AN ADVENTURE ON THE ALETSCH GLACIER
Mr William Longman, a former Vice-President of the Alpine Club, has
given us an interesting account in _The Alpine Journal_ of an exciting
adventure which happened to his son in August 1862.
The party, consisting of Mr Longman, his son, aged fifteen, two
friends, two guides, and a porter, set out one lovely morning from the
Eggischhorn Hotel for an excursion on the Great Aletsch Glacier. The
names of the guides were Fedier and Andreas Weissenflüh.
Mr Longman writes:--"We started in high spirits; the glacier was in
perfect order; no fresh snow covered the ice; the crevasses were all
unhidden; and no one thought it necessary to use the rope. I felt it
to be a wise precaution, however, to place my son, a boy of fifteen
years of age, under the care of the Eggischhorn porter. It was his
second visit to Switzerland, and he could, I am sure, have taken good
care of himself, but I felt it was my duty to place him under the care
of a guide. I have no wish to throw undeserved blame on the guide; but
his carelessness was unquestionably the cause of the accident. He
began wrong, and I ought to have interfered. He tied his handkerchief
in a knot, and, holding it himself, gave it to my son to hold also in
his hand. This was worse than useless, and, in fact, was the cause of
danger, for it partly deprived him of that free and active use of his
limbs which is essential to safety. It threw him off his guard. Except
at a crevasse, it was unnecessary for the boy to have anything to hold
by; and, at a crevasse, the handkerchief would have been insufficient.
The impression that there was no real danger, and that all that was
required was caution in crossing the crevasses, prevented my
interfering. So the guide went on, his hand holding the handkerchief
behind him, and my son following, his hand also holding the
handkerchief. Many a time I complained to the guide that he took my
boy over wide parts of the crevasses because he would not trouble
himself to diverge from his path, and many a time did I compel him to
turn aside to a narrower chasm. At last, I was walking a few yards to
his left, and had stepped over a narrow crevasse, when I was startled
by an exclamation. I turned round suddenly, and my son was out of
sight! I will not harrow up my own feelings, or those of my readers,
by attempting to describe the frightful anguish that struck me to the
heart; but will only relate, plainly and calmly, all that took place.
When my son fell, the crevasse, which I had crossed so easily, became
wider, and its two sides were joined by a narrow ridge of ice. It was
obviously impossible to ascertain exactly what had taken place; but I
am convinced that the guide went on in his usual thoughtless way, with
his hand behind him, drawing my son after him, and that, as soon as he
placed his foot on the narrow ridge, he slipped and fell. I rushed to
the edge of the crevasse and called out to my poor boy. To my
inexpressible delight he at once answered me calmly and plainly. As I
afterwards ascertained, he was 50 feet from me, and neither could he
see us nor we see him. But he was evidently unhurt; he was not
frightened, and he was not beyond reach. In an instant Weissenflüh was
ready to descend into the crevasse. He buckled on one of my belts,[8]
fixed it to the rope, and told us to lower him down. My two friends
and I, and the other two guides, held on to the rope, and slowly and
gradually, according to Weissenflüh's directions, we paid it out. It
was a slow business, but we kept on encouraging my son, and receiving
cheery answers from him in return. At last Weissenflüh told us, to our
intense joy, that he had reached my son, that he had hold of him, and
that we might haul up. Strongly and steadily we held on, drawing both
the boy and the guide, as we believed, nearer and nearer, till at
length, to our inexpressible horror, we drew up Weissenflüh alone. He
had held my son by the collar of his coat. The cloth was wet, his hand
was cold, and the coat slipped from his grasp. I was told that when my
boy thus again fell he uttered a cry, but either I heard it not or
forgot it. The anguish of the moment prevented my noticing it, and,
fortunately, we none of us lost our presence of mind, but steadily
held on to the rope. Poor Weissenflüh reached the surface exhausted,
dispirited, overwhelmed with grief. He threw himself on the glacier in
terrible agony. In an instant Fedier was ready to descend, and we
began to lower him; but the crevasse was narrow, and Fedier could not
squeeze himself through the ice. We had to pull him up again before he
had descended many feet. By this time the brave young Weissenflüh had
recovered, and was ready again to go down. But we thought it desirable
to take the additional precaution of lowering the other rope, with one
of the belts securely fixed to it. My son quickly got hold of it, and
placed the belt round his body, but he told us his hands were too cold
to buckle it. Weissenflüh now again descended, and soon he told us he
had fixed the belt. With joyful heart some hauled away at one rope and
some at the other, till at length, after my son had been buried in the
ice for nearly half an hour, both he and the guide were brought to the
surface.... Let a veil rest over the happiness of meeting. My boy's
own account of what befell him is, that he first fell sideways on to a
ledge in the crevasse, and then vertically, but providentially with
his feet downwards, till his progress was arrested by the narrowness
of the crevasse. He says he is sure he was stopped by being wedged in,
because his feet were hanging loose. His arms were free. He believes
the distance he fell, when Weissenflüh dropped him, was about three or
four yards, and that he fell to nearly, but not quite, the same place
as that to which he fell at first, and that, in his first position, he
could not have put the belt on. His fall was evidently a slide for the
greater part of the distance; had it been a sheer fall it would have
been impossible to escape severe injury."
A LOYAL COMPANION
The following is taken from _The Times_ of 23rd July 1886.
"On Tuesday, 13th July, Herr F. Burckhardt, member of the Basel
section of the Swiss Alpine Club, accompanied by the guides Fritz
Teutschmann and Johann Jossi, both from Grindelwald, made an attempt
to ascend the Jungfrau from the side of the Little Scheideck. After
leaving the Guggi cabin the party mounted the glacier of the same
name. The usual precautions were of course taken--that is to say, the
three men were roped together, Herr Burckhardt in the middle, one of
the guides before, the other behind him. When the climbers reached the
_séracs_, at a point marked on the Siegfried Karte as being at an
elevation of 2700 mètres, an enormous piece of ice broke off from the
upper part of the glacier, and came thundering down. Although by good
fortune the mass of the avalanche did not sweep across the path of the
three men, they were struck by several large blocks of ice, and sent
flying. Jossi, who was leading, went head first into a crevasse of
unfathomable depth, dragging after him Herr Burckhardt, who, however,
contrived to hold on to the edge of the crevasse, but in such a
position that he could not budge, and was unable to help either
himself or Jossi. Their lives at that moment depended absolutely on
the staunchness of Teutschmann, who alone had succeeded in keeping his
feet. It was beyond his power to do more; impossible by his own
unaided strength to haul up the two men who hung by the rope. If he
had given way a single step all three would have been precipitated to
the bottom of the crevasse. So there he stood, with feet and ice-axe
firmly planted, holding on for dear life, conscious that the end was a
mere question of time, and a very short time; his strength was rapidly
waning, and then? It would have been easy for the two to escape by
sacrificing the third. One slash of Burckhardt's knife would have
freed both Teutschmann and himself. But no such dastardly idea
occurred to either of them. They were resolved to live or die
together. Half an hour passed; they had almost abandoned hope, and
Teutschmann's forces were well-nigh spent, when help came just in time
to save them. The same morning another party, consisting of two German
tourists, and the two guides Peter Schlegel and Rudolph Kaufmann, had
started from the Little Scheideck for the Jungfrau, and coming on
traces of Burckhardt's party had followed them up, and arrived
before it was too late on the scene of the accident. Without wasting a
moment Schlegel went down into the crevasse and fastened Jossi to
another rope, so that those above were enabled to draw him up and
release Burckhardt and Teutschmann. Jossi, although bruised and
exhausted, was able to walk to the Scheideck, and all reached
Grindelwald in safety."
[Illustration: ON A SNOW-COVERED GLACIER.
The party is crossing a Snow Bridge, and the rope between the centre
and last man is too slack for safety.]
When it is remembered how few people make this expedition, the escape
of Mr Burckhardt's party is the more wonderful, and would not have
been possible unless other climbers had taken the same route that day.
This way up the Jungfrau is always somewhat exposed to falling ice,
though sometimes it is less dangerous than at other times. As the
editor of _The Alpine Journal_ has written, "no amount of experience
can avail against falling missiles, and the best skill of the
mountaineer is shown in keeping out of their way."
A BRAVE GUIDE
The brave actions of guides are so many in number that it would be
impossible to tell of them all, and many noble deeds have never found
their way into print. The following, however, is related of a guide
with whom I have made many ascents, and is furthermore referred to in
_The Alpine Journal_ as "an act of bravery for which it would be hard
to find a parallel in the annals of mountaineering."
On 1st September 1898, a party of two German gentlemen with a couple
of guides went up Piz Palü, a glacier-clad peak frequently ascended
from Pontresina. One of the guides was a Tyrolese, Klimmer by name,
the other a native of the Engadine, Schnitzler.
They had completed the ascent of the actual peak, and were on their
way down, some distance below the Bellavista Saddle. Here there are
several large crevasses, and the slope is very steep at this point. I
remember passing down it with Schnitzler the previous January, and
finding much care needed to cross a big chasm. Schnitzler was leading,
then came the two travellers, finally the Tyrolese, who came down last
man. Suddenly Schnitzler, who must have stepped on a snow-bridge, and
Herr Nasse dropped without a sound into the chasm. Dr Borchardt was
dragged some steps after them, but managed to check himself on the
very brink of the abyss. Behind was Klimmer, but on so steep a surface
that he could give no help beyond standing firm. At last, after some
anxious moments, came a call from below, "Pull!" They did their best
but in vain. "My God!" cried Schnitzler from below, "I can't get
out!" A period of terrible apprehension followed. Herr Nasse was
entreated to try and help a little, or to cut himself free from the
rope, as he appeared to be suffering greatly. But he was helpless,
hanging with the rope pressing his chest till he could hardly breathe,
and cried out that he could stand it no longer. Dr Borchardt made a
plucky attempt to render assistance, and the desperate endeavour
nearly caused him to fall also into the crevasse.
[Illustration: Martin Schocher standing, Schnitzler sitting. On the
Summit of Crast' Agüzza in Mid-Winter.]
[Illustration: A projecting Cornice of Snow, which might fall at any
moment. The accident on the Lyskamm, described on page 35, was due to
the breaking of a Cornice.]
[Illustration: Between Earth and Sky (page 163).]
[Illustration: An extremely narrow Snow Ridge, but a much easier one
to pass than that described by Mr Moore (page 160)]
The position was terrible, and Herr Nasse was at the end of his
forces. He called out in a dying voice that he could bear no more--it
was the last time he spoke.
Of Schnitzler nothing was heard, and the others could not tell if he
were still alive.
But while this terrible scene was passing, Schnitzler had performed an
act of the highest bravery. First he had tried, by using his axe, to
climb out of the icy prison where he hung. This he could not do, so
steadying himself against the glassy wall, he deliberately cut himself
loose from the rope. He dropped to the floor of the crevasse, which,
luckily, was not of extraordinary depth, and being uninjured, he set
himself to find a way out. He followed the crevasse along its entire
length, and discovered a little ledge of ice, with the aid of which,
panting and exhausted, he reached the surface.
But even with Schnitzler's help it was impossible to raise Herr Nasse
out of the chasm. The rope had cut deeply into the snow. He hung
underneath an eave of the soft surface and could not be moved. Another
willing helper, an Englishman, now came up, and after a time the
body--for Herr Nasse had not survived--was lowered to the floor of the
crevasse. Every effort was made to restore animation, but with no
result, and there was nothing left to do but leave that icy grave and
descend to the valley. Herr Nasse had suffered from a weak heart and
an attack of pleurisy, and these gave him but a poor chance of
withstanding the terrible pressure of the rope. Dr Scriven, from whose
spirited translation from the German I have taken my facts, remarks
that, "The death of Professor Nasse seems to emphasize a warning,
already painfully impressed on us by the loss of Mr Norman Neruda,
that there are special dangers awaiting those whose vital organs are
not perfectly sound, and who undertake the exertion and fatigue of
long and difficult climbs."
FOOTNOTE:
[8] In the early days of mountaineering it was the custom to pass the
rope through a ring or spring-hook attached to a strong leather belt,
instead of, as now, attaching it in a loop round the body of each
climber.