FROM THE COL DU PILLON TO THE GEMMI PASS (DIABLERETS, WILDHORN,
WILDSTRUBEL, AND KANDERSTEG).
The range--Ski-runners’ logic--Itinerary--The Plan des
Roses--Untoward experiences on the Rawyl pass--Death
through exposure--The _Daily Mail_ and Mr. Arnold Lunn’s
feat--House-breaking--On the Gemmi--Perspective and
levels--Relief models of the Alps--My smoking den--Old Egger.
No visitor to Switzerland requires telling that a section of the Bernese
Alps runs up to the Gemmi pass from the south-west. In this secondary
range, the leading groups are the Diablerets, the Wildhorn, and the
Wildstrubel. So far as the Wildstrubel and Wildhorn are concerned, the
range separates the Canton du Valais from the Canton de Berne, but the
Diablerets throw out a shoulder into the Canton de Vaud. From their
summit the lake of Geneva can be seen.
Each of these large mountain clusters is linked up to its neighbour by a
pass, running perpendicularly to the range. The Sanetsch pass is a dip
between the Wildhorn and the Wildstrubel. Just as--in January, 1909--I
had the pleasure of traversing the higher Bernese Alps between the Gemmi
and Grimsel passes, it was, in March, 1910, my good luck to carry out
in one continuous expedition the traverse of the nether Bernese Alps,
beginning at the Col du Pillon and ending at the Gemmi and Kandersteg.
The summits of the Diablerets, Wildhorn, and Wildstrubel group do not
exceed 10,705 feet in height. Singly, they have frequently been ascended
on ski. But, to my knowledge, the ascent of all three had not yet been
achieved as a connected and consecutive piece of winter work. My traverse
having brought me much opportunity to fully realise the extraordinary
quality and beauty of this high ski-ing ground, I do not hesitate to give
here my best information on the route.
The route now opened out presents this capital feature, that the
mountains along the top of which it lies are uniform in height and in
conformation. Their general lineal development is straight; they arise
steeply from their south-west extremities; they carry ski-runners down,
on well-defined inclines, to their north-east extremities, which rest on
the flat surface of high-lying passes.
No wise runner will attempt to run from the Gemmi end. By so doing he
would be making light of the best rules of ski-ing, as well as throwing
away the indications which nature herself gives him. From all three
summits the larger and lengthier glaciers stretch uniformly from
south-west downwards to north-east, while on the opposite slope the
mountains are precipitous and the glaciers short.
[Illustration: MOVING FROM THE TOP OF THE FINSTERAARHORN.
To face p. 60.]
Not only will no wise runner attempt the trip from the Gemmi end, but he
will also follow the rules of ski-runners’ logic. The reader will notice
that while summer tourists cross the Bernese Alps from north to south,
that is from Canton Berne to Canton Valais, or _vice versâ_, from Canton
Valais to Canton Berne, tourists on ski follow the range in its length,
and will have nothing to do with its passes, as leading from one valley
to another.
Indeed, a ski-runner must look a very paradoxical creature. For him,
passes are just convenient, saddle-like depressions connecting the
summits he has left with the summit he next wishes to attain. He will
have no dealings with the valleys. He does not follow the path, say from
Kandersteg to Louèche. That is all very well for mules. But he crosses,
say, the Sanetsch and Rawyl passes, in the same way as a foot-passenger
goes across a street from one pavement to the other. By so doing he knows
no more of the actual pass-track than its width, say a matter of one to a
few yards, as the case may be. This totally new conception of how to get
about on the Alps from point to point is of great importance with a view
to the military occupation of the High Alp passes and their defence in
winter. I call it the ski-runners’ paradox.
Gsteig is best reached from Montreux, on the lake of Geneva, or from
Spiez, on the lake of Thoune, by availing oneself of the electric
railway and getting out at the station of Gstaad; hence on foot or by
horse-sleigh to Gsteig.
The hut, on the Tête aux Chamois, at the foot of the Oldenhorn, where the
first night had better be spent, lies to the south-west from Gsteig, and
is approached from the Pillon route. The approach _viâ_ the Sanetsch pass
necessitates the ascent of the Zan Fleuron glacier round the Oldenhorn.
It is therefore much longer.
The map to be used, and to which all references in this book are made,
is the Swiss Military Survey Map (Siegfried Atlas), sold to the public
in sheets. A reprint covering the whole region may be bought at Gstaad,
price 4 francs.
Cross the Reuschbach by a bridge, a little beyond point 1,340 (sheet
472). The chalets of Reusch will then be reached at Reuschalp, at the
altitude marked 1,326 on the map (sheet 472 or 471). At Bödeli one should
carefully avoid taking the path leading south, up to the Oldenhornalp.
The situation of the Cabane des Diablerets is given on the Siegfried
Atlas at point 2,487 (sheet 478). The line of access is plain from
Bödeli. But strangers should not attempt to reach the hut in winter
snow without being accompanied on the Martisberg slopes by some person
possessing full local knowledge. The traversing of steep slopes, such as
those which here run down from the Oldenhorn, is always dangerous.
Runners start from Gsteig and will do well to take with them one or both
of the brothers Ernest and Victor Marti, young men and fair runners.
Readers of the preceding chapter know that I have trained them in what
little they understand about winter mountaineering. This little is quite
sufficient to enable them to guide safely any party of able-bodied and
fair ski-runners along the new route.
From Gsteig to the hut an average walker on ski may count five hours. The
hut is comfortable enough for practical purposes, and can accommodate a
large party.
On the next morning, do not leave the hut till daylight, and then, in
three hours, one may reach the top of the Diablerets on ski, though
these may have to be removed to traverse a part of the steep snow-fields
resting on ice which run down the precipitous cliffs to the south.
Runners with whom it is a point to run, rather than conquer hill-tops,
may leave the summit alone. Wending their way round the Oldenhorn, they
will at once face north-east and run down the Zan Fleuron glacier to the
top of the Sanetsch pass. Use a compass, and run strictly east. Full
north, full south, or south-east are equally pernicious. The snow may
be crusted and wind-swept. But if it is dry, powdery, and smooth, the
runner’s joy will be inexpressible.
Our day--and so might yours--gave us a prospect of a very long run. We
knew that we should not be able to make use of the Alpine Club hut on
the Wildhorn, for a notice had appeared in the _Alpina_ (organ of the
Swiss Alpine Club) that this hut was badly overwhelmed with snow. Under
ordinary conditions, provided one did not mind sweeping low down out of
one’s way to the north, there would be no reason why this hut should
not be taken advantage of to spread over two days the work which on
that occasion we did in one day, to get from the Diablerets hut along to
the Wildstrubel huts. Without any waste of time, we pushed across the
Sanetsch pass, from the point marked 2,234 (sheet 481), on to the _arête_
which runs due east across the point marked 2,354.
If it is your intention to go as far as the Wildstrubel hut in one day,
you ought to cross the Sanetsch by eleven o’clock--an easy thing if
you left the Diablerets hut by eight o’clock. The line to be followed
leads down to, but keeps above, the small lakes which are marked with
the name Les Grandes Gouilles, altitude 2,456. These lakes must be left
on one’s right hand, and then make straight for the Glacier du Brozet,
above the words Luis de Marche. Under ordinary winter circumstances,
particularly late in the season, this glacier, which is broken up to any
extent in summer, will be found to present a steep and hard surface most
convenient to ascend. When once the point 3,166 has been reached, it will
be unnecessary to complete the ascent of the Wildhorn, though nothing
could be easier. Leaving the summit to your left at the point 3,172, the
descent on the Glacier de Tenehet comes next to be considered. At that
altitude you should ski onward sharply to the north-east for a while,
then great care should be taken to proceed downward gradually by taking a
curved route, below point 3,124 (sheet 472), full north-east, then east,
along the circular tiers of the ice.
[Illustration: DIABLERETS--WILDHORN--WILDSTRUBEL--GEMMI PASS.
(Reproduction made with authorisation of the Swiss Topographic Service,
26.8.12)
To face p. 64.]
Let me here remind the reader that the Wildhorn hut is away far down
on the northern slope of the Wildhorn, at the top of the Iffigenthal.
Runners who wish to break their journey and spend a night there will
beware of running down the glacier of Tenehet. They will cross the
watershed to the north at the point 2,795, or thereabouts, and descend to
the point 2,204, in the vicinity of which they will find the hut.
The course on to the Rawyl pass presents no difficulty to a competent
runner. When under point 2,767, turn to the south, where the slope
dips, and then again, when well under point 2,797, and the lake, turn
to the north-east, so as to reach and keep on dotted curve 2,400. South
or south-east would be irrecoverably wrong. In fair weather it will
be unbroken pleasure, on condition that the runner is well led or is
thoroughly conversant with map or level readings in a very difficult
country. I reached the Rawyl pass by six o’clock.
The fairly level stretch along which undulates the Rawyl mule track is
called the Plan des Roses, which sounds very poetical to cultivated
minds, such as my readers always are. The Alps, and many other ranges
in Europe, are studded with those appellations, whose delightful ring
calls forth the fragrance and beauty of the rose at an altitude at which
gardens are not usually met. Never did a summer rose grow or blossom
naturally in most of the places bearing that pretty name--not even the
Alpen Rose or the Alpine Anemone.
The imagination of some has seen in the name an allusion to the pink
colour of the sky at dawn and at sunset. Alas, this too is a fallacy
borne in upon us by the literary faculty. Monte-Rosa does not mean pink
mountain.
Rosa (as in Rosa Blanche, above the Val Cleuson), roses, roxes, rousse,
rossa, rasses, rosen (as in Rosenlaui), ross, rosso (as in Cima di
Rosso), rossère, all mean rocks or rock. The Tête Rousse (above St.
Gervais) would not be in English the Ruddy Brow, but the much more
commonplace Rocky Tor, Ben, or Fell. All forms of the word go back to
a common Celtic origin, whether they appear in Swiss nomenclature, in
a French, German, Italian, or Romance form. This phenomenon is a good
illustration of the manner in which the association of ideas by sound
enriches and varies in time the very rudimentary stock of primitive
impressions gathered in by the ancient Alp dwellers.
If the reader will think of Rhine, Rhône, Reuse, Reuss, Reusch, in the
light of the foregoing explanations, he will hear through all those words
the rush of water that is characteristic of Alpine streams.
I have lively recollections of the Rawyl pass dating back to the days
of my boyhood. This pass is dear to me also as having served as an
introduction to my young friend, Arnold Lunn. When he battled with the
pass, on ski, he was probably little older than myself when I first
fought my way through it on foot.
I was following the range in its length in the early, old-fashioned
style, purposing to make my way from Sion, on the Rhône, to Grindelwald,
by dipping in and out of the valleys; namely, first to Lenk across the
Rawyl, then to Adelboden, thence to Kandersteg, then to Trachsellauenen,
in the Lauterbrunnen valley, hence to Grindelwald, over the little
Scheidegg--a regular switchback railway.
My walk over the Rawyl was marked by an episode. It was late in the
season--late in the sense of the word in those days, when there was no
winter season to upset people’s ideas. I reached at night the Châlet
d’Armillon, by hook or by crook, along the precipitous Kaendle, and
crossing mountain torrents as casually as a squirrel would swing from
tree to tree, for those were the days of my _Sturm und Drang Periode_ as
a mountaineer.
Nevertheless, when the Armillon shepherds pointed out to me the heights
of the pass shining pink in the sunset with a fresh snow edging, my
resolution wavered for an instant. On I went, little dreaming that thirty
years later I should despise being seen here at all, except in winter and
on ski.
The job proved a serious one. Heavy snow lay over the marshes and
rivulets of the Plan des Roses. The mule track was buried under
wind-blown wreaths. The moon rose and illuminated a desolate landscape.
A little rain, then snow, began to fall, obliterating the moonbeams and
my own footprints behind me. Floundering about, I broke through the thin
ice that lay over the patches of water imprisoned under the snow. Still I
ploughed my way forward.
Then, probably in the nick of time for my own safety (else I might have
spent the night up there, being still young enough to show myself, in
the circumstances, obstinate unto folly), a guardian angel, whose
assistance I certainly did not deserve, slily detached my brandy flask
from around my shoulders and dropped it well out of my reach. When I
discovered the trick, I took the hint and retraced my footsteps to the
shepherds’ huts at Armillon.
I believe they were more pleased than surprised. They sat down round
the hearth, an open fireplace, with embers lying about on the ground.
They handed to me a bowl of milk, a lump of cheese, a piece of rye bread
as hard as a brick, and gave me a bit of goat’s liver that was stewing
in the pan in its own broth. They said their prayers aloud, standing
reverently in the firelight; then the goats’ skins were laid out flat on
the ground. We lay on them all in a heap together, with our feet turned
towards the fire. The last man threw the last chips upon it, pulled warm
sheeps’ skins over us, and laid himself down beside us.
The moon, high up in the sky by this time, shone placidly upon the
pastoral scene. The air got sharper and more chilly. When we rose at dawn
every blade of grass sparkled with frost.
I set out again up the pass in brilliant sunshine. My footprints were
still here and there faintly visible. When they came to an end I made for
the cross, marking the site of a rough stone refuge, then under snow.
From here some faint footprints again became visible, turning down the
gorge to the north. I made up my mind to follow them, for those who had
made them were certainly moving in the right direction. After a while
I saw a stick standing out of the snow. The footprints did not seem
to continue beyond. On approaching, I found myself in the presence of
the dead body of a mountaineer. Rumour will have it--for the scene of
this mishap was visited shortly after, to lift the body--that I leaped
aside at the sight, leaving marks on the snow which, graphologically
interpreted, were seen to signify my dismay.
It was the first time that I had before my eyes an instance of death
through exposure in the mountains.
On reaching the Iffigen Alp I reported the matter to the local
authorities. From later information it came to my knowledge that there
were two victims, the body of the second being covered up by the snow.
My other connection with the Rawyl pass is less gloomy, since I owe to
the eccentricities of that pass one of my best young friends in England.
I was, a few years ago, standing on the platform of the railway station
at Gstaad, when an English vicar, whom I took pleasure in instructing
in ski, brought me a copy of the _Daily Mail_, in which a whole column
was literally flaming with the exploits of two English runners who
had crossed the Rawyl a few days before. That sort of description we
generally call “Journalese,” and let it pass without correction. It would
be an ungracious act on the part of climbers, who seek out deliberately
so many hardships, to wince at the touch of the voluntary kindness that
almost kills.
The true account of what then took place appeared in the columns of the
_Isis_, the Oxford undergraduates’ organ, on January 23, 1909. There
Arnold Lunn expresses himself as follows:--
“I spent five winters in climbing from various centres, before--in the
winter of 1907-8--I first tried cross-country work. With three ladies
and my brother, I visited the Great St. Bernard and spent New Year’s Eve
in the Hospice. Next day I was thoroughly walked out by two plucky Irish
ladies, and had just enough energy left to reach Montana on the following
afternoon. I had previously arranged with a friend to cross the mountains
to Villars, a four-day trip, but on arriving found that he was unable to
go.
“I was introduced to Mr. W., who had only been on ski three afternoons,
but volunteered to come. We left next morning at 4 a.m., climbed for
eight hours up to the glacier of the Plaine Morte, and then separated.
Mr. W. went on to the hut and I climbed the Wildstrubel alone, from the
summit of which I saw a beautiful sunset. The solitary trudge back over
the glacier at night thoroughly exhausted me, and I narrowly escaped
frost-bite in one of my feet. At Lenk that night, 6,000 feet lower
down, they had 40 degrees of frost, and the cold in the hut was almost
unbearable. We did manage to get a fire alight, which proved a doubtful
blessing, as it thawed the snow in the top bunk, forming a lake which
trickled down on our faces during the night in intermittent showers. The
next morning our blankets were frozen as stiff as boards. Even the iron
stove was sticky with frost.
[Illustration: DESCENT INTO THE TELLITHAL, LOETSCHENTHAL.
To face p. 70.]
“Our natural course led over the Wildhorn, a delightful ski-run, but
though Mr. W. throughout displayed wonderful pluck and perseverance, his
limited experience prevented our tackling the long but safe Wildhorn. So
we took a short and dangerous cut down to Lenk, following a track which
crossed several avalanche runs. We raced the darkness through a long
hour of unpleasant suspense, and won our race by a head, getting off the
cliff as the last rays of light disappeared. A night on the Rawyl would
probably have ended disastrously.
“The remaining two days of the expedition were comparatively uneventful,
but we were dogged by an avenging Providence. A telegram miscarried,
and a search party was organised to hunt for our remains. The guests at
Montana spent a very pleasant day with ordnance maps in attempting to
locate the position of our corpses, and were not a little disappointed
when they learnt that the search party had found nothing but our tracks.
The net result of the expedition was a bill for £20 for search parties,
plus hospital expenses, as one of the guides had been frost-bitten.”
Arnold Lunn’s performance in bringing down safely to Lenk a companion
encumbered with ski in places fit for the use of climbing-irons only,
at that time of year, was conclusive as a proof of his sportsmanlike
qualities, as it was a bold and unexpected line to take. For that
reason I found it necessary to reflect upon his daring in the _Gazette
de Lausanne_, which had quoted the English press, lest it should
unwittingly lead my young countrymen into dangerous undertakings. Arnold
Lunn and myself made friends over the correspondence which ensued between
us. A better companion and a fairer knight to joust with in Alpine
tourney it would be, I believe, difficult to meet.
Now, it might be well to return to the Plan des Roses, whence, still
north-east, and then upwards on the Rohrbachstein glacier to the
Rohrbachhaus, whose roof was plainly visible at sunset, we strolled
peacefully and unconcernedly along.
In connection with the Rohrbachhaus, the brothers Marti, for the second
time, had an encounter with the Bernese police courts on my account. It
was my evil influence that brought them to that comfortable but closed
house. I need not say that I carefully kept out of the mischief that was
brewing by lingering behind to admire the view by moonlight.
With an ice-axe they dealt a well-directed blow upon the lock. Before
this “Open Sesame” the door gave way. We gained admittance to a kitchen,
well stocked with fire-wood; a dining-room, with preserves, tinned
victuals, and bottles of wine in the cupboards; a vast bedroom, furnished
with couches, mattresses, sheets, blankets, eiderdown quilts! Quite an
Eldorado, but, for my young friends, another step on the downward path to
the prisoners’ dock!
The police of Berne had a watchful eye on the Rohrbachhaus. Though I did
promptly send the culprits to make their report in the proper quarter,
to ask for the bill and pay for the damage done (which precluded any
civil action being brought against me), the Court at Blankenburg tried
them for house-breaking on the Procurator’s charge. But this business
was happily purely formal, as the _bona-fides_ of the house-breakers was
not questioned. The offenders were spoken free, on condition that they
paid the costs of the official prosecution. This part of the bargain
was passed on to me to keep, which I did cheerfully. Indeed, the whole
transaction appealed to my sense of right in the administration of
law. There was no doubt in my mind that we had broken into a private
establishment without leave, and even without actual necessity. The
establishment was, of course, there for the use of such as ourselves,
even without consent, on an emergency. But the weather was good, the
night still and clear, our health excellent, and there was an open refuge
within short ski-ing distance. It is true that on foot we might have been
totally unable to reach it.
Those who do not wish to run the risk attending the forcible bursting of
locks in order to get shelter at the first hut had better move on, in the
quiet of night and with an easy conscience, to the open hut, which stands
a little further on, and reach it by lantern light. They may, however,
make previously an appointment with the caretaker at Lenk. He will then
come up, weather permitting, and open the Rohrbachhaus.
I need not dwell on the pleasant night we spent in the beds of the
Rohrbachhaus. Stolen joys are sweet, and even may, as in our case,
be well deserved, or at least well earned--a way of putting it which
leaves morals uninjured. Our first day had been heavy, but had afforded
two magnificent runs on glaciers and on slopes abutting to passes, each
covering about four miles exclusive of curves, which, of course, being
purely voluntary as to their number and scope, cannot be calculated.
Ski-running parties spending a night in one or the other of the two
Wildstrubel huts will find themselves on the next day surrounded by as
fine and as varied a country as they may wish for. Whatever line they
choose, there is but one that should absolutely be avoided. This, they
know already, is the Rawyl pass, whether winter tourists wish to go
north to Lenk or south to Sion. The outlet of the pass to the north is
best described as a most precipitous and ice-bound region. The southward
descent is dangerous quite as much, owing to its great complication
amid rock, ravine, forest, and watercourse. Runners should divert their
ambitions well away from those gorges. The best way to Montana and
Vermala lies over the Glacier de la Plaine Morte, and thence to the south.
Runners proceeding from the huts and wishing to follow in our footsteps,
in order to reach the Lämmern glacier and the Wildstrubel, will run
down the slopes leading to the Glacier de la Plaine Morte (map, sheet
473). They will glance at the Raezli glacier tumbling down to the
north-west, between the Gletschhorn and the Wildstrubel (west-end
summit). Hence they will steer a straight course to the east, along
the centre line of the Glacier de la Plaine Morte, and then turn to
the north-east towards the Lämmernjoch, a pass to the east of the
Weststrubel, on a ridge, which is steepish to reach, though usually well
covered with snow. From that point to the top of the Weststrubel there
is an additional rise of about 120 metres, say 400 feet. The view from
this Strubel is worth the additional labour, and it also gives one the
satisfaction of having reached the last of the highest points on the
Diablerets-Wildhorn-Wildstrubel route. The height of the Diablerets is
3,222, of the Wildhorn 3,264, and of the Wildstrubel west 3,251 metres.
But this satisfaction, like that which may have been got from ascending
the Diablerets and the Wildhorn, may, in point of time, be too dearly
bought.
It is quite sufficient to direct one’s course straight from the
Lämmernjoch on to the higher reaches of the Lämmerngletscher, which open
up beyond the Lämmernjoch to the north.
Runners should not plunge full east straight down the glacier. Such a
course would be attended with much danger, as a line of crevasses runs
across the glacier roughly from south to north. A careful runner will map
out for himself a “circumferential” route, which will bring him round
that dangerous part, by descending the slopes of the glacier which are
beyond that spot to the north. Then, by turning to the east, one enters
the lower reaches of the ice, when one faces the extensive building of
the Wildstrubel Hotel on the Gemmi pass, about 3 miles ahead. The best
way off the glacier on to the Lämmernalp is on the north side of the
gorge, in which the glacier tails off, though I found it quite convenient
to reach the Lämmernboden (see map) by means of the slopes which run down
to it on the southern side of the stream.
Our route leaves completely out of account the Gross-strubel (3,253
metres), which rises above Adelboden and the Engstligenalp. This summit
does not belong to the traverse I am now describing. There are quite
distinct expeditions to be made to either or both Strubels from Adelboden
or Kandersteg. If from Kandersteg, one should go and spend the night at
the Schwarenbach Hotel, on the Gemmi road, go up the way we have just
described for the descent, and return _viâ_ Ueschinenthal. The Kandersteg
guides know all about this run, which is much to be recommended to the
expert.
There are three long, flat strips on the run from the Wildstrubel huts to
the Schwarenbach Hotel _viâ_ Gemmi. The first is the Glacier de la Plaine
Morte (about 3 miles), the second the Lämmernboden (about a mile), the
third the Daubensee (about a mile).
The run from the Daubensee to Kandersteg requires no particular notice.
It begins at the spot where the Lämmernboden turns to the north, within
800 yards or so of the Wildstrubel Hotel on the Gemmi pass. The run on
the Daubensee, then to the Schwarenbach Hotel (one should not pass to the
right, east of the summer road) affords excellent ski-ing. Then, on the
rush down to the Spitalmatten, with the Balmhorn and the Altels towering
to one’s right, will be met some of the best ground of the whole trip,
the slopes being throughout beautifully exposed to the north. The gorges
to the east should on no account be entered. The course runs straight
north on the west side of the valley, till the upper bends of the summer
road are met on the shoulder which drops down to Inner Kandersteg, at the
entrance of the Gasternthal. The slopes to the west of the woods on the
shoulder are periodically swept by avalanches. Look carefully whether the
fragments lie on the ground, and whether the rocks above, whence they
start, are bare of snow. If so, you may proceed among the fragments. If
otherwise, take to the road and walk.
The whole distance travelled over during this expedition, starting from
Gsteig, is, measured on the map, about 40 miles to Kandersteg. We had
with us ropes and axes, but never used them. In point of fact, I should
consider that expeditions upon which a use is foreseen for the axe and
the rope are not, strictly speaking, ski-ing expeditions. Ski-ing, by
definition, excludes the use of rope and axe, though one should be
provided with them when having reason to fear unforeseen contingencies.
The levels are as follow:--
At Gsteig: 1,192 metres (3,937 feet).
On the Zan Fleuron glacier: 2,866 metres, being a rise of 1,674
metres.
On the Sanetsch pass: 2,221 metres, being a fall of 645 metres.
On the Wildhorn glacier: 3,172 metres, being a rise of 951
metres.
On the Rawyl pass: 2,400 metres, being a drop of 772 metres.
On the Lämmernjoch: 3,132 metres, being a rise of 732 metres.
On the Gemmi pass: 2,214 metres, being a drop of 918 metres.
At Kandersteg: 1,169 metres, being a drop of 1,045 metres.
From this table of levels, the general public, if there is any in
mountaineering topics, may draw a conclusion and a moral.
Have you ever looked at a model relief map of the Alps? As one of the
general public, you may not be aware that the relief is artificially
forced. It is intended to amaze by the steepness of the declivities and
the terribly sharp angles at which the ridges of the peaks meet in the
air and terminate into a threatening point.
The designers of those otherwise beautiful and attractive models wish to
heighten the impression which you are accustomed to receive when you look
up to the Alpine peaks from some point below. The laws of perspective
bring then those peaks nearer the perpendicular. By an optical delusion,
which is full of scenic effect, they tower aloft. The designers of Alpine
models run after poetical and picturesque effects. They very naturally do
not wish to show you in plaster Alps far less formidable than those which
agreeably overawe you in nature. They add from 10 to 20 per cent. to the
angles of declivity, deepen the valleys and pull out the mountain tops
like putty. They thus show you the Alps in your own natural perspective,
as a painter does on his canvas. But the whole thing is fallacious.
I should feel called upon to condemn the process as a downright black
lie if there was not enough snow on those models to paint the lie white.
Look at the Matterhorn from Zermatt and then look at one of those
paper-weight models in stone which are sold for a few francs in the local
bazaars and which are cut according to scale. You will be surprised to
see how really flat the Matterhorn is. I advise every one who intends to
climb it to first make a careful study of a paper-weight model. It is
most reassuring.
Now this is exactly what an Alpine ski-runner does or should do.
There is in the vestibule of the University buildings at Geneva, on the
first floor, a magnificent plaster model of Switzerland, true to scale.
Each time I cast my eyes upon this model I more fully realise how exactly
the author’s execution of the relief, based on science, corresponds with
the runner’s conception, based on experience. In its own unvarnished
language, the model says: “By me know the Alps, and by them know thyself
and be modest, thou hast not done so much after all.”
So the general public may now understand why the runner sees the Alpine
world in his own perspective. The real reliefs are printed on his mind.
A summer tourist, who instead of fitting foot-rules to his feet, pegs or
stumps along, can with difficulty enter into the runner’s notion.
Orographic conformation and questions of exposure are ski-running
matters. The runner studies the _relievo_ in the light of two or three
truisms resting on experience, which are as conditions determining the
rational use of ski and assuring the pleasure of the runner.
1. The runner aims at rising rapidly, because he cannot draw from his ski
a full measure of pleasure except from the moment when the ski cease to
be the means of carrying his weight uphill, and become merely a means of
velocity.
2. While rising as abruptly as he possibly can, the runner seeks out--for
this tiresome operation is seldom avoidable--the declivities whose
exposure marks them out as unsuitable for a good run down. No wonder.
It is not to his interest to throw away, as it were, good slopes by
employing them for work uphill. Now, steepnesses turned to the south,
south-west, and west, afford poor running, viewed, of course, in their
generality.
Here meteorology--or, in plain English, weather--is more important than
geography, because warm winds, whether they blow soft or wild, beat upon
those faces. When not actually dangerous, such defective slopes are
convenient for rising to the high levels. The runner who knows how to
take advantage both of meteorology and orography shows himself possessed
of an advanced knowledge of his craft.
3. The best running hills are those whose gentler slopes are exposed
north and east. The winds from those quarters are not warm winds, though
they too have their own way of spoiling the snow. At any rate, the
sun--which has even in winter powers for mischief--is too low on the
southern horizon to interfere with the powdery condition of snow facing
north. But there is not much gained in mapping out one’s tour in the
manner indicated if one is landed for the descent on abrupt, though
northern or eastern, slopes.
[Illustration: ON THE TOP OF THE FINSTERAARHORN.
To face p. 80.]
So now draw your moral and conclusion. Will it not be that you should
walk round and round a large relief model of the Alps when planning
your winter excursions? This you could easily do if some kind patron
of Alpinism would provide you in London with a copy, cast in metal for
durability, of the Geneva plaster relief.
Would the reader like to know, after this long lecture, how I take
the refreshment, and smoke the pipe--in my case it has always been a
cigar--which I should like to offer him now? He is welcome to my den.
I scoop out the snow, in the manner of dogs, to the depth of 2 feet, or
thereabouts. I lay my ski across the cavity thus formed. Pressed close
together, they roof in about one-third of the opening. I put my feet in
the hole, wrap them up in my empty rucksack, bend my knees and sit on the
ski. Before me, on the snow shovelled up with my hands in the shape of a
tray, I display the contents of my larder. Then I plant my sticks behind
me, one supporting each shoulder. Thus, my armchair, dining-room, and
table are all ready. I wait upon myself, as is usual at lunch, and when
the time has come for the blissful smoke, I lazily stretch my legs across
the empty table and lean back, looking into immensity through the puffs.
When the time comes when I should like a nap, I find that the sticks at
my back invite me to recline by gradually giving way. I lay them flat on
the snow, spread my cloak over them and, thus comfortably padded, I pull
my cap over my eyes, and try hard to convince myself that it is a cold
midwinter day. The smoke ceases to rise, the cigar end drops and---- This
is all vanity no doubt, but is mine not better than that of many a wiser
man?
Old Egger at Kandersteg, who received me with a cheery handshake on
completion of the trip described in this chapter, had seen me start
about a year before on my traverse of the Bernese Oberland. He expressed
satisfaction at seeing me again, though with another companion, and said
he thought we had been rather long. But when I told him that another trip
had been thrown in, as well as my companion changed, he insinuated with
a smile of great intelligence that we had had time to grow very thirsty.
It was, he said, a grand thing for Kandersteg that it had been at the
beginning of the first trip and at the end of the second. So he would
drink our healths. And we honoured him likewise.
[Illustration]