ACROSS THE PENNINE ALPS ON SKI BY THE “HIGH-LEVEL” ROUTE.
The “high-level” route--Previous attempts--My itinerary--Marcel
Kurz--The wise old men of Bourg St. Pierre--Maurice
Crettex--Guides with bamboos and laupars!--The snow-clad
cliffs of Sonadon--The Chanrion hut--Sealed-up crevasses--The
nameless pass--Louis Theytaz--The Pigne d’Arolla--The Bertol
hut--Why the Dent Blanche could be ascended--The ladies’
maids’ easy job--The dreadful summer slabs--We push past
two “constables”--My cane--We bash in her ladyship’s white
bonnet--The Ice-Maid presses gently my finger-tips--The
cornice crashes down--A second night in the Bertol hut--The
Col d’Hérens--An impending tragedy--A milk-pail versus
ski--Dr. Koenig and Captain Meade--The real tragedy of
Theytaz’s death--Ropes and crevasses--Mr. Moore’s account--My
comments--The Mischabel range and Monte Rosa.
From the St. Bernard hospice to Bourg St. Pierre the run down presents no
particular interest. It is at Bourg St. Pierre the “high-level” road to
Zermatt is entered upon.
For about fifty years it has been customary to give the name “high-level
route” to the glacier passes which connect Chamonix and Zermatt--Col
d’Argentière, Col des Planards, Col de Sonadon, Col de l’Evêque, Col
de Collon, Col du Mt. Brûlé, and Col de Valpelline. All these passes,
except the second (Col des Planards), are above 10,000 feet and linked to
each other by means of glaciers. This is the high-level route properly
so-called, and as followed in summer.
The first attempt to cross the Pennine Alps in winter on ski, from west
to east, was made by a party of four from Chamonix, namely, Dr. Payot,
Joseph Couttet, Alfred Simond, and the guide, Joseph Ravanel, nicknamed
“le Rouge.” They started from Chamonix in the middle of January, 1903,
and appear to have outlined for themselves the following route, which was
intended to bring them in three days from the “Pavillon de Lognan,” above
Argentière to Zermatt:--
_First Day_.--Col du Chardonnet, Fenêtre de Saleinaz, Orsières,
Châble (in Vallée de Bagnes).
_Second Day_.--Châble, Cabane de Chanrion.
_Third Day_.--Chanrion, Glacier d’Otemma, Col de l’Evêque, Col
du Mt. Brûlé, Col de Valpelline, Glacier de Zmutt, Zermatt.
Obviously, this plan could not be carried into practice as it was laid
down on paper. Into the bargain, the runners were stopped on the Col de
l’Evêque by bad weather, and, being short of provisions, they backed
down the Vallée de Bagnes, the whole way to Martigny. Thence they went
to Evolena, and crossing the Col d’Hérens, they reached Zermatt. From
Evolena to Zermatt the day was a long one, and they came down the Glacier
de Zmutt at night (see _Revue Alpine_, 1903, pp. 269-284). This first
attempt, over ground as yet unknown to the ski-runner, was broken up into
three sections.
One month later (in February, 1903), two pioneers, who probably had no
knowledge of this first feat, started in their turn upon the high-level
route on ski.
They were Dr. R. Helbling and Dr. F. Reichert. Starting from the Vallée
de Bagnes, they reached with much difficulty the Cabane de Panossière, on
the right bank of the Glacier de Corbassière.
After attempting the Col des Maisons Blanches in order to reach the
Cabane de Valsorey, they found themselves compelled to return to the
Cabane de Panossière, and thence crossed the ridge at Mulets de la
Liaz. The descent on the face looking towards Chanrion was extremely
trying. They had to carry their ski. Anatole Pellaud, of Martigny, who
accompanied them, actually lost his pair, and came home along the Vallée
de Bagnes, while the others spent the night in the wretched huts of
la Petite Chermontane. The following day was spent in lounging about
the Cabane de Chanrion. Then they went on to Arolla by the Mont Rouge,
Seilon, and Riedmatten passes. At Arolla they slept in a barn, and next
day ascended to the Cabane de Bertol. The last day in this uncomfortable
pilgrimage was taken up in crossing the Col d’Hérens, ascending the Tête
de Valpelline, and descending to Zermatt (see Alpina 1903, p. 207, and
following: Erste Durchquerung der Walliseralpen). This is, beyond doubt,
one of the finest expeditions on ski that had yet been attempted in the
Alps.
[Illustration: THE PENNINE RANGE FROM GRAND ST. BERNARD TO ZERMATT.
(Reproduction made with authorisation of the Swiss Topographic Service,
26.8.12.)
To face p. 208.]
In January, 1908, the third attempt took place. Like the first, this
caravan started from Chamonix. It consisted of M. Baujard (from Paris),
with Joseph Ravanel, “le Rouge,” and E. D. Ravanel. Already on the first
day this party got off the bee-line. They went down to Châble along the
Col des Montets and the Col de Forclaz, then to Chanrion. On the third
day they left Chanrion at midnight, and got to Zermatt at 6.30 in the
evening, having crossed the Col de l’Evêque, Col du Mt. Brûlé, and the
Col de Valpelline (see _Revue Alpine_, 1908, p. 80).
As one sees, these three expeditions partly followed, or cut across, the
high-level route. So far as the first three passes are concerned (those
of Argentière, of Planards, and of Sonadon), they left them completely
on one side. They were right in leaving the first. The best and only
rational course is to traverse this part of the Mont Blanc range by
the Col du Chardonnet, or the Col du Tour and Orny. Indeed, the Col
d’Argentière, on the Swiss side, lands one in a wall of rock, where
nobody should think of venturing on ski. The Col du Géant cannot either
be used to any advantage.
The Col des Planards (2,736 m.), leading from the Val Ferret to Bourg
St. Pierre, is quite ski-able, but does not present the same interest as
a run on a glacier. Thus if you start from Chamonix, you must, at least
once, descend into the valleys. This necessity makes of the “high level”
from Chamonix an empty word for the Alpine runner.
If you start from Bourg St. Pierre and proceed to Zermatt from pass to
pass, you will travel along an almost unbroken ice route, which may
be compared to that which leads across the Bernese Oberland from the
Lötschenthal to the Grimsel. Chanrion, at the altitude of 2,400 m., is
the only downward bend of some depth on this road, the only place where
one is not surrounded by ice.
“Mr. F. F. Roget, of Geneva,” says a newspaper, “who in January, 1909,
with Mr. Arnold Lunn, explored the high-level route from Kandersteg to
Meiringen, planned out as follows his exploration of the Pennine high
level in January, 1911:--
“_First Day._--From Bourg St. Pierre to the Cabane de Valsorey
on the Sex du Meiten (3,100 m.).
“_Second Day._--Col du Sonadon (3,389 m.), Glacier du Mt.
Durand, Cabane de Chanrion (2,460 m.).
“_Third Day._--Col de l’Evêque (3,393 m.), Col de Collon (3,130
m.), Col and Cabane de Bertol (3,421 m.).
“_Fourth Day._--Ascent of Dent Blanche and a second night in
the Cabane de Bertol.
“_Fifth Day._--Col d’Hérens (3,380 m.), Glacier de Zmutt,
Zermatt.
“Mr. Roget was lucky in being able to carry out this programme from point
to point, with the exception of a delay of one day in the Valsorey hut,
where the atmospheric conditions compelled him to spend two nights. This
disturbance in the weather was in itself an additional piece of luck,
as a fall of snow, driven by a violent north wind, laid a fresh carpet
of dry stuff over the old, making the run, the whole way to Zermatt, a
perpetual delight.
“Mr. Roget had asked Mr. Marcel Kurz, of Neuchâtel, to be his companion,
and had engaged four guides, all of whom did duty as porters, namely:
Maurice Crettex, Jules Crettex, Louis Theytaz (of Zinal), Léonce Murisier
(of Praz de Fort). The two Crettex are natives of Orsières, and form
probably the strongest pair of ski-ing guides that the Canton du Valais
can now produce.”
Marcel Kurz had been my companion on the Aiguille du Chardonnet and on
the Grand Combin. He is the youth of eighteen alluded to in a preceding
chapter. He began his career as an Alpinist in 1898 and, since, he spent
every summer in improving himself, Praz de Fort being the usual summer
quarters of his family. In 1906 he became acquainted with the Grisons
ranges and particularly with the Bernina peaks. The following summer
finds him in the Mont Blanc range, in 1908 he was in the Pennines. His
first Alpine expedition on ski was when I took him up the Chardonnet.
From that time he fell into my way of preferring winter tours to summer
climbing, and intends, in the end, to publish the skiers’ way up and
down every mountain in Switzerland to the top of which he may be able to
get on ski. For two years he presided over that extremely distinguished
society of young climbers, the Akademischer Alpen Club, at Zürich. Next
spring, on leaving the Polytechnic University of Switzerland, he will
enter the Federal Topographic Bureau in Berne as surveying engineer.
As a soldier, he was first a private--like every able-bodied young
Swiss--in the corps of machine gunners attached to our mountain
infantry. He served his term as non-commissioned officer and is now
doing his officers’ training course at Lausanne. I would not in this
way offend Kurz’s modesty and tax my reader’s patience by giving here
so many particulars about a life career which after all is only at its
inception, and is not so very different from that of many young fellows
of the same age, did I think it out of place that a sample should appear
here of the manner in which mountaineering sport, professional studies
or occupations, and military obligations are crowded together in the
Switzer’s youth.
The journey from Bourg St. Pierre to Zermatt was performed from Monday,
January 9, 1911, to Saturday night, the 14th. It might have been done in
half the time, but such was not the purpose of the expedition.
At Bourg St. Pierre we met with one of those quite trifling but
somewhat unpleasant incidents with which mountaineers may be harried in
those remote Swiss villages where winter sportsmen are quite a novel
apparition. We fell upon a nest of those obsolete and retired guides
who fill the emptiness of their lives with nothing and find in the idle
habits they have acquired an excuse for passing adverse comments upon
the new mountaineering. We could not but go about collecting victuals
from the village shops, and did our packing in the public rooms of the
hostelry known under the name of Déjeuner de Napoléon. This started
the tongues of those who would talk. Buonaparte, indeed, seems to
have bequeathed to those big-mouthed villagers, whom he astonished by
breakfasting like any other mortal, a distinct capacity for bluff.
Three old guides sat, hours before midday, with a glass of kirsch
huddled between their thumbs, eyeing our goings and comings and scanning
all our doings. Then they consulted each other and began bragging of
the wonderful exploits they had performed in their day. Having thus
employed half an hour in impressing us, they proceeded to call our
attention--simply by making much of it within our hearing--to the
enormous risk we were about to incur by entrusting ourselves to such
inexperienced men as those young madcaps whom we had brought along with
us, and who had no share in the vast knowledge and weight of authority
that had by degrees been amassed in Bourg St. Pierre.
When they thought they had successfully filled us with suspicion towards
our men, they asked Maurice Crettex, in my presence, whether he had
fully recovered from an accident he had met in the summer when running
a cart-load of hay into a barn. The hay was toppling over and he had
been badly squeezed between the wall and the cart while holding up the
unsteady mass with his pitchfork. Little did they know that I was fully
aware of that and had purposely wished to be Crettex’ first employer
since the accident.
All their sly dodges having failed, their vindictive jealousy and
self-conceit, when we had left, ran into another channel, and of this a
few words will be heard at the end of our chapter. The jolly old villain
of Kippel was sterling gold as compared with that ugly crew.
_First Day._--Fine warm weather, foehn wind. From Bourg St. Pierre to
the Chalets d’Amont (2,192 m.), the ski-runner’s track falls in with
the summer route; but instead of climbing the chimney over which stands
a cross, the ski-runner keeps on to the south, and enters on the left
the gorge through which escapes the water of the Valsorey glacier. This
glacier is thus reached, then the Grand Plan, whence one discovers the
hut standing on the Sex du Meiten. Starting from Bourg St. Pierre at 11
o’clock, it was quite easy to reach the hut by sunset.
I noticed that the guides were provided with sealskins, light bamboos,
and laupars. There can be no question about the utility of sealskins
on long Alpine expeditions; but a light, short bamboo is certainly not
the right weapon for a guide, and laupars, with a few nails driven in,
certainly are most unsuited for glacier work. In other respects the men
were perfectly equipped. There were three ice-axes in the party, two
ropes, and everybody was provided with climbing-irons.
_Second Day._--A violent wind during the night, then snow till midday,
when the north wind gained the upper hand, clearing the sky after 2
o’clock. Beautiful sunset, clear night, 18 degrees Centigrade under zero.
_Third Day._--Weather beautiful; quite half a foot of fresh dry snow on
the old wind-driven snow.
[Illustration: THE SONADON CLIFFS.
To face p. 214.]
There is on the way from Bourg St. Pierre to Chanrion over the Col du
Sonadon a difficulty which may have turned the earlier runners away,
and no doubt induced them to go round that range from the north
rather than go across. This obstacle is the wall of rock which runs
as an unbroken, fortified line from the shoulder of the Combin on the
north to the Aiguilles Vertes in the south, and divides the Glacier de
Sonadon into two basins--the upper and the lower. The old editions of the
Siegfried Atlas show a dotted line which passes close to the Aiguille
du Déjeuner (3,009 m.), but it has been recognised that this route is
exposed to falling stones. Caravans now prefer to ascend to the Plateau
du Couloir under the shoulder of the Combin, and to descend upon the
Glacier de Sonadon, and thus reach the pass of that name.
We were quite successful in traversing the snow-covered rocks, along
which ran in former days the usual route. In case any runners should feel
called upon to prefer the new route, owing to the state of the rocks and
of the snow, here are some indications as to how to strike upon the right
course. From the Valsorey hut one should climb straight up, on ski or on
foot, till one is on a level with the Plateau du Couloir. If the snow is
good it will generally be found to be hard; if it is powdery, avalanches
are likely. From the Plateau du Couloir one may slide down to the glacier
and put one’s ski on again, getting gradually on a level with the Col du
Sonadon. I do not say that this track is better than the old one which we
took. The conditions of snow and rock should each time be considered in
the choice, because open snow slopes on hard ice-worn rock are the happy
hunting ground of the avalanche fiend.
At 10 o’clock, having crossed the small Glacier du Meiten, my party was
standing on the edge of the high wall which overlooks the lower basin
of the Glacier de Sonadon. For ski-runners the situation was somewhat
ludicrous, and was not one in which to remain for any length of time. The
party removed their ski, put on their climbing-irons, and the Crettex
brothers, carefully roped, went forward as scouts. The snow was in
capital condition (newly fallen powdery snow, very light and dry on the
bare rocks, and in the couloirs old snow of great consistency). Progress
was possible along a kind of ledge, which dropped slantingly along
slopes whose angle of declivity was about 45 degrees. One’s foot rested
occasionally in the compact snow, and sometimes on the rock itself. This
ledge presented an extremely narrow surface, and if one did not know that
it is in use in summer one might question in winter whether it existed at
all. It is very irregular, zigzagging across the couloirs and hanging on
to the spurs which separate them, but extremely interesting.
When once the Col de l’Aiguille du Déjeuner had been reached, the snow
showed a continuous surface on to the Glacier du Sonadon. The ski were
once more put on, and the party “tacked” its way, first down, and then
up, on slopes on which the sun brought trifling avalanches into motion.
At about 3 o’clock in the afternoon the caravan was seated in the full
glow of the sun on the Col du Sonadon (3,389 m.). An hour later began
a rapid descent on the Glacier du Mont Durand--one of the many of that
name--with one’s face turned towards the sunset on the mountains above
Chanrion (Ruinette, Glacier de Breney, &c.). One should avoid running
too low down on the glacier. The thing to do is to cross over to the
north-east _arête_ on Mont Avril, and to descend full speed, pushing on
to the Glacier de Fenêtre, describing thus a vast semicircle on to the
tip of the tongue of the Glacier d’Otemma. Hence by moonlight to Chanrion
on the opposite slope. The hut was reached at 6 o’clock. There was but
little snow in front of the door, and no snow at all inside. By that time
the moon shone through a damper atmosphere; the glass was somewhat lower,
though comparatively high (it remained so throughout the expedition),
but the cold had considerably abated since the morning. This meant the
gathering up of mists during the night.
There is a serious drawback to the Chanrion hut. Its situation marks it
out as a most convenient resort for Italian smugglers in the dull autumn
and winter months when the tourist traffic has ceased. Those smugglers
cross over from Italy in large numbers, bringing in farm and dairy
produce, and then return to their homes laden with heavy packages of
tobacco, sugar, and every kind of grocery that is heavily taxed in their
own country. They are not above lifting such things as spoons, forks, tin
plates, and sundry useful kitchen utensils, nay, even the blankets with
which the club huts are furnished. Such movables are therefore almost
entirely removed from Chanrion at the close of the summer season when the
caretaker comes down. The six of us had to be content with the barest
necessaries out of the always very scanty club furniture: six spoons,
six forks, six plates, six knives, six blankets: quite enough, you see,
whether smugglers or no smugglers.
_Fourth Day (January 12th)._--As foreseen, the weather was dull.
Departure at 8.30. Considerable masses of snow had filled up, or at least
completely closed, the huge crevasses, which in summer are open at the
junction of the Glacier d’Otemma with the Glacier of Crête Sèche. Not the
slightest fissure could be detected.
There are at the outlet of the Crête Sèche glacier some interesting
engineering works to regulate the outflow and obviate floods which have
repeatedly visited the Dranse valley, owing to the collection of water in
glacier pockets and their bursting when the weight is too great for the
ice walls to bear. Of these not a sign could be seen.
As a long and wide avenue, the glacier stretched itself out before the
runners, and out of sight. Grey mists, rising from Italy, hung loosely
over the southern rim of the glacier. But when near the upper end, at an
altitude of 3,000 m. or thereabouts, the mist melted away and the sun
reappeared. Three passes had to be crossed on that day in order to reach
the Bertol hut by night. At that time of year those passes were nothing
more than slightly marked elevations in the snow-fields. The first opens
between Petit Mt. Collon and Becca d’Oren. This pass, as yet nameless,
and which it will be convenient to call here Pass 3,300 m., affords a
much more direct route than the Col de Chermontane, or any other. Messrs.
Helbling and Reichert had swerved away from the continuous snow-highway
to the north. Messrs. Baujard and Ravanel had taken refuge from the
crevasses upon the rock passes south of the Bouquetins range. In our case
the choice was determined by the requirements of ski technique. From Pass
3,300, gentle downward and upward slopes led us on to the Col de l’Evêque
(3,393 m.), which was reached at 2.30 in the afternoon.
In the direction of Italy the sky had remained dull. To the north the
mountains shone (including the Bernese Oberland) in a blue sky, in which
floated a few clouds. The glass on that day, as before, gave very fair
readings. There was but little wind, and the cold was not sharp.
On that day I conversed much with Louis Theytaz. It was with me a set
purpose that he should accompany us on this expedition, since I had read
in the Alpine Ski Club Annual, and otherwise heard, of his High Alp runs
with Mr. W. A. M. Moore and some of that gentleman’s friends. I wrote to
Theytaz from Les Basses above Ste. Croix. He joined me at Martigny. He
was what one would call “a nice, jolly chap.”
But was he in for bad luck? He had hardly placed his things in the net
of our railway carriage, going to Orsières, when his climbing irons fell
from the top of his rucksack upon his head, badly bruising his forehead
with the prongs. I had engaged him to carry my own pack, as I had made
up my mind that I was now old enough to have a personal attendant all to
myself. My luggage was particularly valuable to the whole party, as it
contained all the spirits I allowed them, namely, in two large flasks,
the contents of four bottles of whisky, the proper allowance for six
men during six days in January weather at a minimum altitude of 10,000
feet. Theytaz surprised me when, on arrival at the Valsorey hut, he
violently threw my pack upside down upon the bed planks. The stopper of
one of the flasks flew out, and then I had the pleasure of seeing the
floor streaming with whisky. We got through to Zermatt very well on the
contents of the other flask. But the head of an expedition so serious as
this, when he has forbidden wine and limited spirits to the supply which
is known to be in his possession only, does not like to see half of it
spilt on the first stage of the journey by an act of sheer carelessness.
Anyhow, I viewed Louis Theytaz in the light of what I had read and
heard in his favour. Knowing that he was again to accompany, within a
fortnight of leaving me, Mr. Moore and friends to the Pigne d’Arolla,
that mountain gained much interest in our sight, as, with the searching
eyes of ski-runners, we examined its slopes dipping into the higher
reaches of the Glacier d’Otemma. We photographed it a little later in
the day in its eastern aspect. Seen from the south and west it presented
the most attractive appearance. From the east, it would have been out of
the question. What it might be from the north we could suspect from its
ominous hang that way.
Recollecting that Messrs. Helbling and Reichert had struck the Glacier
de Seilon from the west, I advised Theytaz either to lead his party down
south to the Col de Chermontane, or to take them back the way they had
come, and reach Arolla in the same manner as the eminent gentlemen whose
route was on record. But I did not at the time attach any particular
value to my opinion, having learnt from experience how much better
things generally turn out in practice than they appear likely to do when
considered by an over-prudent man in a pessimistic mood. Louis Theytaz
was swallowed up by a crevasse on the Glacier de Seilon.
From the Col de l’Evêque to the Col de Collon the snow was hard for
half a mile or so; but as soon as the northern slope of the latter was
reached the snow resumed its excellent quality. Thus the three passes
were crossed. Wide curves brought the party down the gentle slopes of the
Glacier d’Arolla to the level marked 2,670 in the map. From that point we
made towards the right bank of the glacier, and landed on the very steep
slopes which rise between it and the Plan de Bertol. Some of the party
removed their ski rather than run along the top of this ridge. When we
were well above the Plan de Bertol we were careful not to dip into it,
but turned in to the right, and this move brought us to the foot of the
Glacier de Bertol, in which the six runners opened a fairly deep track
while tacking with geometrical regularity in the direction of the Bertol
hut. They gained about 25 metres in each tack. The moon lit up their
march. In the higher reaches of the glacier the slope stiffened, but the
snow remained excellent.
Let it be noted here that from one end to the other of the trip we were
entirely spared hard and wind-beaten snows, except at the Col de Collon,
as above specified, this being the result of the day’s delay in the
Valsorey hut, during which it snowed so nicely. Moreover, the high-level
route presents on its whole length a belt of comparatively low summits on
the south side--low because the route is situated so high. This almost
continuous parapet considerably interferes with the view upon Italy, but
it is a protection from sun and wind, and no doubt assists in keeping the
snow in good condition.
At seven o’clock in the evening the foot of the Rocher de Bertol was
reached. The ski were hidden in a niche for the night. We climbed on
foot, like dismounted dragoons, up the wall, the rocks of which form a
kind of ladder. The rope which is permanently fixed there was available,
though partly buried in snow. This hut, perched as an eagle’s nest above
the glacier, looks as if the Neuchâtel section of the Swiss Alpine Club
(to whom it belongs) had wished to underline with a stroke of humour the
Swiss Alpine Club regulations, which say that, in the first instance,
huts are intended for the accommodation of the sick and wounded. The door
was blocked up with snow, but the windows gave quite comfortable access
to the kitchen.
“On that evening,” says the newspaper already quoted, “the party became
more confirmed than ever in Mr. Roget’s resolve to attempt the ascent of
the Dent Blanche. The condition of the mountains and the weather seemed
to justify his anticipations. In forming that bold plan Mr. Roget had
taken his stand upon the successful experiences he had had before in his
winter ascents of the Aiguille du Tour, the Aiguille du Chardonnet,
the Grand Combin, the Finsteraarhorn, the Diablerets, the Wildhorn, the
Wildstrubel, &c. It could not but be, he thought, that the Dent Blanche,
like all the foregoing peaks, would present itself in January in such
a good condition that its ascent by the south _arête_ would be quite
possible. It was Mr. Roget’s belief that the _arête_ would show in its
fissures but a thin layer of dry and powdery snow. He was convinced that
the cornices would show a full development, with their faces to the east
and south-east, but without any hem of snow on the west side of the
_arête_, where the ascent is practically made. The slabs, he thought,
would be entirely covered with ice, but this ice, in its turn, could not
but be covered with an adhesive layer of old snow, with fresh snow on the
top of it, and this, having fallen in comparatively mild weather, must
have cemented itself on to the old snow, so as to form with it a reliable
surface, at whatever angle a footing might have to be gained. After a
spell of fine weather, the Dent Blanche could not be more difficult in
winter than in summer. In fact, he thought the rocks had been shone upon
by the sun till they were dry and free of snow, the couloirs had been
swept clean by the wind or clothed in a firm crust. That the cornices
might come down with a crash was evident, but this would be into the
abysses on the east slope, which was immaterial. On the western slope
the snow would be firmly enough attached to the ice to leave but little
opportunity for the ice-axe to come into play.”
Those forecasts, brought to the proof, were borne out by reality. The
snow, which had fallen three days before (a light, powdery snow, coming
down in whirls), had gained no footing, nor could it, upon such an
_arête_ as that of the Dent Blanche. The little of it which the sun had
not had time to melt we swept away with our gloved hands. It was an easy
job, as that of ladies’ maids brushing away the dust on their mistress’s
sleeves, and we certainly did not complain of having some little
tidying-up to do.
_Fifth Day._--At six in the morning some early mists were trailing slowly
on the ice and snow-fields between the Dent de Bertol and the Dent
Blanche. The light of the setting moon broke occasionally through the
clouds. The weather might be uncertain--and it might not, for the glass
was at fair. The mists turned out to be, as on the preceding days, such
as herald a beautiful autumn sunrise. A start was made in the direction
of the Col d’Hérens. Slowly the day dawned, and found the party on the
Glacier de Ferpècle. By that time we could make out which was the real
direction of the wind in the middle of those mists which seemed to drift
about aimlessly. It actually blew from the north-east, then from the
north, with a steady but moderate strength, which abated entirely only at
sunset. The _impedimenta_ were, for the most part, left on the northern
side of Col d’Hérens, keeping but a few victuals, the three ice-axes, the
climbing-irons, and two ropes. We turned the heads of our ski against the
north wind, skirting the foot of the big southern _arête_, so as to reach
a small terrace situated above the spot marked Roc Noir on the map. On
this terrace the ski were firmly planted in the snow. Dismounting, we
fastened on our climbing-irons. Three ski sticks were kept along with the
three ice-axes.
Among the first rocks the party halted in order to take some food. It
was 9.15. By means of the ropes two caravans were formed, and these soon
started, exchanging a cheerful _au revoir_ in case some incident should
separate them.
The brothers Crettex and Marcel Kurz were on the first rope; on another
myself, Louis Theytaz, and Léonce Murisier, this last carrying the bag of
eatables.
The fairness of the weather, the capital condition of snow and rock, and
the fitness of the party would have made it quite possible to reach the
top of the Dent Blanche at one o’clock in the afternoon. But there was no
good reason for any hurry. A quick march might bring on some fatigue, or
at least some totally unnecessary tension of mind and physical effort.
This would entail some slight additional risk to no purpose whatever. The
climbers had the whole day before them, and need not make any allowance
for difficulties when returning to the Bertol hut, for they would follow
their own tracks (which they knew to be safe) back across the glacier,
whatever time of night it might be. Consequently this ascent of the Dent
Blanche was deliberately carried out, and almost without any effort. It
was accomplished in such leisure as not to need any quickening of the
pulse.
Maurice Crettex and Louis Theytaz were fully acquainted with every
peculiarity of the Dent Blanche, and treated her with as much familiarity
as though they had been babes sitting on the lap of their own
grandmother. The Crettex section of the caravan got on to the _arête_ at
a trot, and began to ride it (the expression is false, but picturesque)
at the point 3,729. Lunch was relished at point 3,912. Thence the two
sections kept about 50 yards apart. Up to the first Grand Gendarme the
_arête_ is undulated rather than broken up, and quite comfortable to
follow. There are fine glimpses on the Obergabelhorn to the right and on
the Matterhorn; the cornices of the _arête_ formed round those pictures
magnificent frames with an ice fringe.
I had long been curious to ascertain what might be in winter the
condition of the famous “plaques” or “dalles” (slabs), which have
acquired such an evil reputation in summer. No such thing was to be seen.
They were pasted over with excellent snow, in which Maurice Crettex dug a
few steps when the ice came near to the surface. He seemed to do it as a
matter of form: assuredly it would have been an irregular practice to do
otherwise. It is true that without our excellent climbing-irons we might
have been much less at ease. In point of fact, it was enough to dig out
the snow with one’s boot-tips and to stand firmly in the holes on one’s
climbing-irons in order to skip over those formidable slabs.
The _arête_ offered the best means of progress immediately after passing
the Grand Gendarme. This appellation is bestowed upon the turrets,
which, constable-like, bar one’s progress along a ridge. On the rock of
the _arête_ there was the merest sprinkling of fresh snow, so dry and
light that it could easily be brushed aside, and nowhere prevented one’s
gloved hands from securely grasping the rock. The scramble was quite
interesting, and the hours passed by so agreeably while proceeding up
this magnificent staircase, that nobody felt in a hurry to shorten the
pleasure of the climb. There was occasionally a bit of a competition
between Louis Theytaz, leader of the second rope, and Maurice Crettex,
leader of the first, as to who should lead the van, but Crettex would not
yield his place, and stormed on.
Here I left my stick planted in a mound of snow on the _arête_. We might,
or might not, pick it up on the way back, and I took my chance. This
stick was worthy of being planted and left there. It was a beautiful bit
of cane, smooth and white as ivory, which I had picked up from a heap of
drifted wreckage on the Cornish coast, in the preceding summer, while
bathing. What scenes it might have witnessed upon the deep I did not like
to picture. Yet, but for its suggestive power, I should not have brought
it the whole way from Watergate bay.
It has always been my fancy to unite in one sweep of vision the ocean and
the mountains, the deepest with the highest. My Dent Blanche might be one
of a school of whales stranded on high when the waters withdrew, and my
harpoon was well placed, sticking in one of the vertebræ of her petrified
spine.
At the time of writing, I understand that it is there still, respected
of the eagles and of the gales. The summer thaw has left untouched the
fleecy patch of snow. The lightning has drawn in its forks before the
unaccustomed wand. Now and then a guide writes me that he has seen it,
that so-and-so could not believe his eyes when he led up the first party
of the summer season and found an ivory staff shining on the ridge. In
wonderment, he reported the matter to some colleague of mine who had
heard in our club-room my first account of this ascent.
For my part, I am content to look upon this incident as confirming my
views. A frail stick, planted in the middle of a patch of snow on the
most exposed and weather-beaten _arête_ in the Alps, appears here as the
needle showing how nicely balanced are the scales of Nature.
In due course the rock came to an end, and the _arête_ showed itself
under the appearance of a white-hooded crest. It was the final pyramid.
On that day, Friday January 13, 1911, the small, conic snow-cap which
surmounted the brow of the peak was brought down by a blow from an
ice-axe, at 3.30 p.m. A short time was spent on the summit. The view was
now and then obscured by a cloud sailing rapidly down from the north and
skirting the watch-tower on which stood the onlookers.
On the way down, each section, in its turn, with feet deeply embedded in
the snow, reached again the bare rocks of the _arête_, having resumed the
footprints made on the way up. But when leaving the snow that covered
the terminal pyramid, the party did not continue on the _arête_ the way
it had come up, but wheeled to the right--that is, westward--and began
ploughing in a downward course the slopes of the Dent Blanche facing
Bertol, which had the appearance of being all snow. In spite of the
extreme steepness of the slope, the party, with heels and climbing-irons
well wedged into the snow, advanced with great security and speed,
though the irons did occasionally impinge upon the ice. The slope
getting sharper and the layer of snow thinner, it became necessary to
substitute a lateral or horizontal course for the vertically downward
course. A few steps had to be cut before a footing could again be gained
on the _arête_. But, by that time, the caravan had proceeded beyond both
Gendarmes, and, though it was night, we could hop along quite nicely.
During this bit of traverse, being without a stick I rested my left hand
upon the snow each time I moved forward, digging in my bent fingers to
relieve the foothold from some of my weight. The Ice Maid then kissed my
finger-tips very gently. The bite was so timid that the kind attention
escaped my notice at the moment. But late that night, before the stove,
in the hut, I struck a match upon the hot iron plates with my right hand,
to light my cigar, while holding up some garment to the fire with my
left. The heat made the mischief apparent. It caused almost no pain, only
giving an earnest of what the Ice Maid could do if pressed too hard.
Through the mists of this January dusk the moon threw a gentle light,
which made it easy to discern the footprints made in the morning on the
snow. The few steps which had been cut here and there on the ice were
quite visible, and the rope made it a simple matter to descend the rocky
parts. So, from that moment, the descent consisted simply in repeating
in the opposite direction the moves of the morning.
The cornices on the left hand were made more beautiful than ever by the
play of the moonbeams through the icicles. Now and then some fragment of
the cornice came down with a crash, and a cloud of dust arose from the
abyss and sent minute crystals across the faces of the men. It was 8.30
when the party stood again beside their ski. An hour later we picked
up our heavier luggage. Sitting on our rucksacks, we took an evening
meal. Then, ropes and all being packed, the six strolled back across
the Glacier de Ferpècle at pleasure, and, as fancy bade, each chose his
own way. The night sped on, and half its course was almost run when we
reached for the second time the hospitable nest on the Bertol rock. We
might have been shades moving in a dream rather than men. Our task being
successfully accomplished, we might claim a right to vanish away, like
dissolving views thrown for a moment upon a screen.
_Sixth Day._--The morning was long and lazy. At eleven o’clock, after a
good rest and full of good cheer, we entered upon our last day’s work.
The sun shone brilliantly, and, thanks to his kindness, and thanks also
to the smooth and sparkling snow, this last day, more than any of the
foregoing, if possible, gave rise to one of those rambles on ski which
are the delight of the Alpine explorer. On approaching the Col d’Hérens,
the track of the preceding day was departed from where it had bent away
towards the Dent Blanche, and the party turned their backs upon
their conquest. The rocks, which on the Col d’Hérens divide the Glacier
de Ferpècle, on the north, from the Stock glacier to the south of the
Wandfluh, could just be seen emerging from the snow. The ski were removed
for about ten minutes while descending those rocks.
[Illustration: ON THE DENT BLANCHE, WITH MATTERHORN.
To face p. 230.]
It may be said that from that point to Zermatt the run was practically
continuous. No obstacle of any sort ever came to interfere with the
downward flight. Whenever the party came to a stop, it did so for its
own pleasure and convenience. After the rush down the sides of the
Stockjé came the run down the Glacier de Zmutt, with the icefalls of
the Matterhorn glacier on the right. Fragments of ice studded the snow
surface, and the ski occasionally grated against them. On the moraine,
where in summer the surface is stony and the climber’s brow wet with
perspiration, we slid along as borne on by wings, rushing through the
air. When we reached the Staffelalp the sun was beginning to set. Over
the tops of the arolla pines stood forth in a mighty blaze many friends
visited of old--the Rimpfischhorn, the Strahlhorn, the Allalinhorn, the
Alphubel; the beautiful mouldings of the Findelen glacier were bathed in
rays of purple fire. On approaching Zermatt the snow proved heavy and
deep. The ski got buried in it and shovelled along masses of it, somewhat
delaying the running. Zermatt was reached by five o’clock at night.
The village was in a hubbub, and we arrived in the nick of time to ring
the necks of I do not know how many birds of ill omen ready to take their
flight. The Bourg St. Pierre dunderheads had had six days in which to
rouse the journalists. They had stuffed them with fusty words of ignorant
wisdom. Reporters had telegraphed and telephoned, to make sure of their
quarry. A column of guides had been warned by the head of the Zermatt
relief station to be in readiness. They were to leave on the next morning
for the scene of the expected disaster.
They might do so yet, for all we cared. By looking about carefully they
might detect the tip of one of Mr. Kurz’s ski, which had snapped off
against a stone, at the moment when, entering the village at a quick
pace, he had suddenly come upon a milkmaid with her pail balanced on her
head. There was nothing for it but to go gallantly to the wall. This was
more courtesy than the ski could stand. Its point came off, and this the
rescue party might bring back as a trophy.
Joking apart, Zermatt gave us a grand reception, seasoned with steaming
bowls of hot red wine and cinnamon.
Thus was accomplished the first successful ski-run from Bourg St. Pierre
to Zermatt. Luck was good throughout; indeed, if an attempt to ascend the
Dent Blanche on a Friday and on the thirteenth day of the month could not
break the weather, nothing would.
The Crettex brothers went back by rail to Orsières. Louis Theytaz got out
of the train at Sierre. He returned to his avocations at Zinal, looking
with well-founded confidence to his next engagement, a few days hence,
with Mr. Moore.
The Crettex’ had no sooner reached home than a telegram reached them
from my friend Dr. König of Geneva, one of the pioneers of the new
mountaineering school, enjoining Maurice to expect him at once for a
repetition of the successful expedition, news of which had meanwhile been
carried to Geneva.
Dr. König and Maurice found our ski track generally undisturbed, but the
wind and sun had done their work upon the fresh snow, hardening it and
covering it with the usual icy film. The running was fast and uncertain,
for want of side support for the ski blades. On the way they climbed the
Grand Combin, as I had done in 1907. Imitation by such a distinguished
mountaineer was the most flattering form of appreciation I could look
for. I met him some time after at our Geneva Ski Club, when he observed
that he wondered not so much at what my party had accomplished--in which
he was quite right, as I proved by producing the table of our very easy
hours--as at the bold practical thought that had inspired and helped us.
Like me, Dr. König had noticed from the Zmutt glacier how practicable
the Matterhorn would be. In fact, Maurice would have tackled the Zmutt
_arête_ on the slightest provocation. Meeting at Zermatt Captain Meade,
who had just achieved the Zinal Rothhorn, Dr. König communicated to him
his observation concerning the Matterhorn. As was soon made public,
Captain Meade succeeded in making a January ascent of the Matterhorn.
Unfortunately he suffered very severely from exposure.
I had returned to my ordinary occupations in Geneva, when I was startled
one morning by a note in the local papers. On the very day on which
Captain Meade was “doing” the Matterhorn--January 31st--Louis Theytaz
was perishing on the glacier de Seilon, an occurrence which changed an
otherwise successful trip into a dreadful ordeal. The cold may be gauged
from Captain Meade’s notes in the _Alpine Journal_. The thermometer down
at Zermatt at 7 a.m. showed 27 degrees of frost Fahrenheit.
The fatal accidents to ski-ing parties that I so far know of in the
Alps have proceeded from one or another of three causes: avalanches,
exhaustion ensuing upon stress of weather or losing one’s way, and
crevasses. For no accident yet can ski be made responsible, a rather
remarkable exception, when one reflects how easily a ski blade may break
or a fastening get out of order.
Theytaz’s accident was caused by a crevasse. He was one of four able
and well-known guides accompanying a party of three gentlemen who put
implicit faith in their leadership and in whom they had every confidence.
The third on a rope of three, Louis Theytaz followed the two leading
over a crevasse which, after the event, showed itself about 7 feet wide,
and of which the party had become aware before launching themselves
across it. It was unfortunate that the leading guide “took” the crevasse
obliquely to its width. The moving rope, too, compelled each man in
succession to bring his weight to bear on the same spot. The rope
could not be of much use for want of stable supporting points. A man
advancing carefully on foot breaks his speed at every step. Not so a
runner on ski.
[Illustration: TOP OF DENT BLANCHE.
To face p. 234.]
The gentleman preceding Theytaz made a stopping turn on the further side
of the crevasse, and waited to see him over. By that time Theytaz’s
brother Benoît, who was leader on the rope, might have been ready.
Anyhow, the snow broke. Theytaz was hurled down and the rope snapped.
I was on the very rope when ascending the Dent Blanche. It was an old
rope, but perfectly satisfactory. Why are the best of ropes liable to
snap? After this accident, which roused his personal interest as it did
mine, my friend Kurz instituted experiments on all kinds of rope material
on the market. The results showed conclusively what rope material,
under tension, was the best, but no light was thrown upon the supposed
greater liability to snap when frozen, either when dry or after absorbing
moisture. All we know so far about the breaking-point of mountaineering
ropes, is that they may break under a shock which will leave a man
unmoved in his steps though, on trial, they may resist a tension far
greater than can be put upon them by the dropping suddenly into space of
a man’s weight.
An athlete may burst a taut chain by muscular effort. A horse may burst
his girths by a little inflation. What about a slack rope?
Popular imagination, baffled by such obvious but unexplained
contingencies, at once suspects foul play. The strangest stories may be
heard in the Val d’Anniviers about Theytaz’s broken rope.
Mr. Moore’s own account appeared in the Alpine Ski Club Annual for 1911,
and runs as follows:--
“On January 28th last, a party assembled at Martigny, A. V. Fitzherbert,
A. D. Parkin, and myself, with four guides: Félix Abbet and the three
Theytaz brothers, Louis, Benoît, and Basile, all of Zinal. Next morning
we walked up to Fionnay, where a small hotel had been opened for us. The
snow was in perfect condition, and as we had an hour or so of daylight to
spare, we enjoyed some practice runs on an excellent slope just outside
the village. Here we made the acquaintance of three ex-presidents of
the Geneva section of the Swiss Alpine Club, who were learning to ski
in this deserted retreat. They had a comfortable chalet, where we spent
a most pleasant evening, surrounded by Alpine paintings and old Swiss
wood-carved furniture.
“At 8 a.m. on the 30th we got off, provisioned and equipped for a hard
two days, and started up the valley to Chanrion. It was easy-going as far
as Mauvoisin, but beyond that the summer path was quite impassable in
places, owing to the overflowing and freezing of streams. We lost much
time over these, and finally had to descend to the bottom of the gorge,
which afforded much better going.”
May I break here the thread of the narrative to insert an observation.
Louis Theytaz had got information from us as to this passage, and had
been told that the summer path was known in the Bagnes valley to be
impassable in the winter, particularly with ski. The gorge is the right
ski-ing route.
“A steep and trying couloir brought us up to Chanrion. We left next
morning at 6.30, and made for the Glacier de Breney, where we were able
to put out the lamp. It was pretty cold. Near the top there must have
been nearly 50 degrees of frost. The glacier presented no difficulties,
the only obstacle being an ice-fall, up which we had a little
step-cutting.
“The trouble began about an hour below the Col de Breney, where we were
met by a piercing north-east wind, which struck us in gusts, sweeping
up clouds of powdery snow, through which one could hardly see. The snow
was quite hard under foot, and all, except Louis, took their ski off on
reaching the col. Half an hour’s walking brought us to the top of the
Pigne (12,470 feet), where we got the full benefit of the gale. The view,
however, was magnificent, and fully justified the struggles of the last
few hours.
“We stopped on the top about five minutes, and then returned to our ski
and began the descent to the Glacier de Seilon. For half an hour we
descended on foot over wind-swept slopes, at first gentle, and then steep
and crevassed, till we at last got out of the wind and into the sun,
when a short halt was made. At this point I became painfully aware that
three fingers had been temporarily frost-bitten. Parkin also had lost all
feeling in his toes, but did not realise how bad they were till later
on. We were soon off again on ski, and on perfect running snow, in the
following order: Benoît, Fitzherbert, and Louis on the first rope, myself
and Parkin on the second, followed by Félix Abbet and Basile unroped.
“As we approached the ice-fall which gives access to the Glacier de
Seilon, there occurred the sad accident which cost Louis his life,
depriving us of an old and tried companion, and the Valais of one of its
best guides. We were running down and across the glacier when the leading
three came to a small depression and ridge running straight down the
slope parallel to the sides of the glacier, evidently a crevasse bridged
over by snow. The first two crossed safely, but apparently loosened the
snow, which gave way under Louis. He fell back into the crevasse which
was about 8 feet across, and as the rope tightened, it snapped, and he
was gone. Basile was running on to the bridged crevasse a little higher
up, at the same moment, but although it gave under him, his pace carried
him over, and he fell clear. Abbet was just behind Louis and saved
himself by throwing himself down.”
[Illustration: ON THE STOCKJÉ, LOOKING EAST.
To face p. 238.]
Mr. Moore next gives a sketch of the crevasse and of the position of
each in relation to it. Then he continues: “This journal is no place to
describe the half-hour which followed, the memory of which is only too
fresh for those who were present. It is enough to say that we could not
reach Louis with 130 feet of rope, and had to tear ourselves away. It
was a great relief to know from subsequent examination that, although
we had heard him answer for about five minutes, he could not have lived
longer, and in all probability felt nothing. The search party of guides
that went up next day found the body 160 feet down, and as we had only 80
feet of reliable rope, we could have done nothing.”
The sketch shows--and its accuracy cannot be doubted--that Messrs. Moore
and Parkin were keeping a course that led them past the crevasse without
touching it; that Basile Theytaz showed less discretion, and escaped
because, being unroped, he came singly on the bridge, in a place where
the crevasse was narrower and when he was sufficiently under weigh. Abbet
escaped simply because he approached the crevasse in the wake of Louis
Theytaz, and took warning in time, for he was about to cross the gulf at
its widest.
One may say--in all kindness and with every sympathy--that the roped
party which met with the accident was badly led, and one may say so the
more confidently, as the leader seems to have been fully aware that he
was heading for a formidable crevasse.
When planning my traverse from Bourg St. Pierre to Zermatt, I had it in
my mind that an expedition across the Pennine Alps from end to end would
not be complete, unless I pushed on over the Mischabel and Weissmies
ranges to the Simplon pass, beyond which begin the Lepontine Alps.
The weather was so fine and our powers of endurance had been so
slightly taxed that we might easily have pushed on. In fact, in respect
of weather, circumstances remained so favourable that we might have
continued till the end of February without experiencing a check. The
weather report was so perpetually: Still and warm in the High Alps.
Unfortunately Marcel Kurz had broken his ski, and it might be just as
wise to go home and nurse my frozen finger-tips. There are other things
in life than ski-running. So we came to the conclusion that we had done
enough for glory.
However, Marcel Kurz took this spring (1912) his revenge over the
misadventure to his ski and, with some friends, completed our interrupted
programme.
I append here his notes, as the Mischabel range is about to be an object
of great interest for British runners who will find that Saas Fée has
become a nursery of excellent ski-running guides.
At the moment of writing (August, 1912), the Britannia hut on the
Hinter Allalin, as already pointed out in this volume, is about to be
formally inaugurated. It opens up to the ski-runner a magnificent field
for exploration on account of which the English ski clubs liberally
contributed to the erection of this ski-runner’s hut _par excellence_.
The map entitled Mischabel-Monte Rosa shows one of the numerous zigzag
tracks for which the district will become famous.
[Illustration: MISCHABEL RANGE AND MONTE ROSA.
(Reproduction made with authorisation of the Swiss Topographic Service,
26.8.12.)
To face p. 240.]
Mr Kurz’s notes show also what an incredible amount of stiff
mountaineering can be crowded easily into a short time by ski-runners,
including the ascent of Monte Rosa, the highest peak in the Alps next to
Mont Blanc.
The latter is not a ski-runner’s mountain. The gradients are too sharp
and exposed. Monte Rosa, on the contrary, is an ideal runner’s mountain.
I lay no stress on the fact that Mr. Kurz’s raid was guideless. I have
endeavoured elsewhere to show how much this term is a misnomer when
applied to perfectly competent mountaineering parties that dispense with
professional guides.
_March 27th._--We started three from St. Nicolas for the Mischabel hut
up the glacier of Ried and over the Windjoch pass. The weather was
very fine, extremely warm at about three o’clock in the afternoon. The
glacier was extremely broken up, presenting the same appearance as in
autumn. Would do very well for ski in a normal year, particularly on
the higher _névé_. The last 300 feet of the Windjoch should be done on
foot. On the top of the pass there rose an unpleasant west wind, and the
snow being most unpleasantly hard, we elected to leave our ski on the
spot, intending to come back for them on the next day and to ascend the
Nadelhorn by the way. We spent the night at the Mischabel hut.
_March 28th._--Very uncertain weather; too much wind to attempt the
Nadelhorn. We walked down to Saas Fée in two hours on very firm and very
reliable snow.
_March 29th._--On hard snow and dry rocks we walked up to the Gemshorn
and thence along the snow _arête_ to the Ulrichshorn, coming down on
to the Windjoch to pick up our ski. We then ran down the Riedgletscher
till within a few hundred feet of Gassenried, and thence walked to St.
Nicolas, first on hard snow and then on wet snow.
_March 30th._--We walked from St. Nicolas and then skied to a fairly
hospitable hut on the Untere Taesch Alp.
_March 31st._--Along the Untere Taesch Alp and the Langefluh glacier, our
ski carried us up to the _arête_ rising above the Rimpfisch Waenge and
along that _arête_ to the altitude of 3,600 metres. Then on foot along
the ordinary route we reached the top of the Rimpfischhorn (13,790 feet).
The ascent took seven hours, the descent four hours. The rocks were
absolutely dry, as “summery” as possible. This is a very interesting ski
tour and had not yet been attempted.
_April 1st._--The weather is bad; we come down to Taesch and go to
Zermatt to get fresh supplies.
_April 2nd._--Weather splendid with a furious north wind. We return to
our cabin on the Taesch Alp. One of us returns to the lowlands and two
only are left to continue the campaign.
_April 3rd._--The weather is very cold and we make too early a start. We
cross the Alphubeljoch to Saas Fée, leaving the Alphubel unascended on
account of the fury of the wind. A pass somewhat steep from the Taesch
side and somewhat crevassed on the Saas side, from the runner’s point of
view, but magnificent with respect to scenery.
[Illustration: FOOT OF STOCKJÉ, LOOKING EAST.
To face p. 243.]
_April 4th._--Weather magnificent. North wind not so strong. We ramble
most delightfully on our ski from Saas Fée to Mattmark, which is a deadly
place in other respects.
_April 5th._--From Mattmark to Zermatt by the Schwarzberg Weissthor.
Weather mild, foehn, rather cold on the top, magnificent outlook over
Zermatt. The snow hard throughout allowed us to ski up very quickly (four
hours from Mattmark to the summit, 3,612 metres). At Findelen we enjoyed
an afternoon nap under the arolla pines. Amid regular flower-beds we
descended to Zermatt, where we met two other friends.
_April 6th._--From Zermatt to the Bétemps hut on Monte Rosa, following
the Gorner glacier from the beginning and employing half an hour in
crossing the _sérac_ zone on foot. The heat on the upper reaches of the
glacier was most overpowering.
_April 7th._--Monte Rosa. Snow quite hard here, and everywhere else,
throughout this fortnight. Weather beautiful, slight north wind. We left
the hut at six o’clock, reaching the top at 12.35.
_April 8th._--Not a cloud in the sky all day long. We take sun baths all
day about the hut.
_April 9th._--We intended to ascend the Lyskamm, but bad weather came and
punished us for our idleness on the preceding day. Foehn and fog. There
was nothing to do. We ran down to Zermatt in two hours along the whole of
the Gorner glacier.
This laconic record is extremely instructive. It bears out the
contentions already formulated in other parts of this book. The snow
surface was hard, reduced in volume, and as cemented by the wind.
The _arêtes_ were bare of snow, free from ice, and perfectly dry. The
crevasses were either plainly visible or firmly crusted over. Ski were
throughout useful in preventing the surface from breaking underfoot,
perhaps still more in going uphill than when rapidity of movement
lightens one’s weight flying downhill. The summer of 1911, as one knows,
was one of the two driest on record in the preceding half-century. The
glacier snow was therefore worn down to its thinnest when the winter
snows began to pile themselves in layers above them. These too remained
comparatively thin, affording admirable running surfaces when sprinkled
over with fresh snow.
[Illustration]