EARLY ATTEMPTS ON THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
The Alps and the early mountaineers—The last peaks to
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.
(M27)
Accounts of failures on the mountains in books of Alpine adventure are as
much out of place, according to some critics, as a new hat in a crowded
church. Humanly speaking, the possession of this head-gear under such
circumstances renders it impossible to divert the thoughts wholly from
worldly affairs. This, however, by the way. Now the pioneers of the Alps,
the Stephenses, the Willses, the Moores, the Morsheads, and many others,
had used up all new material with alarming rapidity, I might say voracity,
before the climbing epoch to which the present sketches relate. There is
an old story of a man who arrived running in a breathless condition on a
railway platform just in time to see the train disappearing. “You didn’t
run fast enough, sir,” remarked the porter to him. “You idiot!” was the
answer, “I ran plenty fast enough, but I didn’t begin running soon
enough.” Even so was it with the climbers of our generation. They climbed
with all possible diligence, but they began their climbing too late.
Novelty, that is the desire for achieving new expeditions, was still
considered of paramount importance, but unfortunately there was very
little new material left. It is difficult to realise adequately now the
real veneration entertained for an untrodden peak. A certain amount of
familiarity seemed indispensable before a new ascent was even seriously
contemplated. It had occurred to certain bold minds that the aiguilles
around Chamouni might not be quite as bad as they looked. In 1873 the
chief of the still unconquered peaks of the Mont Blanc district were the
Aiguille des Charmoz, the Aiguille Blaitière, the Aiguille du Géant, the
Aiguille Peuteret, the Aiguille du Dru, and a few other minor points. All
of these have since been captured, some of them bound in chains. Opinions
differed considerably as to their accessibility. Some hopeful spirits
thought that by constantly “pegging away” they might be scaled; others
thought that the only feasible plan would be indeed to peg away, but were
of opinion that the pegs should be of iron and driven into the rock. Such
views naturally lead to discussions, sometimes rather heated, as to
whether mountaineering morality might fitly tolerate such aids to the
climber. Of all the peaks mentioned above, the Aiguille du Dru and the
Aiguille du Géant were considered as the most hopeful by the leading
guides, though the older members of that body held out little prospect of
success. It is a rather curious fact that the majority of the leading
guides who gave their opinions to us in the matter thought that the
Aiguille du Géant was the more promising peak to attack. Subsequent
experience has proved that they were greatly in error in this judgment.
The Aiguille du Géant has indeed been ascended, but much more aid than is
comprised in the ordinary mountaineer’s equipment was found necessary. In
fact, the stronghold was not carried by direct assault, but by sapping and
mining. There is a certain rock needle in Norway which, I am told, was
once, and once only, ascended by a party on surveying operations bent. No
other means could be found, so a wooden structure was built up around the
peak, such as may be seen investing a dilapidated church steeple; and the
mountain, like the Royal Martyr of history, yielded up its crowning point
at the scaffold. We did not like the prospect of employing any such
architectural means to gain our end and the summit, and, from no very
clearly defined reasons, turned our attention chiefly to the Aiguille du
Dru. Perhaps the prominent appearance of this Aiguille, and the fact that
its outline was so familiar from the Montanvert, gradually imbued us with
a certain sense of familiarity, which ultimately developed into a notion
that if not actually accessible it might at least be worth trying. It
seemed too prominent to be impossible; from its height—12,517 feet
only—the mountain would doubtless not attract much attention, were it not
so advantageously placed. Thousands of tourists had gazed on its
symmetrical form: it had been photographed, stared at through binoculars,
portrayed in little distorted pictures on useless work-boxes, trays and
other toy-shop gimcracks, more often than any other mountain of the chain,
Mont Blanc excepted. Like an undersized volunteer officer, it no doubt
made the most of its height. But in truth the Aiguille du Dru is a
magnificent mountain form, with its vast dark precipices on the north
face, with its long lines of cliff, broken and jagged and sparsely
wrinkled with gullies free from even a patch or trace of snow. Point after
point, and pinnacle after pinnacle catch the gaze as we follow the edge of
the north-west “Kamm,” until the eye rests at last on the singularly
graceful isosceles triangle of rock which forms the peak. It is spoken of
lightly as merely a tooth of rock jutting up from the ridge which
culminates in the Aiguille Verte, but when viewed from the Glacier de la
Charpoua it is obviously a separate mountain; at any rate it became such
when the highest point of the ridge, the Aiguille Verte, had been climbed
by somebody else. The cleft in the ridge on the right side of the main
mass of the Aiguille du Dru is a very deep one as seen from the glacier,
and the sharp needle of rock which is next in the chain is a long way from
the Aiguille du Dru itself. North and south the precipices run sheer down
to the glaciers beneath. The mountain has then four distinct sides, three
of them running down to great depths. Thus, even in the prehistoric days
of Alpine climbing, it had some claim to individuality and might fairly be
considered as something more than, as it were, one unimportant pinnacle on
the roof of some huge cathedral. Perhaps, however, repeated failures to
ascend the mountain begot undue veneration and caused an aspiring climber
to look with a prejudiced eye on its dimensions.
(M28)
So far as I know, the mountain had never been assailed till 1873, when
Messrs. Pendlebury and Kennedy made an attempt. Mr. R. Pendlebury has
kindly furnished me with notes of the climb, which I may be allowed to
reproduce nearly in his own words:—Two parties started simultaneously for
the expedition. One was composed of Messrs. Kennedy and Marshall, with the
guides Johann Fischer and Ulric Almer of Grindelwald; the other party
consisted of the Rev. C. Taylor, Messrs. W. M. and R. Pendlebury, with the
guides Hans Baumann, Peter Baumann, and Edouard Cupelin. The
first-mentioned party slept at the Montanvert, while the others enjoyed
themselves in a bivouac high up on the side of the Glacier de la Charpoua
between the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Moine. This Glacier de la
Charpoua, it may be mentioned, is sometimes called the Glacier du Chapeau.
(M29)
The bivouac appears to have been so comfortable that Mr. Pendlebury and
his friends did not take advantage of their start. The Montanvert
detachment, who found no such inducement to stay one moment longer than
was absolutely necessary(2) in their costly quarters, caught them up the
next morning, and the whole party started together. Mr. Kennedy’s guides
kept to the left of the Glacier de la Charpoua, which looks more broken up
than the right-hand side, but apparently proved better going. This,
however, it should be observed, was in 1873, and these hanging glaciers
alter marvellously in detail from year to year, though always preserving
from a distance the same general features. On the same principle, at the
proper distance, a mother may be mistaken for her daughter, especially by
a judicious person. But on drawing near, however discreet the observer may
be, he is yet conscious of little furrows, diminutive wrinkles, and
perhaps of a general shrinkage not to be found in the more recent
specimen. Speaking very generally, I should say that these glaciers are,
on the whole, easier to traverse than they used to be: at any rate my own
personal observation of this particular little glacier extends over a
period of some years, and the intricacies—it is hardly proper to call them
difficulties—were distinctly less towards the end of the time than they
were at the beginning. Of course a different interpretation might be put
upon such an opinion: with the evolution of mountaineering skill the
complexity of these crumpled up snow-fields may seem to have disentangled,
but I am assured that in this particular case it was not so.
(M30)
This digression must be pardoned. It arose naturally from the circumstance
that the route Mr. Kennedy adopted would have proved, at any rate in later
years, a digression from the best way. Mr. Pendlebury’s party went
straight up, keeping, that is, to the right-hand side of the glacier.
Towards the upper part the snow slopes became steeper, and soon some
step-cutting was required. The object in view was to reach the lowest
point in the ridge between the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte. It
was thought that, by turning to the left from the col, it might be
possible to reach the summit by the eastern arête. The col itself from
below seemed easily attainable by means of a narrow zigzagging gully,
interrupted here and there, that runs down from the summit of the ridge.
Ascending by the rocks on the left of the gully the party made for some
little way good progress, but then a sudden change came over the scene.
After a consultation, it was proposed that the guides Hans Baumann, Peter
Baumann, and Fischer should go on a little by themselves and make for the
ridge, which they estimated lay about half an hour above them. They were
then to examine the rocks above and to bring back a report. The rest of
the party remained where they were, and disported themselves as
comfortably as circumstances would permit. Hour after hour, however,
passed away, and the three guides seemed to make but little progress. They
returned at last with the melancholy tidings that they had climbed nearly
up to the ridge and had found the rocks very difficult and dangerous. (It
should be noted that the line of attack chosen on this occasion—the first
serious attempt on the peak—was devised by Hans Baumann, and it says much
for his sagacity that this very route proved years afterwards to be the
right one.) Questioned as to the advisability of proceeding upwards, the
guides employed their favourite figure of speech and remarked that not for
millions of francs would they consent to try again. Hans Baumann asserted
that he had never climbed more difficult rocks. This opinion, as Mr.
Pendlebury suggested at the time, was probably owing to the fact that the
cliffs above were covered with snow and glazed with ice, and this
condition of the mountain face made each step precarious. The amateurs of
the party were of opinion that the ridge would prove attainable later in
the season or in exceptionally fine weather. As to the possibility of
climbing the rocks above—that is to say, the actual peak—none of the party
were able to come to any very positive conclusion. At a rough guess it was
estimated that the party halted between two and three hundred feet below
the ridge. On the presentation of the guides report the whole caravan
turned back and reached Chamouni safely, but not entirely without
incident, for the monotony of the descent and Mr. Taylor’s head were
broken by the fall of a big stone. This little accident, Mr. Pendlebury
remarked with disinterested cheerfulness, was but a trifle. I have not
been able to ascertain Mr. Taylor’s views on the subject.
When our party first essayed the ascent we knew none of the above
particulars, save only that some mountaineers had endeavoured to reach the
ridge but had failed to ascend to any great height. Of the actual cause of
their ill success, and whether it were owing to the unpropitious elements
or to the actual difficulties encountered, we were unaware.
(M31)
At the time of which I am writing, a somewhat novel mode of ascending
mountains was coming into vogue, which consisted in waiting for a suitable
day at headquarters, starting at unheard-of hours, and completing the
expedition in one day—that is, within twenty-four hours. It was argued in
support of this plan, that it was economical and that bivouacking was but
a laborious and expensive method of obtaining discomfort. There are, said
the advocates of the method, but few mountains in the Alps which cannot be
ascended with much greater comfort in one day than in two. The day’s climb
is much more enjoyable when it is possible to start from sleeping quarters
in which it is possible to sleep. The argument that repose in hotel beds,
though undoubtedly more luxurious, was of comparatively little use if
there were no time to enjoy it, was held to be little to the purpose. Some
enthusiasts were wont to state that passing a night in a chalet, or those
magnified sentry boxes called cabanes, constituted half the enjoyment on
the expedition. This is a little strong—like the flavour of the
cabanes—and if it were actually so the whole pleasure would be but small.
The camper out arises in the morning from his delicious couch of soft
new-mown hay in a spotty and sticky condition, attended with considerable
local irritation, and feeling like a person who has recently had his hair
cut, with a pinafore but loosely tied around his neck. Porters, like
barbers, exhibit a propensity for indulging in garlic immediately before
pursuing their avocation, which is not without discomfort to their
employers. (And here I may note as a psychological fact that one action of
this permeating vegetable is to induce confidential propensities in the
consumer. The point may be deemed worthy of investigation, by personal
experiment, by botanists and students of materia medica, men who in the
interests of science are not prone to consider their personal comfort and
finer sensibilities.) Again, in unsettled weather a fine day is often
wasted by journeying up in the afternoon to some chalet, or hovel, merely
to enjoy the pleasure of returning the following morning in the rain.
There is some force too in the argument that but little actual time is
gained by the first day’s performance, for it is very difficult to start
at anything like the prearranged hour for departure from a camp. An
immensity of time is always spent in lighting the morning fire, preparing
breakfast, and getting under way. On the other side, some little time is
undoubtedly saved by discarding the wholly superfluous ceremony of
washing, a process at once suggesting itself to the mind of the Briton
abroad if he beholds a basin and cold water.
The sum of the argument would seem to be that camping out in some one
else’s hut is but an unpleasant fiction; that if the climber chooses to go
to the expense, he can succeed in making himself a trifle less comfortable
in his own tent or under a rock than he would be in an hotel; and that he
is the wisest man who refrains from bivouacking when it is not really
necessary and is able to make the best of matters when it is: and
undoubtedly for many of the recognised expeditions it is essential to have
every possible minute of spare time in hand.
(M32)
We were naturally rather doubtful as to the successful issue of our
expedition, at any rate at the first attempt, and we therefore impressed
upon the guides the necessity of not divulging the plan. The secret,
however, proved to be so big that it was too much for two, and they
imparted consequently so much of the information as they had not adequate
storage for in their own minds to any who chose to listen. Consequently
our intentions were thoroughly well known before we started. There were in
those days, perhaps, more good guides, at any rate there were fewer bad
ones, in Chamouni than are to be found nowadays. We could not, however,
obtain the services—even if we had desired them—of any of the local
celebrities. As a matter of fact, we were both of opinion that a training
in climbing, such as is acquired among the Oberland and Valais men by
chamois hunting and constant rock work, would be most likely to have
produced the qualities which would undoubtedly be needed on the aiguilles.
The question of the efficiency of the Chamouni guides and of the Chamouni
guide system, a question coeval with mountaineering itself, was burning
then as fiercely as it does now. The Alpine Club had striven in vain to
improve matters; they had pointed out that ability to answer a kind of
mountaineering catechism did not in itself constitute a very reliable test
of a peasant’s power; they had pointed out too that the plan of electing a
“guide chef” from the general body of guides was one most open to abuse,
one sure to lead to favouritism and injustice, and one obviously ill
calculated to bring to the front any specially efficient man. But
unhappily the regulations of the body of guides were, and still are,
entangled hopelessly in the French equivalent for red tape. Jealousy and
mistrust of the German-speaking guides, whom serious mountaineers were
beginning to import in rather formidable numbers, were beginning to awaken
in the simple bosoms of the Savoyard peasants; and our proceedings were
consequently looked upon with contemptuous disfavour by those who had any
knowledge of our project.
(M33)
On August 18, 1873, we started. Our guides were Alexander Burgener as
leader, Franz Andermatten, the best of companions, our guide, our friend,
and sometimes our philosopher, as second string, while a taciturn porter
of large frame and small mind, who came from the Saas valley, completed
the tale. Of Burgener’s exceptional talent in climbing difficult rocks we
had had already good proof, and no doubt he was, and still is, a man of
remarkable daring, endurance, and activity on rocks. I had reached then
that stage in the mountaineering art at which a man is prone to consider
the guide he knows best as, beyond all comparison, the best guide that
could possibly exist. The lapse of years renders me perhaps better able
now to form a dispassionate judgment of Burgener’s capacity and skill.
Both were very great. I have seen at their work most of the leaders in
this department. Burgener never had the marvellous neatness and finish so
characteristic of Melchior Anderegg, who, when mountaineering has passed
away into the limbo of extinct sports, such as bear-baiting, croquet, and
pell-mell, will, if he gets his deserts, even by those who remember
Maguignaz, Carrel, Croz, and Almer, still be spoken of as _the_ best guide
that ever lived. Nor was Burgener gifted with the same simple unaffected
qualities which made Jakob Anderegg’s loss so keenly felt, nor the
lightness and agility of Rey or Jaun; but he united well in himself
qualities of strength, carefulness, perseverance and activity, and
possessed in addition the numerous attributes of observation, experience,
and desire for improvement in his art which together make up what is
spoken of as the natural instinct of guides. These were the qualities that
made him a first-rate, indeed an exceptional, guide. _Nunc liberavi animam
meam._ There is an old saying, involving a sound doctrine, that
When you flatter lay it on thick;
Some will come off, but a deal will stick.
The porter proved himself a skilful and strong climber, but he was as
silent as an oyster and, like that bivalve mollusc when the freshness of
its youth has passed off, was perpetually on the gape.
(M34)
A hot walk—it always is hot along this part—took us up to the Montanvert.
The moonlight threw quaint, fantastic shadows along the path and made the
dewy gossamer filaments which swung from branch to branch across the track
twinkle into grey and silver; and anything more aggravating than these
spiders’ threads at night it is hard to imagine. What earthly purpose
these animals think they serve by this reckless nocturnal expenditure of
bodily glue it is hard to say: possibly the lines are swung across in
order that they may practise equilibrium; possibly the threads may serve
as lines of escape and retreat after the male spinners have been a-wooing.
The atmosphere through the wood was as stuffy as a ship’s saloon in a
storm, and we were right glad to reach the Montanvert at 3.30 A.M. Here,
being athirst, we clamoured for refreshment. The landlord of the
ramshackle hostelry at once appeared in full costume; indeed I observed
that during the summer it was impossible to tell from his attire whether
he had arisen immediately from bed or no. He seemed to act on the
principle of the Norwegian peasant, who apparently undresses once a year
when the winter commences, and resumes his garments when the light once
more comes back and the summer season sets in. Our friend had cultivated
to great perfection the art of half sleeping during his waking hours—that
is, during such time as he might be called upon to provide entertainment
for man and beast. Now at the Montanvert, during the tourists’ season,
this period extended over the whole twenty-four hours. It was necessary,
therefore, in order that he might enjoy a proper physiological period of
rest, for him to remain in a dozing state—a sort of æstival
hybernation—for the whole time, which in fact he did; or else he was by
nature a very dull person, and had actually a very restricted stock of
ideas.
The landlord produced at once a battered teapot with a little sieve
dangling from its snout, which had been stewing on the hob, and poured out
the contained fluid into two stalked saucers of inconvenient diameter.
Stimulated by this watery extract, we entered into conversation together.
The sight of a tourist with an ice axe led by a kind of reflex process to
the landlord’s unburdening his mind with his usual remarks. Like other
natives of the valley he had but two ideas of “extraordinary” expeditions.
“Monsieur is going to the Jardin?” he remarked. “No, monsieur isn’t.”
“Then beyond a doubt monsieur will cross the Col du Géant?” he said,
playing his trump card. “No, monsieur will not.” “Pardon—where does
monsieur expect to go to?” “On the present occasion we go to try the
Aiguille du Dru.” The landlord smiled in an aggravating manner. “Does
monsieur think he will get up?” “Time will show.” “Ah!” The landlord, who
had a chronic cold in the head, searched for his pockethandkerchief, but
not finding it, modified the necessary sniff into one of derision, and
then demanded the usual exorbitant price for the refreshment, amounting to
about five times the value of the teapot, sieve and all. We paid, and left
him chuckling softly to himself at our insane idea, as he replaced the
teapot on the hob in readiness for the next arrival. That landlord, though
physically sleepy, was still wide awake in matters of finance. He once
charged me five francs for the loan of a secondhand collection of holes
which he termed a blanket.
(M35)
We got on to the glacier at the usual point and made straight across the
slippery hummocks to the grass slope encircling the base of the Aiguille
du Dru and the Glacier de la Charpoua. The glacier above gives birth to a
feeble meandering little stream which wanders fitfully down the mountain
side. At first we kept to the left, but after a while crossed the little
torrent, and bearing more to the right plodded leisurely up the steep
grass and rock slope. We had made good progress when of a sudden Franz
gave a loud whistle and then fell flat down. The other two guides
immediately followed his example and beckoned to us with excited
gesticulations to behave in a similarly foolish manner. Thereupon we too
sat down, and enquired what the purport of this performance might be. It
turned out that there was a very little chamois about half a mile off.
Knowing that it would be impossible to induce the guides to move on till
the animal had disappeared, we seized the opportunity of taking an early
breakfast. The guides meanwhile wriggled about on their stomachs, with
eyes starting out of their heads, possessed by an extraordinary desire to
miss no single movement of the object of their attention. “See, it moves,”
said Franz in a whisper. “Himmel! it is feeding,” said Burgener. “It must
be the same that Johann saw three weeks ago.” “Ach! no, that was but a
little one” (no true chamois hunter will ever allow that a brother
sportsman can possibly have set eyes on a larger animal than himself).
“Truly it is fine.” “Thunder weather! it moves its head.” In their
excitement I regretted that I could not share, not being well versed in
hunting craft: my own experience of sport in the Alps being limited to
missing one marmot that was sitting on a rock licking its paws. In due
course the chamois walked away. Apparently much relieved by there being no
further necessity to continue in their former uncomfortable attitudes, the
guides sat up and fell to a warm discussion as to the size of the animal.
A chamois is to a guide as a fish to the baffled angler or the last new
baby to a monthly nurse, and is always pronounced to be beyond question
the finest that has ever been seen. To this they agreed generally, but
Franz, whose spirits had suddenly evaporated, now shook his head dismally,
with the remark that it was unlucky to see a single chamois, and that we
should have no success that day. Undaunted by his croaking, we pursued our
way to the right side of the glacier, while our guide, who had a ballad
appropriate to every occasion, sang rather gaspingly a tremulous little
funeral dirge. We worked well across to the right, in order to obtain the
best possible view of the Aiguille, and halted repeatedly while discussing
the best point at which to attack the rocks. While thus engaged in
reconnoitring close under the cliffs of the ridge running between the
Aiguille Moine and the Aiguille Verte, a considerable block of ice,
falling from the rocks above, whizzed past just in front of us and capered
gaily down the slope. Hereupon we came rather rapidly to the conclusion
that we had better proceed. Half an hour further on we reached the top of
a steep little snow slope, and a point secure from falling stones and ice.
Recognising that we must soon cross back to the rocks of the Dru, we tried
to come to a final conclusion as to the way to be chosen. As usual,
everybody pointed out different routes: even a vestry meeting could hardly
have been less unanimous. Some one now ventured to put a question that had
been troubling in reality our minds for some time past, viz. which of the
peaks that towered above us was really the Aiguille du Dru. On the left
there were two distinct points which, though close together, were
separated apparently by a deep rift, and some distance to the right of the
col which the previous party had tried to reach, a sharp tooth of rock
towered up to a considerable height. Evidently, however, from its position
this latter needle could not be visible from Chamouni or from the
Montanvert. Again, it was clear that the mass comprising the two points
close together must be visible from the valley, but which of the two was
the higher? Alexander gave as his opinion that the more distant of these
two points, that on the right, was the higher, and turned to the porter
for confirmation. That worthy nodded his head affirmatively with extreme
sagacity, evidently implying that he was of the same opinion. Franz on the
other hand thought the left-hand peak was the one that we ought to make
for, arguing that it most resembled the Dru as seen from the Montanvert,
that there was probably little difference in height between the two, that
our ascent would not be believed in unless we were to place a flag on the
point visible from Chamouni, and finally that the left-hand peak seemed to
be the easier, and would probably be found to conceal the sharper point of
the right-hand summit. Having expressed these views, he in turn looked
towards the porter to ascertain his sentiments. The porter, who was
evidently of a complaisant temperament, nodded his head very vigorously to
intimate that these arguments seemed the more powerful of the two to his
mind, and then cocked his head on one side in a knowing manner, intended
to express that he was studying the angles and that he was prepared to
find himself in the right whichever view prevailed. We did not find out
for certain till some time after that the right-hand summit, though
concealed from view by the Montanvert, is very distinctly visible from
Chamouni: excusable ignorance, as most of the Chamouni people are unaware
of it to this day. Professor Forbes, as Mr. Douglas Freshfield has kindly
pointed out to me, with his usual accuracy distinguished and also measured
the two summits, giving their heights respectively as 12,178, and 12,245
feet.(3) Knowing little as we did then of the details of the mountain, we
followed Franz’s advice and made for the left-hand peak, under the
impression that if one proved accessible the other might also, and there
really seemed no reason why we should not, if occasion demanded, ascend
both.
(M36)
Leading up from the glacier two distinct lines of attack presented
themselves. The right-hand ridge descends to the col very precipitously,
but still we had some idea that the rocks did not look wholly impossible.
Again, on the left of the Dru the rocks are cut away very abruptly and
form the long precipitous ridge seen from the Montanvert. This ridge was
so jagged that we could see no possible advantage in climbing to any part
of it, except just at the termination where it merges into the
south-western face of the main mountain. The choice therefore, in our
judgment, lay between storming the mountain by the face right opposite to
us or else making for the col and the right-hand ridge; but the latter was
the route that Messrs. Pendlebury and Kennedy had followed, and we could
not hope to succeed where such giants had failed. Burgener indeed wished
to try, but the rest of the party were unanimously in favour of attempting
to find a way up the face, a route that at the worst had the merit of
novelty. We thought too that if a closer acquaintance proved that the
crags were ill arranged for upward locomotion, we might be able to work
round on the face and so reach the col by a more circuitous route. With
the naked eye—especially a myopic one—the rocks appeared unpromising
enough; while viewed through the telescope the rocks looked utterly
impossible. But little faith, however, can be rested in telescopic
observations of a mountain, so far as the question of determining a route
is concerned. Amateurs, who, as a rule, understand the use of a telescope
much better than guides, have not the requisite experience to determine
the value of what they see, while but few guides see enough to form any
basis for determination. Moreover, the instrument we carried with us,
though it had an extraordinary number of sections and pulled out like the
ill-fated tradesman’s trousers in a pantomime, was not a very remarkable
one in the matter of definition. Still it is always proper and orthodox to
look at a new peak through the telescope, and we were determined not to
neglect any formality on the present occasion.
(M37)
We were now rather more than half-way up the Glacier de la Charpoua. To
reach the most promising-looking point at which we might hope to get on
the rocks, it was necessary to travel straight across the snow at about
the level on which we stood. Now, this Glacier de la Charpoua is not
constructed on ordinary principles. Instead of the orthodox transverse
bergschrund it possesses a longitudinal crack running up its whole length,
a peculiarity that vexed us hugely. Half a dozen times did we attempt to
cross by some tempting-looking bridge, but on each occasion we were
brought to a stand by impassable crevasses; then had to turn back, go up a
little farther, and try again. It was already late in the day and we could
ill spare the time lost in this to and fro movement. Eventually we reached
a little patch of rocks not far from the head of the glacier. No sooner
had we reached these rocks than the guides hunted up a suitable place and
concealed some utterly worthless property as carefully as if they expected
evil-minded marauders to be wandering about, seeking what they might
pilfer. Having effected the cache with due care, Franz once again burst
into a strange carol, the burden of which was unintelligible, but the
chorus made frequent allusion to “der Teufel.” We now saw that, after all,
the only feasible plan would be to cut our way still higher up a steep
slope, and thus to work right round, describing a large curve. An
occasional step required to be scraped, for the glacier is in shadow till
late in the morning, owing to the Aiguille Verte intervening and cutting
off the sun’s rays. Throughout the day our second guide had been burning
with a desire to exhibit the good qualities of the most portentous ice axe
I ever saw, an instrument of an unwieldy character resembling a labourer’s
pick on the top of a May pole. Its dimensions were monstrous and its
weight preposterous: moreover, the cutting spike had an evil curve and,
instead of hewing out blocks of ice neatly, preferred to ram a huge hole
in the slope and stick fast therein, while a quiver ran through its mighty
frame and communicated itself to the striker, who shuddered at each blow
as after taking a dose of very bitter physic. However, Franz was so proud
of his halberd that we were obliged to sacrifice rapid progress to the
consideration of his feelings, and he was accordingly sent on to cut the
steps which were now found necessary. With no little exertion did he
construct a staircase of which the steps were about the size of foot
baths, and with no slight impatience did we watch his gymnastics and
athletic flourishes, which were a sort of mixture of tossing the caber and
throwing the hammer combined with a touch of polo. Ultimately we were able
to quit the glacier for the actual face of the mountain, at a point
probably not very much below that struck by the previous party; but it was
our intention at once to bear off to the left.
(M38)
We blundered a little on the rocks at first after the long spell of
snow-walking. A cry from Franz caused us to look round, and we perceived
that he had got entangled with the big axe, the spike of which was
sticking into the third button of his waistcoat, causing him, as the
strain on the rope above and below folded him up in a rather painful
manner, to assume the attitude of a mechanical toy monkey on a stick.
Fearing that he might be placed in the condition in which cats’ meat is
usually offered for sale, we slackened the rope and saved him from
impending perforation, but with the result that the axe bounded off down
the slope, turned two or three summersaults, and then stuck up defiantly
in a distant patch of snow, looking like a sign-post. While Franz went off
to recover his loved treasure we huddled together on a very little ledge
of rock, and sat there in a row like busts on a shelf—if the simile be not
considered anatomically inappropriate. But these delays had wasted much
time, and already success seemed doubtful. Little time could now be
devoted to consultation, and little good would have come of it; now that
we were on the rocks the only thing to do was to go straight on and see
what would happen. At the same time we had a dim consciousness that we
were considerably to the right of the best line of ascent. Our “general
idea”—to borrow a military phrase of which, by the way, it may be remarked
that the idea in question is usually confined to the general and is not
shared in by the troops—consisted in making for the left-hand side or
Montanvert aspect of the final peak. We set our teeth, whatever that may
mean, then fell to with a will and for some two hours went with scarcely a
check. And a rare two hours’ climb we had. The very thought of it makes
the pen travel swiftly over the paper, as the scene comes back in every
detail. How Burgener led the way without hesitation and almost without
mistake; how our second guide chattered unceasingly, caring nought for a
listener; how they both stuck to the rocks like limpets; how the big axe
got in everybody’s way; how the rope got caught on every projecting spur
of rock, jerking back the unwary, or when loose sweeping down showers of
small angular stones from the little platforms and ridges, thereby
engendering ill blood and contumely; how the silent porter climbed
stolidly after us, and in the plenitude of his taciturn good-humour poked
at us from below with his staff at inconvenient moments and in sensitive
places; how at one moment we were flat against the rock, all arms and
legs, like crushed spiders, and at another gathered into great loops like
a cheese maggot on the point of making a leap; how a volley of little
stones came whistling cheerily down from above, playfully peppering us all
round; how our spirits rose with our bodies till we became as excited as
children: of all these things it boots not to give any detailed
description. Those who can recollect similar occasions need but to be
reminded of them, and, to tell the truth, the minutiæ, though they are so
graven upon the mind that a clear impression could be struck off years
afterwards, are apt to prove somewhat tedious. Two facts I may note. One,
that the rocks were at first very much easier than was expected; another,
that we should have done better had we discarded the rope on this part of
the climb: the rocks were hardly a fit place for those who could not
dispense with its use. Ever and anon the guides’ spirits would rise to
that level which may be called the shouting point, and they would jödel
till they were black in the face, while the melodious roll of sound echoed
cheerily back from the distant cliffs of the Aiguille Moine. And so we
journeyed up.
(M39)
Meanwhile the weather had changed; black clouds had come rolling up and
were gathering ominously above us; it was evident that we had no chance of
reaching the summit that day, even if it were practicable, but still we
persevered desperately in the hope of seeing some possible route for a
future attack. Progress, however, on a rock peak is necessarily slow when
there are five on the rope, and we should probably have done more wisely
if we had divided into two parties. We kept well to the left to a point on
the face where a huge tower of rock stands four-square to all the winds of
heaven that blow; and above us, as a matter of fact, there seemed to be a
good many winds. This landmark, very conspicuous and characteristic of
these aiguilles, seemed to be close to the ridge, but on reaching it we
found that there was still a stiff passage intervening between us and the
point from which we could overlook the other side of the mountain. Now we
bore to the right and the climbing became more difficult. We made our way
straight up a very shallow gully and finally reached a point on the
western ridge overlooking the Montanvert, close to where this ridge merges
into the corresponding face of the peak. Here a halt was called, for two
reasons. In the first place a few flakes of snow were softly falling
around and the gathering clouds betokened more to follow. Secondly, so far
as we could judge through the mist, it was apparently impossible to ascend
any higher from the place we had reached. So we cast off the rope and
clambered separately to various points of vantage to survey the work that
lay before us. The summit of the peak, enveloped in thin cloud, appeared
to tower no great height above us, but we were too close under the cliff
to estimate its elevation very correctly. At the time we thought that if
we could only keep up the pace at which we had been going, an hour’s climb
would have sufficed to reach the top. We found, it may be remarked
parenthetically, that we were egregiously in error in this estimate some
years later. The shifting clouds made the rock face—that is, the small
extent of it that we could see at all—look much more difficult than in all
probability it actually was. Through the mists we made out, indistinctly,
a formidable-looking irregular crack in the rock face running very
straight up and rather to our left, which apparently constituted the only
possible route from our position to a higher level. But from where we
stood we could not have reached the lower end of this crack without a
ladder of about fifty feet in length, and the mist entirely prevented us
from judging whether we could reach it by a détour. The choice lay between
hunting for some such line or else in trying what seemed on the whole more
practicable, viz. working round by the north-east face again, so as to
search for a more easy line of ascent. But the latter alternative would
have involved of necessity a considerable descent. While we debated what
course to take the mists swept up thicker and thicker from below, and in a
moment the peak above us was concealed and all the view cut off. A
piercingly cold wind began to rise and a sharp storm of hail and sleet
descended. Hints were dropped about the difficulty of descending rocks
glazed over with ice with a proper amount of deliberation. It was
obviously impossible to go up and might soon become very difficult to go
down. The question was not actually put, but, in conformity with what was
evidently the general sense of the meeting, we somewhat reluctantly made
up our minds to return. A dwarf stone man was constructed, the rope
readjusted, and half an hour’s descent put us out of the mist and snow. We
stopped again and stared upwards blankly at the leve line of mist hanging
heavily against the peak. Burgener now came forward with a definite
resolution and proposed that we should stay where we were for the night
and try again the next day. This was referred to a sub-committee, who
reported against the suggestion on the ground that the stock of provisions
left consisted of a tablespoonful of wine, four rolls, and a small piece
of cheese which had strayed from the enveloping paper in the porter’s
pocket and as a consequence smelt of tobacco and was covered with hairs
and fluff. These articles of diet were spread on a rock and we mentally
calculated the exact proportion that would fall to each man’s share if we
attempted, as proposed, to subsist on them for a day and a half. But
little deliberation was required. We decided at once to return. The porter
gathered the fragments lovingly together and replaced them with other
curious articles in his side pocket. By 8.30 P.M. we were back at
Chamouni, having been out a little under twenty hours.
(M40)
A day or two later we made up our minds to start once more. Great
preparations were made for an early departure, the idea that we should
find it distasteful to start at the hour at which a London ball begins
being scouted, as it usually is over-night. We impressed on an intelligent
“boots” with great earnestness the absolute necessity of waking us
precisely at midnight, and then went to our repose, feeling about as much
inclined for sleep as a child does during the afternoon siesta intended to
prepare it for the glories of a pantomime. The “boots” did not fail; in
fact he was extra-punctual, as our departure was the signal for his
retiring. At midnight the party assembled in the little courtyard in front
of the hotel, but a dismal sight met our gaze. Under the influence of a
warm sou’-wester, thick black clouds had filled the valley, and a gentle
drizzle reminded us of the balmy climate of our own metropolis in
November. Our Alpine tour for the season was nearly at an end, and we
gazed despondently around. Ultimately one practical person suggested that
if we did not go to the mountain we might as well go to bed, and the
practical person endorsed his suggestion by walking off. A scurvy
practical joke did the clerk of the weather play on us that night. In the
morning the bright sunbeams came streaming in through the window, the sky
was cloudless and the outline of every peak was sharply defined in the
clear air. A more perfect morning for the expedition could hardly have
been chosen. Some ill-timed remarks at breakfast referring pointedly to
people who talk a good deal over-night about early starts, and the deep
concern of the “boots” at our presumed slothfulness, goaded us to
desperation. We determined to start again and to have one more try the
next day whatever the weather might prove to be. Once more we found
ourselves in the small hours of the morning on the path leading to Les
Ponts. Had it not been for the previous day’s lesson we should probably
have turned back from this point, for the whole of the mountain opposite
was concealed in thick drifting mist. The guides flatly refused to go on
as matters stood. We were determined on our side not to give it up, and so
a compromise was effected. It was agreed to wait for an hour or two and
see if matters mended. So we stretched ourselves out on a damp sloping
rock, prepared to resume our journey at the slightest indication of a
change for the better. Rest at such a time even under these hard, not to
say stony, conditions is seductive, and, as we lay half dozing, strange
heretical thoughts came crowding into the mind. Why toil up this mountain
when one can rest in luxury on these knobby rocks? Why labour over the
shifting moraine, the deceitful glacier, the slippery rock? What is the
good of it all? Can it be vanity or——“Vorwärts!” The dream vanished as the
cheery cry broke out from the guide engaged on outpost duty, and as we
rose and stretched ourselves the whole aspect of affairs seemed changed. A
distinct break in the clouds at the head of the Mer de Glace gave promise
of better things in store, and we felt almost guilty of having wasted an
hour or more at our halt. The break became larger and larger, and before
long the great cloud banks resolved into one huge streamer flying from the
summit of the peak. I fancy that, at any rate in the early stages of
mountaineering, many good chances are thrown away on such days, for guides
are as a rule somewhat prone to despondency in the early morning hours.
Once started, however, they became wondrously keen, complained of our
delay, and even asserted with some effrontery that they had predicted fine
weather all the time, and this without a blush; still some one rather
neatly defined blushing as a suffusion least seldom seen in those who have
the most occasion for it, and guides share with politicians a certain
power of manipulating their opinions to suit the exigencies of the moment.
The traces of our former attempt assisted us materially on the glacier.
Our plan of attack consisted in getting on the rocks at our former point,
but working on this occasion much more directly up the face. Burgener
conceived that by following this line of assault we should be able to
ascend, by means of a gully which existed only in his own imagination, to
a more practicable part of the peak. Between the two summits of the
Aiguille du Dru may be seen, at any rate in photographs, a
tempting-looking streak of snow: it seemed possible, if we could once
reach the lower point of this streak, to follow its line upwards. The
lower peak of the Dru is well rounded on its eastern face, and the rocks
appear more broken than in other parts of the mountain.
(M41)
If we could but once reach the cleft between the peaks there seemed every
chance of our being able to reach the lower summit. At the outset progress
was fast. We followed our former line till we were in sight of the rock
tower and then at once bore off to the right. The climbing was rather more
difficult, at least it seemed so to us in those days, than on the other
part of the mountain with which we had previously made acquaintance. A
series of short flat gullies had to be climbed, but there were exceedingly
few inequalities to help us. The rope was of little or no use and might
perhaps have been laid aside with advantage. We soon found that we had
reached a higher point than at our previous attempt, and as the leader
constantly returned favourable reports our spirits rose; so elated in fact
did we become that the exact formalities to be observed on reaching the
top were seriously discussed whenever the occasion offered for
conversation, which was not very often. Old Franz chattered away to
himself, as was his wont when matters went well, and on looking back on
one occasion I perceived the strange phenomenon of a smile illuminating
the porter’s features. Howbeit, this worthy spake no words of
satisfaction, but pulled ever at his empty pipe. By dint of wriggling over
a smooth sloping stone slab we had got into a steep rock gully which
promised to lead us to a good height. Burgener, assisted by much pushing
and prodding from below and aided on his own part by much snorting and
some strong language, had managed to climb on to a great overhanging
boulder that cut off the view from the rest of the party below. As he
disappeared from sight we watched the paying out of the rope with as much
anxiety as a fisherman eyes his vanishing line when the salmon runs.
Presently the rope ceased to move and we waited for a few moments in
suspense. We felt that the critical moment of the expedition had arrived,
and the fact that our own view was exceedingly limited made us all the
more anxious to hear the verdict. “How does it look?” we called out. The
answer came back in patois, a bad sign in such emergencies. For a minute
or two an animated conversation was kept up; then we decided to take
another opinion and accordingly hoisted up our second guide. The chatter
was redoubled. “What does it look like?” we shouted again. “Not possible
from where we are,” was the melancholy answer, and in a tone that crashed
at once all our previous elation. I could not find words at the moment to
express my disappointment: but the porter could and gallantly he came to
the rescue. He opened his mouth for the first time and spoke, and he said
very loud indeed that it was “verdammt.” Precisely: that is just what it
was. Having made this short speech, the porter allowed the smile to fade
away from his features, shook out some imaginary ashes and proceeded to
light some visionary tobacco, sucking at a lighted match through the
medium of an empty pipe. It seemed hard to believe at first that we were
to be baulked when so near the summit, and it was not till the guides had
tried again and again to storm the almost vertical wall of smooth rock and
had shown the utter impossibility of turning it either right or left, that
we felt we were really beaten. One more forlorn chance remained: we might
try the west face of the mountain from the spot we had reached at our
first attempt, when the weather had prevented us from making any further
progress. Had there been more time at our disposal we should have done
better to try another line of ascent more to our right, that is, nearer to
the col, and it might be possible to reach the cleft between the two
summits by this means. As for the snow streak which looked so tempting at
a distance, it is a delusion and a snare, if the latter term be applicable
to a place which appears to be much more difficult to get into than it
probably would be to get out of. We had already pretty fully realised that
the mountain was more difficult to ascend than we had ever contemplated,
and it seemed advisable at the moment to make for some definite point
which at any rate we felt sure of reaching and to study the peak in detail
to the best of our ability; so we made towards our cairn, though with
little hope of gaining much knowledge thereby.
(M42)
Without much difficulty, but not without some little danger from falling
stones (though on the whole, the mountain is remarkably free from these
annoyances, there being as a matter of fact but few loose stones to fall),
we reached our former point and were able to judge distinctly of how much
higher we had reached at our second attempt. We saw also that upward
progress from the point on which we stood would not be possible, but it
must be remembered that we were able only to see a small strip of the
mountain lying directly above. Every crag that was not absolutely vertical
appeared to overhang, and the few small cracks that might have afforded
hand and foot hold led nowhere in particular. Altogether the view was
depressing although limited. There was no time to hunt about for other
routes, or we should certainly have done so, for we felt that though
beaten our discomfiture only arose from the fact that we had chosen a
wrong line of ascent. Possibly within a few yards of us lay a feasible
route, but we knew not on which side it might be. Here it occurred to the
porter for the first time that his pipe was empty and had been so all day:
he thereupon made his second remark, which consisted in an audible request
for something to put in it. We had dragged up with us (as a matter of fact
the porter had carried it the whole time) some 200 feet of rope, thinking
it might help us in the descent, but the part of the mountain on which we
were presents no more difficulties in this respect than does Avernus.
(M43)
Arrived on the snow slope opposite the rock face on which we had been
climbing during the day, we stopped, extended the telescope, and tried to
make out our exact line, and endeavoured also to discover what had been
our error; no easy task, as any persons of experience will admit. At any
time the appearance of this peak is deceptive, and the outline no more
guides you to a knowledge of the natural details than does the outline of
a fashionable lady’s dress. But as we looked the mountain seemed flattened
out by reason of a blue evening mist which obscured all the
irregularities. So we turned and resumed our journey down, running hard
across the Mer de Glace, for the shades of night drew on apace, and
reached Chamouni at 8.30 in the evening, leaving the guides at the
Montanvert with half a bottle of thin red wine between three of them. We
were overtaken by Edouard Cupelin, one of the best of the Chamouni guides,
at any rate on rock mountains, on our way down, and he gave us a rather
sensational account of his own adventures on the peak. In justice to him
it should be mentioned that he was almost the only Chamouni guide who
seemed to think the ascent possible, and in his opinion the general line
that we had adopted was the correct one. Our second expedition thus from
first to last occupied about 20½ hours, but the halts were not nearly so
numerous as on the first occasion. The experience of our two days’
climbing led us to the conclusion that Cupelin was right. From the
peculiar character of the rocks and the fact that our climbing lay chiefly
along short flat gullies we were unable, as already remarked, to get a
very clear idea of any part of the mountain except that on which we were
actually engaged, and we were led to the opinion that the only plan to
find a possible route would consist in trying in succession from below the
different parts of the southern face. The final peak, which from this side
shoots up clearly defined from the great mass of the mountain, seemed to
us tolerably easy of ascent provided one could reach the base. A sort of
depression extends three parts of the way round, and the edge of this
shallow moat appeared to be defended by an inaccessible belt of vertical
rock. The actual rocks were wholly unlike any met with elsewhere in our
experience. Great vertical slabs were fitted together with an accuracy
which was beautiful in its perfection, but irritating beyond conception to
the climber. Progress upwards, when above the level of the col,
necessitated a series of fatiguing gymnastics like swimming uphill, but
the rocks where they were possible proved invariably firm and good. On
both occasions we were stopped by sheer difficulty and probably saw the
mountain at its very best. The snow on the rocks, which proved such a
formidable difficulty to Mr. Pendlebury’s party, had almost entirely
disappeared before our assault. The rocks were warm and the weather on the
second day was perfect.
(M44)
Such is the history of our first two attempts to climb this mountain. They
served but to whet our appetite for success, but it was not till years
after that we were fortunate enough to meet with that success.