ABOVE THE SNOW LINE
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
[Illustration: THE BIETSCHHORN. FROM THE PETERSGRAT]
ABOVE THE SNOW LINE
MOUNTAINEERING SKETCHES
BETWEEN 1870 AND 1880
BY
CLINTON DENT
VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE ALPINE CLUB
“_Celui qui n’a jamais ses heures_
_de folie est moins sage qu’il ne le_
_pense_”—LA BRUYÈRE
WITH TWO ENGRAVINGS BY EDWARD WHYMPER AND
AN ILLUSTRATION BY PERCY MACQUOID
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1885
_All rights reserved_
THESE SKETCHES OF MOUNTAINEERING
I DEDICATE TO
T. I. D.
IN THE HOPE THAT A BOOK WITHOUT A HEROINE
MAY, AT LEAST, ACQUIRE SOME FEMININE INTEREST
PREFACE
Some of the following sketches do not now appear for the first time; but
such as have been before published in other form have been entirely
re-written, and, in great measure, recast.
To the writer the work has afforded an occasional distraction from more
serious professional work, and he cannot wish better than that it should
serve the same purpose to the reader.
CORTINA DI AMPEZZO:
_September 1884_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
AN EXPEDITION IN THE OLDEN STYLE
PAGE
Buried records—_Litera scripta manet_—The survival of the unfit—A 1
literary octopus—Sybaritic mountaineering—On mountain
“form”—Lessons to be learned in the Alps—The growth and spread of
the climbing craze—Variations of the art—A tropical day in the
valley—A deserted hostelry—The hotel staff appears in several
characters—Ascent of the Balfrinhorn—Our baggage train and
transport department—A well-ventilated shelter—On sleeping out:
its advantages on the present occasion—The Mischabelhörner family
group—A plea for Saas and the Fée plateau—We attack the
Südlenzspitz—The art of detecting hidden crevasses—Plans for the
future—Sentiment on a summit—The feast is spread—The
Alphubeljoch—We meet our warmest welcome at an inn
CHAPTER II.
THE ROTHHORN (MOMING) FROM ZERMATT
The Alpine dramatis personæ—Mountaineering fact and romance—The 31
thirst for novelty and its symptoms—The first ascent of the
Moming—Preliminaries are observed—Rock _v._ snow mountains—The
amateur and the guide on rocks and on snow—The programme is made
out—Franz Andermatten—Falling stones in the gully—We smooth away
the difficulties—The psychological effects of reaching mountain
summits—A rock bombardment and a narrow escape—The youthful
tourist and his baggage—Hotel trials—We are interviewed—The
gushers
CHAPTER III.
EARLY ATTEMPTS ON THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
The Alps and the early mountaineers—The last peaks to 56
surrender—The Aiguille du Dru—Messrs. Kennedy and Pendlebury’s
attempt on the peak—One-day expeditions in the Alps and thoughts
on huts and sleeping out—The Chamouni guide system—A word on
guides, past and present—The somnolent landlord and his
peculiarities—Some of the party see a chamois—Doubts as to the
peak and the way—The duplicity of the Aiguille deceives
us—Telescopic observations—An ill-arranged glacier—Franz and his
mighty axe—A start on the rocks in the wrong direction—Progress
reported—An adjournment—The rocks of the lower peak of the
Aiguille du Dru—Our first failure—The expedition resumed—A new
line of ascent—We reach the sticking point—Beaten back—The
results gained by the two days’ climbing
CHAPTER IV.
A DAY ACROSS COUNTRY
The art of meteorological vaticination—The climate we leave our 96
homes for—Observations in the valley—The diligence arrives and
shoots its load—Types of travellers—The Alpine habitué—The
elderly spinster on tour—A stern Briton—A family party—We seek
fresh snow-fields—The Bietschhorn—A sepulchral bivouac—On early
starts and their curious effects on the temperament—A choice of
routes—A deceptive ice gully—The avalanches on the Bietschhorn—We
work up to a dramatic situation—The united party nearly fall
out—A limited panorama—A race for home—Caught out—A short
cut—Driven to extremities—The water jump—An aged person comes to
the rescue—A classical banquet at Ried—The old curé and his
hospitality—A wasted life?
CHAPTER V.
AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE
Chamouni again—The hotel _clientèle_—A youthful hero—The 130
inevitable English family—A scientific gentleman—A dream of the
future—The hereafter of the Alps and of Alpine literature—A
condensed mountain ascent—Wanted, a programme—A double
“Brocken”—A hill-side phenomenon and a familiar character—A
strong argument—Halting doubts and fears—A digression on
mountaineering accidents—“From gay to grave, from lively to
severe”—The storm breaks—A battle with the elements—Beating the
air—The ridge carried by assault—What next, and next?—A
topographical problem and a cool proposal—The descent down the
Vallée Blanche—The old Montanvert hotel—The Montanvert path and
its frequenters
CHAPTER VI.
ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
“_Decies repetita placebit_”
Disadvantages of narratives of personal adventure—Expeditions on 169
the Aiguille du Dru in 1874—The ridge between the Aiguilles du
Dru and Verte—“Défendu de passer par là”—Distance lends
enchantment—Other climbers attack the peak—View of the mountain
from the Col de Balme—We try the northern side, and fail more
signally than usual—Showing that mountain fever is of the
recurrent type—We take seats below, but have no opportunity of
going up higher—The campaign opens—We go under canvas—A spasmodic
start, and another failure—A change of tactics and a new
leader—Our sixteenth attempt—Sports and pastimes at Chamouni—The
art of cray-fishing—The apparel oft proclaims the man—A canine
acquaintance—A new ally—The turning-point of the expedition—A
rehearsal for the final performance—A difficult descent—A blank
in the narrative—A carriage misadventure—A penultimate failure—We
start with two guides and finish with one—The rocks of the
Dru—Maurer joins the party—Our nineteenth attempt—A narrow escape
in the gully—The arête at last—The final scramble—Our foe is
vanquished and decorated—The return journey—Benighted—A moonlight
descent—We are graciously received—On “fair” mountaineering—The
prestige of new peaks—Chamouni becomes festive—“Heut’ Abend
grosses Feuerwerkfest”—Chamouni dances and shows hospitality—The
scene closes in
CHAPTER VII.
BYE-DAYS IN ALPINE MIDLANDS
1. _A Pardonable Digression._
On well-ordered intellects—The drawbacks of accurate
memory—Sub-Alpine walks: their admirers and their
recommendations—The “High-Level Route”—The Ruinette—An infallible
prescription for ill-humour—A climb and a meditation on grass
slopes—The agile person’s acrobatic feats—The psychological
effects of sunrise—The ascent of the Ruinette—We return to our
mutton at Arolla—A vision on the hill-side.
2. _A Little Maiden._
Saas in the olden days—A neglected valley—The mountains drained 236
dry—A curious omission—The Portienhorn, and its good points as a
mountain—The chef produces a masterpiece—An undesirable tenement
to be let unfurnished—An evicted family—A rapid act of
mountaineering—On the pleasures of little climbs—The various
methods of making new expeditions on one mountain—On the
mountaineer who has nothing to learn, and his consequent
ignorance
CHAPTER VIII.
A SENTIMENTAL ALPINE JOURNEY
Long “waits” and entr’actes—The Mont Buet as an unknown 266
mountain—We hire carriages—A digression on a stationary vehicle—A
straggling start—The incomplete moralist—The niece to the
moralist—A discourse on gourmets—An artistic interlude—We become
thoughtful, and reach the height of sentiment and the top of the
Mont Buet—Some other members of the party—The mountaineers
perform—How glissading ambition did o’erleap itself—A vision on
the summit—The moralist leaves us for a while—Entertainment at
the Bérard Chalet—View of the Aiguille Verte—The end of the
journey
CHAPTER IX.
A FRAGMENT
An unauthentic MS.—Solitude on the mountain: its advantages to 291
the historian of the Alps—A rope walk—The crossing of the
Schrund—A novel form of avalanche and an airy situation—A
towering obstacle—The issue of the expedition in the balance—A
very narrow escape—The final rush—Victory!—The perils of the
descent—I plunge _in medias res_—A flying descent
CHAPTER X.
THE FUTURE OF MOUNTAINEERING
Mountaineers and their critics—The early days of the Alpine 300
Club—The founders of mountaineering—The growth of the
amusement—Novelty and exploration—The formation of
centres—Narrowing of the field of mountaineering—The upward limit
of mountaineering—De Saussure’s experience—Modern development of
climbing—Mr. Whymper’s experience—Mr. Graham’s experience—The
ascent of great heights—Mr. Grove’s views—Messrs. Coxwell and
Glaisher’s balloon experiences—Reasons for dissenting from Mr.
Glaisher’s views—The possibility of ascending Mount
Everest—Physiological aspect of the question—Acclimatisation to
great heights—The direction in which mountaineering should be
developed—The results that may be obtained—Chamouni a century
hence—A Rip van Winkle in the Pennine Alps—The dangers of
mountaineering—Conclusion
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE BIETSCHHORN FROM THE PETERSGRAT _Frontispiece_
THE AIGUILLE DU DRU FROM THE SOUTH _to face page_ 169
A VISION ON A SUMMIT " 282
ABOVE THE SNOW LINE
CHAPTER I.
AN EXPEDITION IN THE OLDEN STYLE
Buried records—_Litera scripta manet_—The survival of the unfit—A
literary octopus—Sybaritic mountaineering—On mountain
“form”—Lessons to be learned in the Alps—The growth and spread of
the climbing craze—Variations of the art—A tropical day in the
valley—A deserted hostelry—The hotel staff appears in several
characters—Ascent of the Balfrinhorn—Our baggage train and
transport department—A well-ventilated shelter—On sleeping out:
its advantages on the present occasion—The Mischabelhörner family
group—A plea for Saas and the Fée plateau—We attack the
Südlenzspitz—The art of detecting hidden crevasses—Plans for the
future—Sentiment on a summit—The feast is spread—The
Alphubeljoch—We meet our warmest welcome at an inn.
There exists a class of generously-minded folk who display a desire to
improve their fellow-creatures and a love for their species, by referring
pointedly to others for the purpose of mentioning that the objects of
their remarks have never been guilty of certain enormities: a critical
process, which is about equivalent to tarring an individual, but, from
humanitarian considerations, omitting to feather him also. The ordeal, as
applied to others, is unwarrantable; but there is a certain odd pleasure
in subjecting oneself to it. Now, it is but a paraphrase to say that the
more we go about, the more, in all probability, shall we be strengthened
in the conviction that the paradise of fools must have a large acreage.
The average Briton has a constantly present dread that he is likely to do
something to justify his admission into that department of Elysium. The
thought that he has so qualified, will wake him up if it crosses his mind
even in a dream, or make his blood run cold—whatever that may mean—in his
active state. Thus it falls out that he is for ever, as it were, conning
over the pass-book of his actions, and marvelling how few entries he can
find on the credit side, as he does so. It is asserted as a fact (and it
were hard to gainsay the sentiment), that _Litera scripta manet_. No
doubt; but how much more obtrusively true is it that printed matter is as
indestructible as the Hydra? It has occurred sometimes to the writer, on
very, very sleepless nights, to take down from a shelf, to slap the cover
in order to get rid of a considerable amount of dust, and to peruse, in a
volume well-known to all members of the Alpine Club, accounts written
years before, of early mountain expeditions. To trace in some such way, at
any rate to search for, indications of a fancied development of mind has a
curious fascination for the solitary man. Effusions which an author would
jealously hide away from the eyes of his friends, have a strangely
absorbing interest to the man who reflects that he himself was their
perpetrator.
(M1)
We most of us, whatever principles we assert on the matter, keep stowed
away, in some corner or another, the overflow of a fancied talent. The
form varies: it may, perhaps, be a five act tragedy, possibly a
psychological disquisition, or a sensational novel in three volumes of MS.
It is a satisfaction to turn such treasures out from time to time when no
eyes are upon us, even if it be only to thank Heaven devoutly that they
have always lain unknown and uncriticised. “Il n’y a rien qui rafraichisse
le sang comme d’avoir su éviter de faire une sottise.” Of work done, of
which the author had no especial reason to be proud, a feeling of
thankfulness in a lesser degree may arise from the consciousness that, if
ever recognised at all, it is now, happily, forgotten. So have these early
effusions sometimes amused, not infrequently astounded, and at the worst
have nearly always brought the wished-for slumber; and yet in Alpine
writings the same accounts were for the most part as faithful
representations as the writer could set down on paper of impressions made
at the time. It has often occurred to me to ask what manner of description
a writer would give of an expedition made many years before. How would the
lapse of time influence him? Would he make light of whatever danger there
was? Would the picture require a very decided coat of varnish to make it
at all recognisable? Would the crudities come out still more strongly, or
would the colours all have faded and sunk harmoniously together in his
picture? The speculation promised to be interesting enough to make it
worth while to give practical effect to the idea. Now the expedition
narrated in this chapter was made in 1870, and possibly, therefore, if a
description were worth giving at all, it had better have been given fresh.
We can always find some proverb tending more or less to justify any course
of action that we may be desirous of pursuing, and by distorting the
meaning of a quotation manage to serve our own ends. Of all the ill-used
remarks of this nature, surely the most often employed is, “Better late
than never;” the extreme elasticity of which saying, in the application
thereof, is well evidenced by the doctor who employed it in justification
of his late arrival when he came on a professional visit to the lady and
found the baby learning its alphabet.
(M2)
When an aquarium was a fashionable resort, amongst a good many queer and
loose fish, we became familiar with a monstrously ill-favoured beast
called a cuttle-fish: and may have had a chance of seeing how the animal,
if attacked by his physical superior, resorted to the ingenious plan of
effusing a quantity of ink, and, under cover of this, retreating hastily
backwards out of harm’s way. There are some, less ingenuous than the
Octopus, who retreat first into obscurity and then pour out their effusion
of ink. But it is more common to use the flare of an epigram or of a
proverb, as a conjurer does his wand, to distract attention for the moment
and divert the thought current from matters we do not wish to be too
evident. At any rate, I must in the present instance lay under tribute the
author of Proverbs, and add another straw to the already portentous burden
that they who wish to compound for literary sins have already piled on his
back. Apologising is, however, a dangerous vice, as a well-known writer
has remarked. The account, though a sort of literary congenital cripple,
has still a prescriptive right to live. Besides this expedition was
undertaken in the pre-Sybaritic age of mountaineering, and before the
later refinements of that art and science had taken firm hold of its
votaries. What would the stern explorers of former time have thought, or
said, if they had perceived persons engaged on the glaciers sitting down
on camp-stools to a light refection of truffle pie and cold punch? Such
banquets are not uncommon now, though precisians with a tendency to
dyspepsia still object strongly to them. In those days, too, mountaineers
were not so much differentiated that climbers were talked of by their
fellows like cricketers are described in the book of Lillywhite. “Jones,”
for instance, “is a brilliant cragsman, but inclined to be careless on
moraines.” “Noakes,” again, “remarkably sure and steady on snow, fairly
good in a couloir, would do better if he did not possess such an
astounding appetite and would pay more attention to the use of the rope.”
“Stokes possesses remarkable knowledge of the Alps; on rocks climbs with
his head; we wish we could say honestly that he can climb at all with his
hands and feet.” “Thompson, first-rate step-cutter; walks on snow with the
graceful gait and unlaboured action of a shrimp-catcher at his work: kicks
down every loose stone he touches.” Thus different styles of climbing are
recognised. “Form,” as it is called in climbing, was in the old days an
unknown term, and yet it is probable that the “form” was by no means
inferior to any that can be shown now-a-days. The reason is obvious enough
and the explanation lies simply in the fact that the apprenticeship served
in the mountains was then much longer than it is now. People did not so
often try to ride a steeple-chase before they had learnt to sit in a
saddle, or appreciated that the near side was the best by which to get up.
When this particular expedition was made (towards which I feel that I am
an unconscionable time in making a start) I had been five or six seasons
in the Alps, during the first two of which I had never set foot on a
snow-slope. There had always seemed to me from the first, to be so much
absolutely to learn in mountaineering: there is no less now, indeed there
is more, for the science has been developed, but it seems beyond doubt,
that fewer people recognise the fact. Like most other arts, it can only be
learnt in one way, by constant practice, by constant care and attention
and by always doing everything in the mountains to the best of one’s
ability. Too many may seem to think that there is a royal road, and fail
to recognise that a plebeian does not alter his status by walking along
this variety of highway.
(M3)
Time rolled on. The fascination of climbing spread abroad, and it followed
with the increasing number of mountaineers that more and more difficulties
were experienced in attempts to diversify the sport in the Alps alone, and
in emerging from the common herd of climbers. Then a new danger arose. The
sport grew fashionable—a serious symptom to its true lovers. Books of
Alpine adventure readily found readers; novels, and other forms of
nonsense, were written about the mountains; accounts of new expeditions
were telegraphed at once to all parts of the world, and found as important
a place in the newspapers as the Derby betting, or the latest reports as
to the precise medical details of some eminent person’s internal
complaint. Still further did the craving for novelty spread, and more
strange did the means of satisfying it become. The mountains were ascended
without guides: in winter; by people afflicted with mental aberration who
wore tall hats and frock coats on the glaciers; by persons who were
ignorant of the laws of optics as applied to large telescopes; in bad
weather, by wrong routes and so forth. Then, too, set in what may be
called the variation craze. This is very infectious. For those who can see
no beauty in a scene that some one else has gazed on before it is still a
passion. We may still at times, in the Alps, hear people say, “Oh yes,
that is a very fine expedition, no doubt, but I don’t think I care much
about undertaking it; you see so and so has done it; couldn’t we manage to
strike out a different line?” The result is a “variation” expedition. The
composer when hard driven, and not strongly under the influence of the
Muse, will at times take some innocent, simple melody and submit it to
exquisite torture by writing what he is pleased to call variations.
Sometimes he will not rest till he has perpetrated as many as thirty-two
on some innocent little tune of our childhood. The original air becomes
entirely lost, like a sixpence buried in a flour bag, and we may marvel,
for instance, as may the travelled American, at the immense amount of
foreign matter that may be introduced into “Home, sweet home.” Even so
does the climber sometimes practise his art. But for one who entertains a
strict respect for the old order of things, and for the memory of an age
of mountaineering now rapidly passing into oblivion, to write in any such
strain would be intolerable. And so, even as a theatrical manager when his
brilliant play, stolen, or, as it is generally described, “adapted,” from
the French, does not run, I may be allowed to raise the curtain on a
revival of the old drama, a comedy in one short act, and not provided with
any very thrilling “situations.” The “scenarium” lay ready to hand in the
leaves of an old journal, which may possibly share, with other old leaves,
the property of being rather dry. But we are meandering, as it were, in
the valleys, and run some risk of digressing too far from the path which
should lead to the mountain in hand. There is a story of a clergyman who
selected a rather long text as a preface to his discourse, and finding,
when he had read it at length a second time, that his congregation were
mostly disposed in attitudes which might be of attention, but which were,
at the same time, suggestive of slumber, wisely concluded to defer
enlarging upon it till a more fitting occasion, and dismissed his hearers,
or at any rate those present, with the remark that they had heard his text
and that he would not presume to mar its effectiveness by any exordium
upon it. _Revenons._
(M4)
In the early part of August 1870, our party walked one sultry day up the
Saas Valley. The dust glittered thick and yellow on our boots. Many of the
smaller brooks had struck work altogether, while the main river was
reduced to a clear stream trickling lazily down between sloping banks of
rounded white boulders that shone with a painful glare in the strong
sunlight. The more muscular of the grasshoppers found their limbs so
lissom in the warmth that they achieved the most prodigious leaps out of
sheer lightheartedness; for they sprang so far that they could have had no
definite idea where they might chance to light. On the stone walls busy
little lizards, with heaving flanks, scurried about with little fitful
spurts, and vanished abruptly into the crannies, perpetually playing hide
and seek with each other, and always seeming out of breath. The foliage
drooped motionless in the heavy air and the shadows it cast lengthened
along the dusty ground as steadily as the streak on a sundial. The smoke
from the guides’ pipes (and guides, like itinerant nigger minstrels,
always have pipes in their mouths when moving from the scene of one
performance to another) hung in mid air, and the vile choking smell of the
sputtering lucifer matches was perceptible when the laggards reached the
spot where a man a hundred yards ahead had lighted one of these
abominations.
To pass under the shade of a walnut tree was refreshing like a cold
douche; and to step forth again into the heat and glare made one almost
gasp. Flannel shirts were miserably inadequate to the strain put upon
their absorbent qualities. The potatoes and cabbages were white and
piteously dusty. Even the pumpkins seemed to be trying to bury their plump
forms in the cool recesses of the earth. Everywhere there seemed a
consciousness as of a heavy droning hum. All of which may be concisely
summed up in the now classical opening remark of a well-known comedy
character, one “Perkyn Middlewick” to wit, “It’s ’ot.”
(M5)
When within a little distance of the hotel I enquired whether it was worth
while for one of the party to push on to secure rooms. The guides thought,
on the whole, that it was unnecessary, and this opinion was justified
subsequently by the fact that we found ourselves the sole occupants of the
hotel during the week or so that we remained in the district. It was the
year of the war; ugly rumours were about, but very few tourists.
Selecting, therefore, the most luxurious apartment, and having given over
to the care of one Franz, who appeared in the character of “boots” to the
hotel, a remarkable pair of cowhide brogues of original design, as hard as
sabots and much more uncomfortable, I sat down on a stone slab, in order
to cool down to a temperature that might permit of dining without fear of
imperilling digestion. So pleased were the hotel authorities at the
presence of a traveller that they exerted themselves to the utmost to
entertain us well, and with remarkable results. I find a record of the
dinner served. There were ten dishes in consecutive order, exclusive of
what Americans term “fixings.” As to the nature of nine it was difficult
to speak with any degree of certainty, but the tenth was apparently a
blackbird that had perished of starvation and whose attenuated form the
chef had bulged out with extraneous matter. Franz, who seemed to be a sort
of general utility man to the establishment, had thrown off, with the ease
of a Gomersal or a Ducrow, the outward habiliments of a boots and appeared
now as a waiter, in a shirt so hard and starched that he was unable to
bend and could only button his waistcoat by the sense of touch. The repast
over, Franz removed the shirt front and unbent thereupon in manner as in
person. Assuming engaging airs, he entered into conversation, disappearing
however for short intervals at times, in order, as might be inferred from
certain sounds proceeding from an adjoining apartment, to discharge the
duties of a chamber-maid. Subsequently it transpired that he was the
proprietor of the hotel.
(M6)
We agreed to commence our mountaineering by an ascent of the Balfrinhorn,
a most charming walk and one which even in those days was considered a
gentle climb. There are few peaks about this district which will better
repay the climber of moderately high ambition, and it is possible to
complete the expedition without retracing the steps. There is no danger,
and it is hard to say to what part of the mountain an enthusiast would
have to go in order to discover any: so the expedition, though perhaps
prosaic, is still very interesting throughout and quite in the olden
style. The solitude at the hotel was somewhat dull, and the conversational
powers of the guides soon exhausted if we travelled beyond the subject of
chamois hunting, I did indeed try on one occasion to explain to them, in
answer to an earnest request, the military system of Great Britain. But,
with a limited vocabulary, the task was not easy and, as I could not think
of any words to express what was meant by red tape, circumlocution, and
short service, my exposition was limited to enlarging on the facts that
the warriors of my native country were exceeding valiant folk with very
fine chests, that they wore highly padded red coats and little hats like
half bonbon boxes cocked on one side and that they would never consent to
be slaves. Burgener, anxious for some more stirring expedition, suggested
that we should climb the Dom from the Saas side or make a first ascent of
the Südlenzspitz. We had often talked of the former expedition, which had
not at the time been achieved, and, in order to facilitate its
accomplishment, divers small grants of money had been sent out from
England to be expended in the construction of a hut some five hours’ walk
above Fée. In answer to enquiries, the guides reported with no small
amount of pride, that the building had been satisfactorily completed and
they were of opinion that it was ready for occupation. At some length the
process of building was described and it really seemed from their account
that they had caused to be erected a shelter of unduly pretentious
dimensions. It appeared, however, that the residence was equally well
placed to serve as a shelter for an ascent of the Südlenzspitz and we
decided ultimately to attack that peak first. Great preparations were
made; an extensive assortment of very inferior blankets was produced and
spread out in the road in front of the hotel, either for airing or some
other ill-defined purpose, possibly from some natural pride in the
extensive resources of the hotel. Then they pulled down and piled into a
little stack, opposite the front door, fire wood enough to roast an ox, or
convert an enthusiast into a saint.
(M7)
One fine afternoon we started. The entire staff and _personnel_ of the
hotel would have turned out to wish us good luck, but did not actually do
so, as he was engaged in a back shed milking a cow. Laden with a large
bundle of fire wood, I toiled up the steep grass slopes above Fée, leading
to the Hochbalm glacier. The day was oppressively hot, and I was not
wholly ungrateful on finding that the string round my bundle was loose and
that the sticks dropped out one after another: accordingly I selected a
place in the extreme rear of the caravan, lest my delinquencies should
perchance be observed. The sun beat mercilessly down upon our backs on
these bare slopes and we sighed involuntarily for Vallombrosa or Monaco or
some equally shady place. The guides, who up to that time had spoken of
their building as if it were of somewhat palatial dimensions, now began
rather to disparage the construction. Doubts were expressed as to the
effects certain storms and heavy falls of snow might have had on it and
regrets that the weather had prevented the builders from attending as
minutely to details of finish and decoration as they could have wished.
Putting this and that together, I came to the conclusion that the erection
would probably be found to display but indifferent architectural merit.
However, there was nothing better to look forward to. “Where is it?” “Oh,
right up there, under the big cliff, close to where Alexander is.” In the
dim distance could be distinguished the form of our guide as a little dark
mass progressing on two pink flesh-coloured streaks, striding rapidly up
the hill. The phenomenon of colour was due to the fact that, prompted by
the sultriness of the day, Alexander had adopted in his garb a temporary
variation of the Highland costume. A few minutes later he joined us,
clothed indeed, and in a right, but still a melancholy frame of mind.
Shaking his head sadly, he explained that a grievous disaster had taken
place, evidently in the spring. The forebodings of the
constructively-minded rustics we had left below, who knew about as much of
architecture as they did of metaphysics, proved now to be true. They had
remarked that they feared lest some chance stone should have fallen, and
possibly have inflicted damage on the hut. Why they had selected a site
where such an accident might happen, was not at the moment quite obvious,
but it became so later on. Burgener told us that the roof had been carried
away. Beyond question the roof was gone; at any rate it was not there, and
the rock must have fallen in a remarkable way indeed, for the cliff above
was slightly overhanging, and the falling boulder, which was held
accountable for the disaster, had carried away every vestige of wood-work
about the place, not leaving even a splinter or a chip. However, to the
credit of the builders, be it said that they had tidied up and swept very
nicely, for there was no sawdust to be seen anywhere, nor indeed, any
trace of carpentering work. The hut consequently resolved itself into a
semi-circular stone wall, very much out of the perpendicular, built
against a rock face. The chief architect, evidently a thoughtful person,
had not omitted to leave a door. But it was easier on the whole to step
over the wall, which I did, with as much scorn as Remus himself could have
thrown into the action when seeking to aggravate his brother Romulus. So
we entered into possession of the premises without, at any rate, the
trouble of any preliminary legal formalities.
(M8)
In the matter of sleeping out, all mountaineers pass, provided they keep
long enough at it, through three stages. In the early period, when imbued
with what has been poetically termed the “ecstatic alacrity” of youth,
they burn with a desire to undergo hardship on mountains. Possibly a
craving for sympathy in discomfort—that most universal of human
attributes—prompts them to spend their nights in the most unsuitable
places for repose. The practical carrying out of this tendency is apt to
freeze very literally their ardour; at least, it did so in our case. Then
follows a period during which the climber laughs to scorn any idea of
dividing his mountain expedition. He starts the moment after midnight and
plods along with a gait as free and elastic as that of a stage pilgrim or
a competitor in a six days’ “go-as-you-please” pedestrian contest: for
those who have a certain gift of somnambulism this method has its
advantages. Finally comes a stage when the climber’s one thought is to get
all the enjoyment possible out of his expedition and to get it in the way
that seems best at the time. Now again he may be found at times tenanting
huts, or the forms of shelter which are supposed to represent them. But
his manner is changed; he no longer travels burdened with the impedimenta
of his earlier days. He never looks at his watch now, except to ascertain
the utmost limit of time he can dwell on a view. With advancing years and
increasing Alpine wisdom, he derides the idea of accurately timing an
expedition. His pedometer is probably left at home; he eats whenever he is
hungry, and ceases to consider it a _sine quâ non_ that he must return to
hotel quarters in time for dinner. Nor does he ever commit the youthful
folly of walking at the rate of five miles an hour along the mule path in
the valley or the high road at the end of an expedition, gaining thereby
sore feet and absolutely nothing else. When he has reached this stage,
however, he is considered _passé_; and when he has reached this stage he
probably begins really to appreciate to the full the depth of the charm to
be found in mountaineering.
But I digress even as the driven pig. A miserable night did we spend
behind the stone wall. About 9 P.M. came a furious hail-storm: at 10 P.M.
rain fell heavily: at 11 P.M. snow began and went on till daybreak about 4
A.M. At 5 A.M. we got up quite stiff and stark like a recently killed
villain of melodrama, when carried off the stage by four supers. By 6 A.M.
I had got into my boots. At 9 A.M. we swooped down once more on Franz at
the hotel at Saas, persuaded him to relinquish certain scavenging
occupations in which he was engaged, and to resume his post of waiter. A
day or two later we sought our shelter once more. No luxurious provisions
did we take with us. Some remarkable red wine, so sour that it forced one
involuntarily to turn the head round over the shoulder on drinking it,
filled one knapsack. The other contained slices of bread with parallel
strata of a greasy nature intervening. These were spoken of, when we had
occasion to allude to them, as sandwiches. The fat was found to be an
excellent emollient to my boots.
(M9)
The Südlenzspitz, though tall, labours under the topographical
disadvantage of being placed in the company of giants. Close by, on the
north side, is the Nadelhorn (14,876 ft.), while to the south, at no great
distance, the Dom towers far above, reaching a height of 14,942 feet. In
the Federal map of Switzerland (which is not very accurate in its
delineation of the Saas district), the height of the Südlenzspitz is
marked as 14,108 ft. North and south from the Südlenzspitz, stretch away
well-marked, but not particularly sharp ridges, the northern being chiefly
of snow, and inclined at a moderate angle. To the east, a sharper rocky
ridge falls away, terminating below, after the fashion of a “rational”
divided skirt, in two undecided continuations which enclosed the Fall
glacier. Climbing up by this ridge, Mr. W. W. Graham ascended the mountain
in 1882. The “variation” is described as presenting very serious
difficulties. But in our day, the old-fashioned custom of ascending
mountains by the most obviously practicable way was still in vogue, and we
decided, therefore, to make for the northern buttress. Leaping over the
wall enclosing the ground-floor of our bivouac, we descended on to the
Hochbalm glacier, made our way across the upper snow basin, and in good
time reached the foot of the slope no great distance south of the
Nadelhorn. The view during this part of the walk is very characteristic of
the range. From almost any point of view, the traveller is surrounded on
three sides by a clearly marked amphitheatre of very beautifully formed
mountains. On the right, the shapely little Ulrichshorn rises up in a
self-sufficient manner, like a single artichoke in a vegetable dish. In
front is the mass of the Nadelhorn and Südlenzspitz, while, looking back,
the view of the mountains on the east side of the Saas valley is one of
great and varied beauty. It must be confessed that these statements are
derived principally from a contemplation of the map, for, to tell the
truth, the recollection of the panorama we actually saw is rather
indistinct. This much, however, I may record with confidence; that in all
parts of the Saas district, the views struck me, in a day when I did not
very much look at them, as possessing strong individuality and the
greatest beauty.
(M10)
The Zermatt district may be still more striking, and they who have no time
to visit both, no doubt do wisely to seek the more hackneyed valley. But
for such as do not look upon guide-book statements as the dicta of an
autocrat, and can exercise a thousandth part of the independence of
judgment they manifest in the ordinary affairs of life, a brief deviation
to the Saas country will come as a revelation. After the crowd, dust, and
bustle of the highway to the recognised centre of the Alps, to turn aside
to this region is a relief, like stepping out of a crowded ball-room on to
a verandah, or gliding away in a gondola from the railway station at
Venice. Look, too, at the architecture of the great mountains here, and
the spectator will perceive how nature has succeeded to perfection in
achieving what all artists fail in doing; that is in designing, and in a
manner that precludes criticism, a pendant; and a pendant too to the
Zermatt panorama. The necessary object in the foreground of the
picture—which we all know to be an hotel—is provided. Who but nature would
think of framing a pure white picture in a setting of the soft green
pastures below, and the deep blue sky above? but here it is, and it is
perfect. Yet the blue of the sky is repeated in the picture, for the
towering séracs throw azure shadows on the satin-smooth snow slopes at
their feet. Rest, strength, eternal solidity above in the mountain forms
and crags; repose, softness, and the charm of a brightness below that must
yield and fade before long to gather force for fresh development and
renewal. No need to seek far for a parallel in our human world. Between
the two districts, Zermatt and Saas-Fée, there is but the difference
between the man who impresses at once by the force of character, and the
man who has to be studied and learned before we recognise that he is
something beyond the ordinary run of our fellow-creatures.
(M11)
Before leaving England we had made tolerably minute inquiries, but had
failed to discover any record of a previous ascent of the Südlenzspitz,
though, as suggested by Mr. W. M. Conway, the mountain may have been
previously climbed by Mr. Chapman. Some uncertainty, therefore, whether we
should find any traces of previous climbers, gave the required piquancy to
the expedition. We made at once up the slope for a long rocky buttress,
and towards a part of the mountain down which the guides asserted stones
had been known to fall in the afternoon. This statement was probably made
with a view of encouraging their charge to greater exertions, for an old
sprained ankle compelled me to the continual necessity of putting my best
foot foremost in walking over difficult places. Still, the rocks were at
no point very formidable, and progress was rendered somewhat easier by the
fact that no critical companion was with me, so I felt at perfect liberty
to transport myself upwards in any style that happened to suit the
exigencies of the moment. I had not at that time quite passed the stage of
believing all that the guides asserted with reference to the climbing
capacities of the individual who pays them for assisting his locomotion,
and had a distinct idea that I mastered all the obstacles in a
particularly skilful manner. They said as much in fact, but reiterated
their compliments so often that I somewhat fear now that I must frequently
have given occasion for these remarks of approbation; remarks which I have
since observed are more frequently called forth to cover a blunder than to
praise an exhibition of science. Probably my progress was about as
graceful and sure as that of a weak-legged puppy placed for the first time
in its life on a frozen pond, or a cockroach seeking to escape from the
entrapping basin, for I had not then developed, in climbing rocks, the
adhesive powers of—say the chest, which longer practice will sometimes
furnish. We were accompanied by a porter of advanced years whose
conversational powers were limited by an odd practice of carrying heavy
parcels in his mouth. The day before he had carried up a large beam of
wood for the camp fire in this manner. I never met a man with so much jaw
and so little talk. He had apparently come out in order to practise
himself for the mastication of the Saas mutton, for at the end of the day
he would accept of nothing but a sum of two francs, for which I was very
thankful. Similar disinterestedness in men of his class is not often met
with nowadays.
(M12)
After awhile we left the buttress of rock and turned our attention to a
snow slope and made our way up its crest. Here steps were necessary but
there was no particular difficulty, for the slope resembled a modern
French drawing-room tragedy, in that it was as broad as it was long. We
had but to feel that the rope was taut, and could then look about with
security. In good time we stepped on to the ridge, and a glance upwards
showed that the way was easy enough. We could not but feel that if we were
to achieve the honour of a first ascent, such honour would be principally
due to the fact that we had subdivided the secondary peaks of the chain
more minutely than other travellers. The principle has been carried still
further in these latter days, and as any little pale fish that can be
caught and fried is considered whitebait, and any article that ladies
choose to attach to their heads is termed a bonnet, so any point that can
be climbed by an individual line of ascent is now held to be a separate
mountain. A considerable snow cornice hung over on the northern side of
the arête and great care was necessary, for the ridge itself was so broad
and easy, that less careful guides might have made light of it; but
Burgener, though he had already acquired a reputation for brilliancy and
dash, never suffered himself for one moment to lose sight of the two great
qualities in a guide, caution and thoroughness. At each step he probed the
snow in front of him with all the diligence of a chiffonnier. It followed
that our progress was somewhat slow, but it was none the less highly
instructive. The accurate sense of touch in probing doubtful snow with the
axe requires and deserves very much more practice than most people would
imagine. The unpractised mountaineer may climb with more or less ease a
difficult rock the first time he is brought face to face with it, but long
and carefully acquired experience is necessary before a man can estimate
with certainty the bearing power of a snow bridge with a single thrust of
the axe. Indeed many guides of reputation either do not possess or never
acquire the muscular sense necessary to enable them to form a reliable
opinion on this matter. As a rule, if the rope be properly used and such a
mistake be made, somebody plunges through, is hauled out again and no harm
is done; but there are occasions when serious accidents have happened,
when probably lives have been lost owing to want of skilled knowledge in
this detail of snow mountaineering. I have known guides who never failed
when they came to a treacherous-looking bridge, to give it one apparently
careless thrust with the axe and then walk across with perfect confidence;
and I have seen others do exactly the same and disappear suddenly to cool
regions below through the bridge; and _vice versâ_. The unskilful prober
will make wide detours when he might go in safety, and the man of good
snow touch will avoid what looks sound enough: till in returning, perhaps
you see that the hard crust concealed but rotten things beneath: as in an
ill-made dumpling. It needs no small amount of training to judge between
the man who quickly and with certainty satisfies himself of the safety of
a particular snow passage, and the man who is too careless properly to
investigate it; yet without such experience the amateur is not really able
to decide whether a guide be a good or a bad one.
(M13)
Here and there along the ridge short rock passages gave a welcome relief
and at length we stood on the highest point of the ridge which culminates
so gently in the actual peak of the Südlenzspitz. Our first care was to
scrape about and hunt diligently for traces of any previous party. No
relic of conviviality could be found, and as all the flat stones about
appeared to be in their natural state of disorder, we piled up some of
them into a neat little heap, and came to the conclusion that we had
performed very doughty deeds. But we were younger then. The sun was out,
there was a dead calm, and we lay for a while basking in the warmth and
planning a serious expedition for some future year. It may seem strange in
these days of rocket-like mountaineering when the climber, like the poet,
_nascitur non fit_, but the peak whose assault we discussed was none other
than the Matterhorn. It was no longer thought that goblins and elves
tenanted its crags; but although these spectres had not yet been
frightened away and turned out of house and home by sardine boxes and
broken bottles, some trace of prestige still adhered to the mountain. It
had not then, like a galley slave, been bound with chains, or, even as a
trussed chicken, girt about with many cords. Nor was the ascent of the
peak then talked about as carelessly as might be a walk along Margate
pier. Alexander Burgener had never been up the peak, though he was most
anxious to get an opportunity of doing so. I can remember well the advice
that was given to me on the top of the Südlenzspitz to practise further on
a few less formidable mountains before attacking the fascinating Mont
Cervin itself. Alas for the old days and the old style of mountaineering!
It may be doubted whether such discussions often take place nowadays; but
then it was only my sixth season in the Alps. The following year we did
hatch out the project laid on the top of the Südlenzspitz to climb the
Matterhorn together. To this moment I can remember as I write every detail
of the climb and every incident of the day as vividly as if it were
yesterday; and what a splendid expedition it was then. The old, old
fascination can never come back again in quite the same colours; better,
perhaps, that it should not. Is it always true that “a sorrow’s crown of
sorrow is remembering happier things”? Surely there is a keenness and a
depth of pleasure to be found in recalling happiness, though it may never
return in its old form; and the memory of pleasure just toned with a trace
of sadness is one of the most profound emotions that can stir the human
heart. Go on and climb the Alps ye that follow: nowhere else will you find
the same pleasure. But it is changed, and in this amusement the old
fascination will never be quite the same to you. It may be, it will be,
equally keen, but as there is a difference between skating on virgin ice
and that which, though still good, is scored by marks of predecessors, so
will you fail to find a something which in the olden days of
mountaineering seemed always present. Go elsewhere if you will, and seek
fresh fields for mountaineering enterprise in the Caucasus, the Himalayas,
the Andes. There you will find the mountains have a charm of their own:
the mark is as good, but it is not the Alpine mark. That has been taken by
others. _Beati possidentes._
(M14)
Judging by the nature of these sentiments it would seem that we must have
become pensive to the verge of slumber while on the summit. In descending,
we followed our morning’s tracks, and scorning the seductive shelter of
the hut made straight down for the hotel. On this occasion we found Franz,
who was a man of varied resources and accomplishments, hanging his shirt,
which apparently he had just washed, up to dry. Our unexpected arrival
appeared to disconcert him a little, for the straitened nature of his
wardrobe precluded him, to his great disappointment, from appearing at
dinner in full costume. He conceived, however, an ingenious, though
somewhat transparent subterfuge, and made believe that he had got a bad
cold in the chest which compelled him to button his coat up tight round
the neck. In honour of our achievements he said he would go down to the
cellar and bring us up a curious old wine. The cellar consisted apparently
of a packing-case in a shed. Old the wine may have been; curious it
certainly was, for it possessed a strong heathery flavour and seemed to
turn hot very suddenly and stick fast in the throat like champagne at a
suburban charity ball. But nevertheless, with the remnants of the
blackbird or some other _rara avis_ made into a species of pie, we feasted
royally.
A few days later we crossed over to Zermatt by the Alphubel Joch, a heavy
fall of snow having prevented any idea of making our contemplated assault
on the Dom. A Swiss gentleman of a lively nature and excessive loquacity
accompanied us. He was not an adroit snow walker, and disappeared on some
five or six occasions abruptly into crevasses. The moment, however, that
he got his head out again, he resumed his narrative at the exact point at
which it had been perforce broken off without exhibiting the least
discomposure. The subject to which his remarks referred I did not succeed
in ascertaining. We parted at a little chalet not far from the Riffel,
leaving our friend lying flat on his back on the grass contemplating the
sky with a fixed expression, with his hands folded over his waistcoat. He
may have been a poet inspired with a sudden desire for composition for
aught I know, or may have assumed this attitude as likely to facilitate
the absorption of a prodigious quantity of milk which he took at the
chalet.
As we drew nearer to the odd mixture of highly coloured huts and
comfortable hotels that make up the village of Zermatt, a sense of
returning home crept over the mind, a consciousness of friends at hand, of
warm welcomes, mixed with the half presentiment that is always felt on
such occasions, that some change would be found; but happily it was not
so. The roadway was in its former state; the cobble stones a trifle more
irregular and worn more smooth, but still the same. The same guides, or
their prototypes, were sitting on the same wall drumming their heels. The
same artist was hard at work on a sketch of the Matterhorn in a field hard
by. The same party just returning from the Görner Grat. The same man
looking out with sun-scorched face from the salon window and the same
click from the self-willed billiard balls on the uncertain table below.
Ay, and the same unmistakable heartfelt greetings and handshakings at the
door of the Monte Rosa. Churlish indeed should we have been if we had
sighed to think that we had met our warmest welcome at an inn.