THE GUIDES OF THE ALPS: WHAT THEY ARE AND WHAT THEY DO
There is no profession drawing its members from the peasant class
which requires a combination of so many high and rare qualities as
that of a mountain guide. Happily, the dwellers in hill countries seem
usually more noble in mind and robust of frame than the inhabitants of
plains, and all who know them well must admit that among Alpine guides
are to be found men whose intelligence and character would rank high
in any class of life.
I have usually noticed that the abilities and duties of a guide are
little understood by the non-climber, who often imagines that a
guide's sole business is to know the way and to carry the various
useless articles which the beginner in mountaineering insists on
taking with him.
[Illustration: EDOUARD CUPELIN OF CHAMONIX.
The Guide with whom Mrs Aubrey Le Blond commenced her climbing.]
Guiding, if it sometimes does include these duties, is far more
than this. The first-class guide must be the general of the little
army setting out to invade the higher regions. He need not _know_ the
way--in fact, it sometimes happens that he has never before visited
the district--but he must be able to _find_ a way, and a safe one, to
the summit of the peak for which his party is bound. An inferior guide
may know, from habit, the usual way up a mountain, but, should the
conditions of ice and snow alter, he is unable to alter with them and
vary his route. You may ask: "How does a guide find his way on a
mountain new to him?" There are several means open to him. If the peak
is well known, as is, say, the Matterhorn, he will have heard from
other guides which routes have been followed, and will know that if he
desires to take his traveller up the ordinary way he must go past the
Schwarz-see Hotel, and on to the ridge which terminates in the Hörnli,
making for the hut which he has seen from below through the telescope.
Then he remembers that he must cross to the east face, and while doing
so he will notice the scratches on the rocks from the nailed boots of
previous climbers. Now, mounting directly upward, he will pick out the
passages which seem easiest, until, passing the ruined upper hut, he
comes out on the ridge and looks down the tremendous precipice which
overhangs the Matterhorn Glacier. This ridge, he knows, he simply has
to follow until he reaches the foot of a steep face of rock some 50
feet high, down which hangs a chain. He has heard all about this bit
of the climb since his boyhood, and he tells his traveller that, once
on the top of the rock, all difficulty will be over, and the final
slope to the summit will be found a gentle one. So it comes to pass
that the party reaches the highest pinnacle of the great mountain
without once diverging from the best route. Occasionally the leading
guide may take with him as second guide a man from the locality, but
most climbers will prefer to keep with them the two guides they are
used to.
It is not only on mountains that a guide is able to find his way over
little known ground. Many years ago Melchior Anderegg came to stay
with friends in England, and arrived at London Bridge Station in the
midst of a thick London fog. "He was met by Mr Stephen and Mr
Hinchliff," writes his biographer in _The Pioneer of the Alps_, "who
accompanied him on foot to the rooms of the latter gentleman in
Lincoln's Inn Fields. A day or two later the same party found
themselves at the same station on their return from Woolwich. 'Now,
Melchior,' said Mr Hinchliff, 'you will lead us back home.' Instantly
the skilful guide, who had never seen a larger town than Berne,
accepted the situation, and found his way straight back without
difficulty, pausing for consideration only once, as if to examine the
landmarks at the foot of Chancery Lane."
Now, let us see how a guide sets about exploring a district where no
one has previously ascended the mountains. Of this work I have seen a
good deal, since in Arctic Norway my Swiss guides and I have ascended
more than twenty hitherto-unclimbed peaks, and were never once unable
to reach the summit. Of course, the first thing is to see the
mountains, and, to do this, it is wise to ascend something which you
are sure, from its appearance, is easy, and then prospect for others,
inspecting others again from them, and so on, _ad infinitum_. You
cannot always see the whole of a route, and, perhaps, your leading
guide will observe: "We can reach that upper glacier by the gully in
the rocks." "What gully?" you ask. "The one to the left. There _must_
be one there. Look at the heap of stones at the bottom!" Thus, from
the seen to the unseen the guide argues, reading a fact from writing
invisible to the untrained eye. Between difficulty and danger, too, he
draws a sharp distinction, and attacks with full confidence a steep
but firm wall of rock, turning back from the easy-looking slope of
snow ready to set forth in an avalanche directly the foot touches it.
And how is this proficiency obtained? How does the guide learn his
profession?
In different ways, but he usually begins young, tending goats on steep
grassy slopes requiring balance and nerve to move about over. Later
on, having decided that he wishes to be a guide, the boy, at the age
of seventeen or eighteen, offers himself for examination on applying
for a certificate as porter. The requirements for this first step are
not great: a good character, a sound physique, a knowledge of reading
and writing, and in most Alpine centres the guild of guides will grant
him a license. He can now accompany any guide who will take him, on
any expedition that guide considers within the porter's powers. His
advancement depends on his capacity. Should he quickly adapt himself
to the work, the guides will trust him more and more, taking him on
difficult ascents and allowing him occasionally to share the
responsibility of leading on an ascent and coming down last when
descending. It will readily be seen that the leader must never slip,
and must, when those who follow are moving, be able to hold them
should anything go wrong with them. The same applies to the even more
responsible position of last man coming down. When a porter reaches
this stage, he is little inferior to a second guide. He can now enter
for his final examination. If he is competent, he has no trouble in
passing it, and I fear that if the contrary--as is the case in many of
those who apply--he gets through easily enough.
At Chamonix the guides' society is controlled by Government. The rules
press hardly on the better class of guides there, or would do so if
observed; but a first-class guide is practically independent of them,
and mountaineers who know the ropes can avoid the regulations. At
Zermatt greater liberty is allowed, and, indeed, I believe that
everywhere except at Chamonix a guide is free to go with any climber
who applies for him. At Chamonix the rule is that the guides are
employed in turn, so that the absurd spectacle is possible of a man of
real experience carrying a lady's shawl across the Mer de Glace, while
a guide, who is little better than a porter, sets out to climb the
Aiguille de Dru! However, the exceptions to this rule make a broad
way of escape, for a lady alone, a member of an Alpine club, or a
climber bent on a particularly difficult ascent, may choose a guide.
The pay of a first-class guide is seldom by tariff, for the class of
climber who alone would have the opportunity of securing the services
of one of the extremely limited number of guides of the first order
generally engages him for some weeks at a time. Indeed, such men are
usually bespoken a year in advance. The pay offered and expected is 25
fr. a day, including all expeditions, or else 10 fr. a day for rest
days, 50 fr. for a peak, 25 fr. for a pass, in both cases the guide to
keep himself, while travelling expenses and food on expeditions are to
be paid for by the employer. If a season is fine and the party
energetic, the former rate of payment may be the cheaper. The second
guide generally receives two-thirds as much as the first guide.
When a novice is about to choose a guide, the advice of an experienced
friend is invaluable, but, failing this, it is worse than useless to
rely on inn-keepers, casual travellers, or the _guide-chef_ at the
guides' office of the locality. From these you can obtain the names of
guides whom they recommend, but before making any definite
arrangements, see the men themselves and carefully examine their books
of certificates. In these latter lie your security, if you read them
intelligently. Bear in mind that their value consists in their being
signed by competent mountaineers. For instance, you may find something
like the following in a guide's book:--
A. Dumkopf took me up the Matterhorn to-day. He showed
wonderful sureness of foot and steadiness of head, and I
consider him a first-class guide, and have pleasure in
recommending him.
(Signed) A. S. SMITH.
Now, this is by some one you never heard of, and a very little
consideration will show you that A. S. Smith is quite ignorant of
climbing, judging by his wording of the certificate. That which
follows, taken from the late Christian Almer's _Führerbuch_, is the
sort of thing to carry weight:--
Christian Almer has been our guide for three weeks, during
which time we made the ascents of the Matterhorn (ascending
by the northern and descending by the southern route),
Weisshorn (from the Bies Glacier), Dent Blanche, and the
Bietschhorn. Every journey that we take under Almer's
guidance confirms us in the high opinion we have formed of
his qualities as a guide and as a man. To the utmost daring
and courage he unites prudence and foresight, seldom found
in combination.
(Signed) W. A. B. COOLIDGE.
Visp, September 22nd, 1871.
It is when things go badly that a first-class guide is so
conspicuously above an inferior man. In sudden storms or fog you may,
if accompanied by the former, be in security, while the latter may get
his party into positions of great peril. The former will take you
slowly and carefully, sounding, perhaps, at every step, over what
appears to you a perfectly easy snow plateau. The latter goes across a
similar place unsuspecting of harm and with the rope loose, and, lo
and behold, you all find yourselves in a hidden crevasse, and are
lucky if you escape with your lives. In the early days of
mountaineering guides were frequently drawn from the chamois hunters
of a district, a sport requiring, perhaps, rather the quickness and
agility of the born climber and gymnast than the qualities of
calculation and prudence needed in addition by the guide.
[Illustration: A careful party descending a Rock Peak near Zermatt
(the Unter Gabelhorn).]
The most thoroughly unorthodox beginning to a great career of which I
have ever heard was that of Joseph Imboden, of St Nicholas. When a
boy his great desire, as he has often told me, was to become a guide.
But his father would not consent to it, and apprenticed him to a
boot-maker. During the time he toiled at manufacturing and mending
shoes he contrived to save 20 fr. He then, at the age of sixteen, ran
away from his employer, bought a note-book, and established himself at
the Riffel Hotel above Zermatt. On every possible occasion he urged
travellers to employ him as guide.
"Where is your book, young man?" they invariably enquired.
He showed it to them, but the pages were blank, and so no one would
take him.
"At last," Imboden went on, "my 20 fr. were all but spent, when I
managed to persuade a young Englishman to let me take him up Monte
Rosa. I told him I knew the mountain well, and I would not charge him
high. So we started. I had never set foot on a glacier before or on
any mountain, but there was a good track up the snow, and I followed
this, and there were other parties on Monte Rosa, so I copied what the
guides did, and roped my gentleman as I saw the guides doing theirs.
It was a lovely day, and we got on very well, and my gentleman was
much pleased, and offered me an engagement to go to Chamonix with him
over high passes.
"Then I said to myself: 'Lies have been very useful till now, but the
time has come to speak the truth, and I will do so.'
"So I said to him: 'Herr, until to-day I have never climbed a
mountain, but I am strong and active, and I have lived among
mountaineers and mountains, and I am sure I can satisfy you if you
will take me.'
"He was quite ready to do so, and we crossed the Col du Géant and went
up Mont Blanc, but could do no more as the weather was bad. Then he
wrote a great deal in my book, and since then I have never been in
want of a gentleman to guide."
Imboden's eldest son, Roman, began still younger. When only thirteen
he was employed by a member of the Alpine Club, Mr G. S. Barnes, to
carry his lunch on the picnics he made with his friends on the
glaciers near Saas-Fée. The party eventually undertook more ambitious
expeditions, and one evening, Roman, who was very small for his age,
was seen entering his native village at the head of a number of
climbers who had crossed the Ried Pass, the little boy proudly
carrying the largest knapsack of which he could possess himself, a
huge coil of rope, and an ice-axe nearly as big as himself. Thus
commenced the career of an afterwards famous Alpine guide.
During some fifteen seasons Imboden accompanied me on my climbs,
frequently with Roman as second guide. Once the latter went with me to
Dauphiné, and, though only twenty-three at the time, took me up the
Meije, Ecrins, and other big peaks, his father being detained at home
by reason of a bitter feud with the railway company about to run a
line through his farm. It is sad to look back to the terrible ending
of Roman's career at a period when he was the best young guide in the
Alps. How little, in September 1895, as with the Imbodens, father and
son, I stood on the summit of the Lyskamm, did any of us think that
never again should we be together on a mountain, and that from the
very peak on which we were Roman would be precipitated in one awful
fall of hundreds of feet, his companions, Dr Guntner and the second
guide Ruppen, also losing their lives.
I shall never forget the evening the news reached us at Zermatt.
Imboden was, as usual, my guide, but Roman was leading guide to Dr
Guntner. A month or two previously this gentleman had written to
Roman asking if he would climb with him. Roman showed the letter to
his father, saying: "I only go with English people, so I shall
refuse." "Do not reply in a hurry," was the answer; "wait and see what
the Herr is like, he is coming here soon." So Roman waited, saw Dr
Guntner, liked him immensely, and engaged himself, not only till the
end of the season, but also for a five months' mountaineering
expedition in the Himalayas. We had all arrived at Zermatt from Fée a
few days before, and while we waited in the valley for good weather,
Dr Guntner, Roman Imboden, and Ruppen went to the Monte Rosa Hut to
get some exercise next day on one of the easier peaks in the
neighbourhood. Dr Guntner much wished to try the Lyskamm. Roman was
against it, as the weather and snow were bad. However, in the morning
there was a slight improvement, and as Dr Guntner was still most
anxious to attempt the Lyskamm and Roman was so attached to him that
he wished to oblige him in every way he could, he consented to, at any
rate, go and look at it. Another party followed, feeling secure in the
wake of such first-rate climbers, and, though the snow was atrocious
and the weather grew worse and worse, no one turned back, and the
summit was not far distant.
The gentleman in the second party did not feel very well, and made a
long halt on the lower part of the ridge. Something seems to have
aroused his suspicions--some drifting snow above, it was said, but I
could never understand this part of the story--and an accident was
feared. Abandoning the ascent, partly because of illness, partly on
account of the weather, the party went down. At the bottom of the
ridge, wishing to see if indeed something had gone wrong, they bore
over towards the Italian side of the mountain. Directly the snowy
plain at the base of the peak became visible, their worst fears were
confirmed, for they perceived three black specks lying close together.
Examining them through their glasses, it was but too certain that what
they saw were the lifeless bodies of Dr Gunnter, Roman, and Ruppen.
Meanwhile, unconscious of the awful tragedy being enacted that day on
the mountains, I had sent Imboden down to St Nicholas to see his
family, and, after dinner, was sitting writing in the little salon of
the Hotel Zermatt when two people entered, remarking to each other,
"What a horrible smash on the Lyskamm!"
I started to my feet. Something told me it must be Roman's party.
Crossing quickly over to the Monte Rosa Hotel, I found a silent crowd
gathering in the street. I went into the office.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Roman's party," was the answer.
"How do you know?"
"The other party has telephoned from the Riffel; we wait for them to
arrive to hear particulars."
The crowd grew larger and larger in the dark without. All waited in
cruel suspense. I could not bear to think of Imboden.
An hour passed. Then there was a stir among the waiting throng, and I
went out among them and waited too.
The other party was coming. As the little band filed through the
crowd, one question only was whispered.
"Is there any hope?" Sadly shaking their heads, the gentleman and his
guides passed into Herr Seiler's room, and there we learned all there
was to hear.
I need not dwell on Imboden's grief. He will never be the same man
again, though three more sons are left him; but I must put on record
his first words to me when I saw him: "Ruppen has left a young wife
and several children, and they are very poor. Will you get up a
subscription for them, ma'am, and help them as much as possible?"
[Illustration: STOPPED BY A BIG CREVASSE.
The party descended a little till a better passage was found by
crossing a snow-bridge (page 37).]
[Illustration: THE GENTLE PERSUASION OF THE ROPE (page 39).]
It was done, and for Roman a tombstone was erected, "By his English
friends, as a mark of their appreciation of his sterling qualities as
a man and a guide." Roman was twenty-seven at the time of the
accident. Neither Imboden nor I cared to face the sad associations of
the Alps after the death of Roman, and the next and following years we
mountaineered in Norway instead.
It will have been noticed that a climber nearly always takes two
guides on an expedition. A visitor at Zermatt, or some other climbing
centre, was heard to enquire: "Why do people take two guides? Is it in
case they lose one?"
There are several reasons why a climbing party should not number less
than three. In a difficult place, if one slips, his two companions
should be able to check his fall immediately, whereas if the party
number but two the risk of an accident is much greater. Again, a
mishap to one of a party of two is infinitely more serious than had
there been three climbing together. A glance at the accompanying
photograph of some mountaineers reconnoitring a big crevasse will make
my point clear.
A first-class guide will use the rope very differently to an inferior
man, who allows it to hang about in a tangle, and to catch on every
point of projecting rock.
A friend of mine, a Senior Wrangler, was extremely anxious to learn
how to use a rope properly. So, instead of watching the method of his
guide, he purchased a handbook, and learned by heart all the maxims
therein contained on the subject. Shortly after these studies of his I
was descending a steep face of rock in his company. I was in advance,
and had gone down as far as the length of rope between us permitted. A
few steps below was a commodious ledge, so I called out: "More rope,
please!"
My friend hesitated, cleared his throat, and replied: "I am not sure
if I ought to move just now, because, in _Badminton_, on page
so-and-so, line so-and-so, the writer says----"
"Will you please give the lady more rope, sir!" called out Imboden.
"He says that if a climber finds himself in a position----"
"Will you go on, sir, or must I come down and help you?" exclaimed
Imboden from above, and, at last, reluctantly enough, my friend moved
on. He is now a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, so there is,
perhaps, something to be said in favour of learning mountaineering
from precept rather than example!
Occasionally a guide's manipulation of the rope includes something
more arduous than merely being always ready to stop a slip. If his
traveller is tired and the snow slopes are long and wearisome, it may
happen that a guide will put the rope over his shoulder and pull his
gentleman. A mountaineer of my acquaintance met a couple ascending the
Breithorn in this manner. It was a hot day, and the amateur was very
weary. Furthermore, he could speak no German. So he entreated his
compatriot to intercede for him with the guide, who would insist on
taking him up in spite of his groans of fatigue.
"Why do you not return when the gentleman wishes it?" queried the
stranger.
"Sir," replied the guide, "he can go, he must go; he has paid me in
advance!"
The rope generally used by climbers is made in England, is known as
Alpine Club rope, and may be recognised by the bright red thread which
runs through the centre of it. A climber should have his own rope, and
not trust to any of doubtful quality.
Should climbers desire to make ascents in seldom explored parts of the
world, such as the Caucasus, the Andes, or the Himalayas, they must
take Alpine guides with them, for mountains everywhere have many
characteristics in common, and as a good rider will go over a country
unknown to him better than a bad horseman to whom it is familiar, so
will a skilful guide find perhaps an easy way up a mountain previously
unexplored, while the natives of the district declare the undertaking
an impossible one. The Canadian Pacific Railway Company have
recognised the truth of this, and have secured the services of Swiss
guides for climbing in the Rockies.
The devotion of a really trustworthy guide to his employer is a fine
trait in his character. My guide, Joseph Imboden, has often told me
that for years the idea that he might somehow return safe from an
expedition during which his traveller was killed, was simply a
nightmare to him. Directly the rope was removed his anxiety commenced,
and he was just as careful to see that the climber did not slip in an
easy place as he had been on the most difficult part of the ascent. It
is an unbroken tradition that no St. Nicholas guide ever comes home
without his employer; all return safely or all are killed. Alas! the
list of killed is a long one from that little Alpine village. In the
churchyard, from the most recent grave, covered by the beautiful white
marble stone placed there by Roman's English friends, to those
recalling accidents a score or more of years ago, there lies the dust
of many brave men. But I must not dwell on the gloom of the hills; let
me rather recall some of the many occasions when a guide, by his
skill, quickness, or resource, has saved his own and his charges'
lives.
A famous Oberlander, Lauener by name, noted for his great strength,
performed on one occasion a marvellous feat. He was ascending a steep
ice slope, at the bottom of which was a precipice. He was alone with
his "gentleman," and to this fact, usually by no means a desirable
one, they both owed their lives. A big boulder seemed to be so deeply
imbedded in the ice as to be actually part of the underlying rock. The
traveller was just below it, the guide had cut steps alongside, and
was above with, most happily, the rope taut. As he gained the level of
the boulder he put his foot on it. To his horror it began to move! He
took one rapid step back, and with a superhuman effort positively
swung his traveller clean out of the steps and dangled him against the
slope while the rock, heeling slowly outwards, broke loose from its
icy fetters and plunged down the mountain side, right across the very
place where the climber had been standing but an instant before.
A small man, whose muscles are in perfect condition, and who knows how
to turn them to account, can accomplish what would really appear to be
almost impossible for any one of his size.
Ulrich Almer, eldest son of the famous guide, the late Christian
Almer, saved an entire party on one occasion by his own unaided
efforts. They were descending the Ober Gabelhorn, a high mountain near
Zermatt, and had reached a ridge where there is usually a large
cornice. Now, a cornice is an overhanging eave of snow which has been
formed by the wind blowing across a ridge. Sometimes cornices reach an
enormous size, projecting 50 feet or more from the ridge. In climbing,
presence of mind may avail much if a cornice breaks--absence of body
is, however, infinitely preferable. Even first-class guides may err in
deciding whether a party is or is not at an absolutely safe distance
from a cornice. Though not actually on that part of the curling wave
of snow which overhangs a precipice, the party may be in danger, for
when a cornice breaks away it usually takes with it part of the snow
beyond.
[Illustration: A typical Couloir is seen streaking the peak from
summit to base in the centre of the picture (page 73).]
[Illustration: The Cross marks the spot where the accident happened on
the cornice of the Ober Gabelhorn in 1880 (page 43).]
[Illustration: THE WRONG WAY TO DESCEND.]
[Illustration: Very soft Snow which, on a steep slope, would cause an
Avalanche (page 60).]
By some miscalculation the first people on the rope walked on to the
cornice. It broke, and they dropped straight down the precipice
below. But at the same moment Ulrich saw and grasped the situation,
and, springing right out on the other side, was able to check them in
their terrible fall. It was no easy matter for the three men, one of
whom had dislocated his shoulder, to regain the ridge, although held
all the time by Ulrich. Still it was at length safely accomplished.
The two gentlemen were so grateful to their guide that they wished to
give him an acceptable present, and after much consideration decided
that they could not do better than present him with a cow!
In trying to save a party which has fallen off a ridge, either by the
breaking of a cornice or by a slip, I am told by first-rate guides
that the proper thing to do is to jump straight out into the air on
the opposite side. You thus bring a greater strain on the rope, and
are more likely to check the pace at which your companions are
sliding. I had a very awkward experience myself on one occasion when,
owing to the softness of the snow, we started an avalanche, and the
last guide, failing to spring over on the other side, we were all
carried off our feet. Luckily, we were able, by thrusting our axes
through into a lower and harder layer of snow, to arrest our wild
career.
Piz Palü, in the Engadine, was once nearly the scene of a terrible
tragedy through the breaking of a cornice, the party only being saved
by the quickness and strength of one of their guides. The climbers
consisted of Mrs Wainwright, her brother-in-law Dr B. Wainwright and
the famous Pontresina guides Hans and Christian Grass. Bad weather
overtook them during their ascent, and while they were passing along
the ridge the fog was so thick that Hans Grass, who was leading, got
on to the cornice. He was followed by the two travellers, and then
with a mighty crack the cornice split asunder and precipitated them
down the icy precipice seen to the right. Last on the rope came sturdy
old Christian Grass, who grasped the awful situation in an instant,
and sprang back. He held, but could, of course, do no more. Now was
the critical time for the three hanging against the glassy wall. Both
Hans and the lady had dropped their axes. Dr Wainwright alone retained
his, and to this the party owed their lives. Of course he, hanging at
the top, could do nothing; but after shouting out his intentions to
those below, he called on Hans to make ready to catch the axe when it
should slip by him. A moment of awful suspense, and the weapon was
grasped by the guide, who forthwith hewed a big step out of the ice,
and, standing on it, began the toilsome work of constructing a
staircase back to the ridge. At last it was done, and when the three
lay panting on the snow above, it was seen that by that time one
strand only of the rope had remained intact.
[Illustration: The dotted line in the top right-hand corner shows the
spot on Piz Palü where the Wainwright accident took place, the slope
being the one the party fell down.]
[Illustration: HANS AND CHRISTIAN GRASS.]
The following account of a narrow escape from the result of a cornice
breaking has an especially sad interest, for it was found amongst the
papers of Lord Francis Douglas after his tragic death on the
Matterhorn, and was addressed to the Editor of the _Alpine Journal_.
The ascent described was made on 7th July 1865, and the poor young man
was killed on the 14th of the same month.
The Gabelhorn is a fine peak, 13,365 feet high, in the Zermatt
district.
Lord Francis Douglas writes:--"We arrived at the summit at 12.30.
There we found that some one had been the day before, at least to a
point very little below it, where they had built a cairn; but they had
not gone to the actual summit, as it was a peak of snow, and there
were no marks of footsteps. On this peak we sat down to dine, when,
all of a sudden, I felt myself go, and the whole top fell with a crash
thousands of feet below, and I with it, as far as the rope allowed
(some 12 feet). Here, like a flash of lightning, Taugwald came right
by me some 12 feet more; but the other guide, who had only the minute
before walked a few feet from the summit to pick up something, did not
go down with the mass, and thus held us both. The weight on the rope
must have been about 23 stone, and it is wonderful that, falling
straight down without anything to break one's fall, it did not break
too. Joseph Viennin then pulled us up, and we began the descent to
Zermatt."
Here, again, one of the guides saved the party from certain
destruction.
It is in time of emergency that a really first-rate guide is so far
ahead of an inferior man. In many cases when fatal results have
followed unexpected bad weather or exceptionally difficult conditions
of a mountain, bad guiding is to blame, while the cases when able
guides have brought down themselves and their employers from very
tight places indeed, are far more frequent than have ever been
related.
A really wonderful example of a party brought safely home after
terrible exposure is related in _The Pioneers of the Alps_. The
well-known guides, Andreas Maurer and Emile Rey, with an English
climber, had tried to reach the summit of the Aiguille du Plan by the
steep ice slopes above the Chamonix Valley. "After step-cutting all
day, they reached a point when to proceed was impossible, and retreat
looked hopeless. To add to their difficulties, bad weather came on,
with snow and intense cold. There was nothing to be done but to remain
where they were for the night, and, if they survived it, to attempt
the descent of the almost precipitous ice-slopes they had with such
difficulty ascended. They stood through the long hours of that bitter
night, roped together, without daring to move, on a narrow ridge,
hacked level with their ice-axes. I know from each member of the party
that they looked upon their case as hopeless, but Maurer not only
never repined, but affected rather to like the whole thing, and though
his own back was frozen hard to the ice-wall against which he leaned,
and in spite of driving snow and numbing cold, he opened coat,
waistcoat and shirt, and through the long hours of the night he held,
pressed against his bare chest, the half-frozen body of the traveller
who had urged him to undertake the expedition.
"The morning broke, still and clear, and at six o'clock, having thawed
their stiffened limbs in the warm sun, they commenced the descent.
Probably no finer feat in ice-work has ever been performed than that
accomplished by Maurer and Rey on the 10th August 1880. It took them
ten hours of continuous work to reach the rocks and safety, and their
work was done without a scrap of food, after eighteen hours of
incessant toil on the previous day, followed by a night of horrors
such as few can realize." Had the bad weather continued, the party
could not possibly have descended alive, "and this act of unselfish
devotion would have remained unrecorded!"
Perhaps the most remarkable instance of endurance took place on the
Croda Grande. The party consisted of Mr Oscar Schuster and the
Primiero guide, Giuseppe Zecchini. They set out on 17th March 1900,
from Gosaldo at 5.10 A.M., the weather becoming unsettled as they went
along. After they had been seven hours on the march a storm arose,
yet, as they were within three-quarters of an hour of the top of their
peak, they did not like to turn back. They duly gained the summit, the
storm momentarily increasing in violence, and then they descended on
the other side of the mountain till they came to an overhanging rock
giving a certain amount of shelter. The guide had torn his gloves to
pieces during the ascent, and his fingers were raw and sore from the
difficult icy rocks he had climbed. As the cold was intense, they now
began to be very painful. The weather grew worse and worse, and the
two unfortunate climbers were obliged to remain in a hole scooped out
of the snow, not only during the night of the 17th, but also during
the whole day and night of the 18th. On the 19th, at 8 A.M., they made
a start, not having tasted food for forty-eight hours. Five feet of
snow had fallen, and the weather was still unsettled, but go they had
to. First they tried to return as they came, but the masses of snow
barred the way. They were delayed so long by the terrible state of the
mountain that they had to spend another night out, and it was not till
6 P.M. on the 20th, after great danger that they reached Gosaldo. The
guide, from whose account in _The Alpine Journal_ I have borrowed,
lost three fingers of his right hand and one of the left from
frost-bite; the traveller appears to have come off scot free.