usually precede bad weather. The atmosphere
was perfectly still and free from all clouds or vapors. Mountains
fifty—nay, a hundred—miles off looked sharp and near. All their
details—ridge and crag, snow and glacier—stood out with faultless
definition. Pleasant thoughts of happy days in bygone years came up
unbidden as we recognized the old, familiar forms. All were
revealed—not one of the principal peaks of the Alps was hidden.[77] I
see them clearly now—the great inner circles of giants, backed by the
ranges, chains and _massifs_. First came the Dent Blanche, hoary and
grand; the Gabelhorn and pointed Rothhorn, and then the peerless
Weisshorn; the towering Mischabelhörner, flanked by the Allaleinhorn,
Strahlhorn and Rimpfischhorn; then Monte Rosa—with its many Spitzes—the
Lyskamm and the Breithorn. Behind were the Bernese Oberland, governed
by the Finsteraarhorn, the Simplon and St. Gothard groups, the
Disgrazia and the Orteler. Toward the south we looked down to Chivasso
on the plain of Piedmont, and far beyond. The Viso—one hundred miles
away—seemed close upon us; the Maritime Alps—one hundred and thirty
miles distant—were free from haze. Then came my first love—the Pelvoux;
the Écrins and the Meije; the clusters of the Graians; and lastly, in
the west, gorgeous in the full sunlight, rose the monarch of all—Mont
Blanc. Ten thousand feet beneath us were the green fields of Zermatt,
dotted with châlets, from which blue smoke rose lazily. Eight thousand
feet below, on the other side, were the pastures of Breuil. There were
forests black and gloomy, and meadows bright and lively; bounding
waterfalls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage wastes; sunny
plains and frigid plateaux. There were the most rugged forms and the
most graceful outlines—bold, perpendicular cliffs and gentle,
undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, sombre and
solemn or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles,
pyramids, domes, cones and spires! There was every combination that the
world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire.
[76] The summit-ridge was much shattered, although not so extensively
as the south-west and north-east ridges. The highest rock, in 1805,
was a block of mica-schist, and the fragment I broke off it not only
possesses, in a remarkable degree, the _character_ of the peak, but
mimics, in an astonishing manner, the details of its form. (See
illustration on page 395.)
[77] It is most unusual to see the southern half of the panorama
unclouded. A hundred ascents may be made before this will be the case
again.
We remained on the summit for one hour—
One crowded hour of glorious life.
It passed away too quickly, and we began to prepare for the descent.
[Illustration: THE ACTUAL SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865.]