CLIMBING IN CORSICA
Comfortably seated in the depths of Bryn’s favourite and most
somniferous chair, I browsed idly and half unthinkingly through the
pages of a guide book that had found its way, as such things will,
to my host’s address. Cynically amused as far as my sleepy condition
would permit by the flights of verbal fancy to which compilers of
guide books seem addicted, subconsciously certain plain, unbefrilled
facts impressed themselves upon my mind and, eventually marshalling
themselves, roused me out of my lethargy to a state bordering on
excitement.
“I’ve found it!” I shouted.
Max and Bryn awoke, startled.
“What, you fool?” they growled encouragingly.
“Listen! It is easy of access, thinly populated, few tourists visit
the interior, and it has mountains rising to 9,000 feet above
sea-level; the very thing we are looking for.” Wide awake now, they
were interested enough to ask where this Utopia was. Astonished at such
crass ignorance, I answered, “Corsica, of course, fatheads!”
It really was the very thing we had been looking for. The Christmas
vacation of 1908 was just over. A few months ago Max and I had made the
acquaintance of Alf Bonnvie Bryn, a Norwegian who, like ourselves, was
studying in Zürich. Bound together by the common bond of enthusiasm
for the mountains, the acquaintance rapidly ripened into friendship,
and many were the pleasant evenings spent in each other’s rooms. The
topic of conversation was always the same--mountaineering. Gradually
our thoughts turned from other mountain groups more and more towards
the Himalayas, and we decided some day to combine forces and carry
out an expedition to this greatest of the world’s mountain ranges. As
far as actual climbing was concerned, we considered that the Alps, as
a training ground for Himalayan exploration, could not be bettered.
But in one thing which would do much to make or mar the success of an
exploring venture in these distant ranges, we could look to the Alps
for little assistance. That was organisation, particularly with respect
to food and equipment. In the Alps, a mistake or omission of detail in
either of these things can be remedied by a descent into the valley,
involving a loss of not more than a day or so of climbing time. But for
the Himalayas we judged that it would be essential to have everything
that one would want with one. Mistakes or omissions would not be easily
rectified after one had left one’s base, usually the last outpost of
civilization and, even as such, devoid of many of the necessities for
mountaineering. From the base onwards one would have to rely entirely
upon one’s own resources. These considerations drove us to a decision
to spend the Easter vacation in some remote part of Europe; Switzerland
would be our advanced base, and the chosen field of our activities a
wilder territory to which we would not look for supplies of either food
or equipment. Where was such a territory to be found? The more remote
mountains of Norway were ruled out on account of the earliness of the
season. Considerations of distance, and therefore of time and expense,
militated against our going to the Sierra Nevada or the Balkans. Our
mental state was one of puzzled despair until by chance the little
guide book of Corsica insinuated itself into my attention.
Early in March, 1909, we set to work to put our equipment in order,
making sleeping-bags and a tent and buying tinned foods. The latter
were selected with a view to nourishing value, variety, compactness
and minimum of weight. By the middle of the month our preparations
were almost complete. A few days afterwards, Bryn and I set off for
Corsica, leaving Max, whose studies kept him in Zürich for the time
being, to join us at a later date. We travelled by rail through the St.
Gotthard _via_ Milan and Genoa to Leghorn, embarking there for Bastia.
The five-hour crossing on a crazy little cargo boat was rough and
uncomfortable, and we both dwelt at some length and with much feeling
upon the foolishness of setting out on our little expedition instead
of spending the holidays in comparative luxury in Switzerland. But
when, at sunset, loomed up the snow-capped summits of the bold mountain
chain that forms the backbone of the long promontory of Cap Corse, our
optimism returned. The first difficulties on landing were those created
by Customs officials. On explaining quite frankly the object of our
visit, however, they informed us ecstatically that Corsica was the most
beautiful country in the world and that we would be sure to enjoy our
stay there--and passed our stores free of duty! Such patriotism created
a first good impression of the inhabitants, which we saw no reason
later to alter. The Corsicans received us with nothing but the utmost
kindness throughout our stay on the island.
The following day was spent in purchasing maps and drawing up plans.
According to the maps, Calacuccia appeared to be the Zermatt of
Corsica, so to Calacuccia we forwarded most of our stores. Leaving
the greater part of the remainder in the simple little auberge, the
Hôtel des Voyageurs, which was our headquarters in Bastia, we set out
to walk and climb over the whole length of the range of mountains in
the promontory of Cap Corse. Though none of these peaks exceed 4,300
feet in height, nevertheless, owing to the close proximity of the sea,
they appear high. But their chief appeal to us was that they afforded
magnificent views into the mountains of the north-west interior of the
island, where we expected to find the best climbing. The main groups
centre round Monte Cinto which, rising to 8,900 feet above sea-level,
is the highest summit in Corsica. Standing well away to the north of
the main mass was one bold rock needle that attracted our attention.
With the aid of compass and map, we identified this point as being the
Capo al Dente, a peak some 7,000 feet in altitude, and decided to lay
siege to it before going to Calacuccia, especially as we had every
reason to believe that it had not been climbed. Back again in Bastia,
we packed up our remaining stores, sufficient for ten days, and took
train to Palasca, a station on the line between Bastia and Calvi. In
Palasca we were fortunate in securing the services of a mule and his
driver. I say “fortunate,” for our knapsacks, containing sleeping-bags,
spare clothing, ropes, cooking apparatus, cameras and food, weighed
over 80 lbs. each. The mule proved more willing than his master. Our
way to the Val Tartagine, at the head of which the Capo al Dente lies,
led over a number of passes the crossing of which involved a good deal
of uphill and downdale walking. The mule-driver’s strength never seemed
equal to any of the rises, as he would persist in sitting on the mule.
The upshot was that ere half our thirty-mile journey was accomplished
the poor little animal struck work and refused to go an inch farther.
There was nothing to do but dismiss both driver and mule and shoulder
our burdens ourselves. We struggled on all day, steering for the most
part by map. It was a painful business. The knapsacks were inordinately
heavy, and their narrow straps bit cruelly into our shoulder muscles.
At sunset, completely exhausted and feeling incapable of moving another
step, we unpacked the sleeping-bags by the banks of a spring and, after
cooking a meal, slept such a sleep as falls to the lot of few.
On the following day we crossed the last pass and dropped down into
the Tartagine Valley. At the entrance to the valley stood a forester’s
cottage. The forester and his wife refused to allow us to pass without
first partaking of their hospitality. Like all Corsicans, they spoke a
good French as well as the peculiar dialect of their country, a mixture
of French and Italian. Here, as elsewhere in the island, we met with
nothing but courtesy and kindness. In response to anxious inquiries,
our host assured us that the Capo al Dente had never been climbed. From
his house we could see it, a wonderful rock pinnacle bearing a certain
resemblance to the Aiguille du Dru and standing up boldly at the very
head of the valley. In the afternoon we took our leave and followed a
diminutive track leading along the right bank of the Tartagine River.
At an altitude of about 4,000 feet above sea-level, above the snow-line
which at this season of the year extends to below 3,000 feet, we
found a suitable camping site, a huge rock platform on the face of
a cliff. It was sheltered from the wind on three sides and, being
partially overhung, might also be expected to be protected in the
event of snow or rain falling. For nine nights we camped on this spot.
The cold during the long hours of darkness was bitter and ruthlessly
demonstrated the flaws in the design of our sleeping-bags. Day after
day we made our way up to the head of the valley and searched in vain
for a route up the black cliffs of the Capo al Dente. On the ninth day
we at last espied a diminutive crack threading the first hundred feet
of the precipitous lower ramparts of the mountain. We had discovered
the solution to the problem. Within an hour of effecting a lodgment on
the rock we had gained the summit and felt truly recompensed for those
long, cold nights of shivering endured in camp. The climbing had been
steep but by no means excessively difficult.
[Illustration:
_Photo A. B. Bryn._
_Climbing the Capo al Dente._
“... we espied a diminutive crack ... the solution to the problem.”
_Facing page 24._
]
There is a peculiar charm about the view from the summits of these
Corsican mountains. They have the lure of sea cliffs. From most of them
you look down upon the ocean. From the Capo al Dente we could see the
tiny little harbour of Calvi and, fascinated, follow the movements of
a Lilliputian steamer that was leaving on its voyage over the smooth,
broad, blue expanse of the Mediterranean. To the south the great range
of the Cinto reared its snow-clad, precipitous peaks, and, looking, we
felt satisfied that, in coming to Corsica in quest of mountaineering
adventure, we had made no false step. Flanking the Val Tartagine were
other mountains of interest, such as Monte Corona and Monte Padro; but
our provisions were almost at an end. In any case, time was up, for we
had arranged to meet Max in Calacuccia on April 5.
It took us two days to regain the railway at Ponte Leggia, and for
those two days our sole provisions consisted of rather less than a
pound of porridge and a little tea and sugar; a fault in organisation
to which we frankly confessed at the little station restaurant at Ponte
Leggia by purchasing several square meals rolled into one. On April 4
we arrived at Calacuccia. Max joined us on the 5th, and the following
days were spent in exploring the Cinto group to the north-west of
Calacuccia and in selecting a suitable site for a camp. Eventually our
choice fell upon the Viro Valley which, in an island rich in the beauty
of rugged mountain scenery and wild vegetation, is one of the grandest
and most charming.
On April 10 we left the little Hôtel des Voyageurs, where we had
received much kindness at the hands of the proprietress, Madame Veuve
Lupi. A mule and his driver were entrusted with kit and provisions--a
heavy load. The mule was lazy and needed much and continual urging.
The Corsicans seldom strike their animals. If a grumbling “Huh!
Huh!” has not the desired effect, the driver spits on the mule’s
hindquarters--and a trot is almost invariably the result. As a rule,
a whip is worse than useless; it only produces a wild fit of panicky
bucking. The day was hot and sultry. The mule-driver had soon emptied
his wine-flask and, as he disdained to allay his thirst with the
crystal-clear water of the many mountain streams we passed, his supply
of saliva eventually failed. The pace of the mule fell off accordingly.
At Albertacce, a hamlet near the entrance of the Viro Valley, we halted
to pay our respects to the priest, who was also head man of the place,
and make arrangements about our mail. Before we had taken our leave,
the rumour had spread that we were skilled physicians, and we had to
resign ourselves to treating nearly half the inhabitants for all manner
of ills, imaginary and real. Sodium bicarbonate, bismuth subnitrate,
calomel or quinine were administered in homœopathic doses. A week
later, homeward-bound, we returned through Albertacce and had thrust
upon us the homage and thanks of the entire population. The prescribed
treatment had, in every single case, effected a complete cure--another
example of how a reputation may be made.
Half an hour below the selected camping site, patches of snow were met
with. The first extensive snow patch proved too much for both mule
and driver. The Corsicans have a real terror of walking in snow; they
fear that at any moment they may sink in and be suffocated. So we had
to dismiss our burden bearers and make shift to carry our loads into
camp ourselves. In the heart of the forest, on a little snow-free plot
of ground hard by the left bank of the river, we pitched the tent. To
the south-west rose the great precipices of Paglia Orba, the grandest
summit in the great chain of mountains which in the form of a gigantic
horseshoe shuts in the valley of the River Viro.
On the following day at 8 a.m. we left camp, crossed the foaming
waters of the torrent--not without getting more or less drenched in
the process--and spent the next two hours in steadily plodding up the
snow slopes to the Col de Foggiale,[1] a depression on the ridge south
of Paglia Orba. The work at first was distinctly hard, for the surface
crust of frozen snow was not always sufficiently strong to bear one’s
weight. As the lower mountain slopes in Corsica are usually covered
with a dense undergrowth or _maquis_, breaking the snow crust meant
plunging right through into a thick tangle of vegetation, extrication
from which was possible often only after a struggle. Higher up,
fortunately, the snow became firmer and we seldom broke through. The
approach to the col was defended by a huge overhanging cornice of
snow through which we had to tunnel a way with the axe. The charm of
the view from the col lay in the contrast between the whiteness of
snow-covered mountain and the deep blue of sea. Capo Tafonato (7,700
feet), however, a mountain whose praises we had often read, presented
a disappointing appearance. Judging from the map, we had expected to
see it standing boldly up in front of us on the far side of a fairly
wide valley. It stood, however, a low rock ridge possessing no daring
outlines and partially hidden behind Paglia Orba. Nevertheless, two
features commanded our respect; no snow was lying on the peak, a sign
that the wall opposite us was very steep; and we could see right
through a tremendous hole or natural tunnel which pierced the mountain
from one side to the other, indicating that the unseen side was also
steep and that the summit ridge must be proportionately narrow. After
a short rest, we traversed over frozen snow slopes round the base of
Paglia Orba to the gap between it and Capo Tafonato. Here we had a
short discussion as to the route to be followed, finally deciding to
take the right hand or north ridge straight up from the gap and to
traverse the whole mountain from north to south. We roped and were soon
at work climbing the very steep and firm rocks. Following a spiral
staircase of easy chimneys and ledges round the northern, the higher
of the two summits, we reached the top after an hour’s brisk climbing.
After a brief halt to gaze down over the tremendous precipices of the
west face towards the sea, we re-arranged the rope and set off to make
an attack on the gap of formidable appearance that separated us from
the southern summit. This looked just like a much magnified blunt
needle point. To our surprise we were able to descend into the gap
without encountering any serious difficulty, and followed the extremely
narrow, but on the whole easy, ridge to the southern summit which was
crowned by a diminutive cairn. Now followed a descent into another
gap over very rotten rocks and an imposing, but easy, _gendarme_.[2]
All the while we could not help admiring the steepness and depth of
the walls on the western side of the mountain. Soon after passing the
_gendarme_, we came to a great overhanging buttress in the ridge,
at the top of which a hanging coil of rope indicated that the last
climbers to descend here had made use of the doubled rope. The coil
was thin and bleached with exposure, so we cut it off and stowed it in
our rucksacks as a trophy, to be returned, if possible, to its late
owners. We fixed a new coil, passed our rope through it and slid down
some fifty feet on to an uncomfortably sloping ledge. Here we found
driven into a crack in the rock a large, rusty iron nail to which some
coils of strong, silken cord were attached. Threading the rope through
these, we again slid down about sixty feet to a broad snow ledge on the
east face. After hauling down the rope, we followed the continuation of
this ledge in a northerly direction and gained the floor of the immense
tunnel that pierces Cape Tafonato from east to west. A series of ledges
and chimneys brought us safely back to the gap where the climb had
begun, the whole traverse having taken nearly five hours.
[Illustration: _The southern summit of Capo Tafonato._
“... like a much magnified blunt needle point.”
_Facing page 28._
]
After a hasty but enjoyable meal of chocolate, sardines, and tea, we
set off on the return journey. The descent to the Col de Foggiale round
the foot of Paglia Orba was most enjoyable in the evening sun, whose
golden reflection shimmered in the distant gulfs of the coast. We
passed the cornice on the col without jumping and managed, in spite of
the soft snow, to glissade almost half-way down to the tent. We arrived
back in camp about half an hour after sunset. The night was fine,
though cold, but we slept well, for we had earned our sleep with a good
hard day’s work.
April 12 was spent in recuperating from the effects of the previous
day’s labours. In fact, during our whole stay in Corsica we were
generally forced to sandwich our climbs with a generous number of
off-days. Our food, consisting mainly of preserves brought out from
Switzerland, certainly disagreed with one and all of us; by which it is
not to be inferred that the quality of the food was at fault. It was
the nature of the food that was wrong. Our dietary was totally lacking
in fresh vegetables and, indeed, fresh food stuffs of any kind; an
omission which probably explains our general state of unfitness.
During the night of April 12 to 13 a west wind set in and towards
morning became so violent that the tent several times threatened to
leave its moorings. The weather, however, was otherwise fine, so we
decided to make an attempt at traversing the five peaks of the Cinque
Fratri, the highest of which is about 6,500 feet. After numerous
efforts to shake off a certain lethargy which gripped us all, we at
length stumbled off in three detachments, at intervals of ten minutes.
The aim of each detachment was to meet the other two in the gap to the
south of the fifth and lowest Frater. This we eventually succeeded in
doing, though each took a different route up. We roped in the col,
Max being given the lead, an honour which he repaid by dropping a pot
of honey and a loaf of bread on Bryn’s head and mine in the course
of the ascent. The tie-strings of his knapsack had been too weak.
From the gap we traversed round on to the east face of the peak and
climbed directly upwards through the great chimney which runs down it
from the summit. The climax of the ascent was provided by a somewhat
narrow pitch in this chimney, where you encounter a bush of prickles,
roll in them on your back, kick with one leg against each wall of the
cleft and then swing out on to the exposed and very steep ridge on
the right. This brings one to an easy slope of loose stones leading
to the summit. Bryn and I, of course, went to sleep, leaving Maxwell
to confide a slip of paper containing our names to the care of the
newly-built cairn--a reprehensible form of vice to which in those days
we were much addicted. Presently he stirred us up, driving fresh life
and energy into us with the business end of his Anthanmatten ice-axe,
and we obediently scrambled down to the gap between Fratri Nos. 5 and
4. Maxwell was again delegated to pull the two sleep-walkers up Frater
No. 4. He chose the easier, direct way and energetically pulled us up
a few steep cracks, slabs and chimneys, in the hope of rousing us. A
vain hope, for, arrived on the summit, we immediately sought out a
spot that was sheltered from the wind and were soon deep in slumber
once more. All too quickly came another rude awakening at Max’s hands,
and we again moved off. A few feet below the summit we were baulked at
the edge of an overhanging wall. With some difficulty we contrived to
fasten a coil of thin rope round a large block. Maxwell descended first
and succeeded in climbing nearly all the way, though most of his verbal
messages and directions were borne off by the wind, with the result
that the rope was always slack when he wanted it taut and nearly always
pulling him up again while he was climbing an easy bit. Then came my
turn. I found the descent distinctly easy and pleasant, for, still half
asleep, I allowed myself to hang free all the way, leaving the work of
lowering me down to Bryn who found me rather heavy. After sending down
his axe and rucksack, Bryn soon joined us, and we romped up the easy
Frater No. 3. Passing another gap, Frater No. 2 speedily succumbed to
our united attack.
The next gully, that between Fratri Nos. 2 and 1, and running down the
south wall of the mountain, is most remarkable. Very narrow and steep,
with deep, clean-cut walls, it should afford some first-rate climbing.
The descent from Frater No. 1, the highest of these peaks, to the gap
between it and Monte Albano provided another occasion for cutting off
a loop from the spare rope and roping down. The wall here is very
steep, and composed in the main of loose and treacherous rocks. I went
down first and photographed the others struggling to descend, almost
expecting to see them at any moment blown away with a piece of rock in
each hand, so buffeted about were they by the gale.
Traversing round the southern base of Monte Albano, we struck some
abominably slushy snow slopes through which we ploughed a way, finally
stumbling through _maquis_ and loose stones into the welcome haven
of our camp. After a grand five-course dinner, we settled ourselves
comfortably in the tent and talked over deeds and memories until,
wearied out, we quietly dozed off.
Wednesday, April 14, was destined to be another lazy day. It was
Maxwell’s turn to prepare breakfast, and in due course Bryn and I
kicked him out of the tent. Unfortunately we neglected to hang on to
his sleeping-bag, with the result that when we two began sleepily
foraging for something to allay the pangs of hunger, we found our cook
snugly asleep. With eating and sleeping, with roasting in the sun and
cooling in the shade of the forest and in the icy waters of the Viro,
time passed away pleasantly enough, but all too quickly. After such a
glorious rest, we were ready and anxious to grapple with the hardest
problem the mountains of Corsica could offer us. Owing to the ease
with which we had been able to scramble over Capo Tafonato and the
Cinque Fratri, we were beginning to despair of finding a really
difficult climb and had reached a stage where we were ready to tackle
any projected route, no matter how difficult it appeared from afar. In
short, we were in need of proof that one could meet with a really tough
job amongst the cliffs of Corsica’s mountains.
[Illustration:
_Camp._
_The Cinque Fratri from below the Col de Foggiale._
_The Cinque Fratri, I. to V., are the rock peaks to the right of Monte
Albano, the highest summit seen._
_Facing page 32._
]
More than a week ago, on the occasion of an ascent of Monte Albano,
Bryn and I had admired the boldly soaring outlines of Paglia Orba
(8,300 feet). In particular the clean-cut, awe-inspiring precipices
of the north-east face drew our attention. A prolonged inspection of
this huge wall revealed two apparently weak points. The one was formed
by a series of snow patches indicating ledges, probably connected by
small cracks or chimneys and ledges invisible to us from a distance.
The whole series formed a huge C in white on a background of black
rock. A snow field on the summit of Paglia Orba formed the head of the
C-ledge, while the lower end began about eight or nine hundred feet
lower down and about half-way up the upper, more or less perpendicular,
wall. Several larger snow patches indicated a possible connection
between the foot of the C and the gentler slopes below the great final
wall. The other weak point was indicated by a deep shadow, betraying
the presence of a chimney, joining the summit snows with a small snow
patch in the wall some thousand feet below the top. On the east face,
which offers no absolutely blank and perpendicular walls comparable
with those of the impressive north-east face, we could see plenty of
easy ways of gaining the summit. They threatened to be rather dull and
uninteresting; so, in the hopes of finding a day’s difficult work, we
determined to finish up our climbs in the range of the Cinto with an
attack on the north-east face of Paglia Orba.
After a sumptuous breakfast of porridge and coffee we left camp at
8.15 a.m. on April 15. We followed the stream for some ten minutes
then, crossing it near a dilapidated cow-shed, set to work to plod
up the snow slopes leading to the north-east wall. We took turns of
an hour each to break trail, for the snow was already soft. As far
as possible keeping to the rocks that here and there cropped out of
the snow, we rose fairly rapidly. By 10 a.m. we were on a level with
the lowest of the Cinque Fratri. Half an hour later we began climbing
hand and foot up broken rocks to the right of some steep snow slopes.
In order to save time, and being sure of ourselves, we did not use
the rope. To avoid an overhang just below the top of these rocks, we
were forced to cross under a small waterfall which thoroughly drenched
us. Thence mounting a very steep snow slope, we gained the narrow,
heavily corniced crest of a minor ridge which seemed to descend from
the beginning of the great C-ledge. The work ahead looked serious. We
roped, Bryn being invested with the responsibilities of leadership. The
fun began at once. Difficult chimneys, choked with masses of snow and
ice, alternated with small snow slopes lying at a dangerously steep
angle. Good belays were generally conspicuous by their absence. At 1
p.m., having risen some six hundred feet above where the rope had been
put on, we were pulled up short by a smooth wall which appeared to bar
all possible access to the foot of the C-ledge. We were on the upper
edge of a comparatively large snow slope of triangular shape which
had been clearly visible from our camp. We knew that the foot of the
C-ledge was some two hundred and fifty feet, the summit itself over a
thousand feet above us. The way up those two hundred and fifty feet
seemed all too well guarded. To right and left, the ledge supporting
our snow patch ran out into smooth, perpendicular walls. We were
standing on the upper rim of the ledge in a position which, owing to
the lack of any belay whatsoever, was by no means too secure. A chimney
led up presumably to the foot of the C-ledge. The first few feet
appeared to be extremely difficult, and the leader would undoubtedly
have needed the assistance of the other two if he were to tackle it
with any hope of success. Higher up, the chimney looked even worse and
was finally blocked by a huge, ice-covered, overhanging chock-stone.
Far above we could see the icicle-fringed summit of Paglia Orba, from
which water trickled down. Occasionally icicles broke away and fell
_past_ us, proving the wall above to be overhanging. Some two hundred
feet from our standpoint a part of the wall had broken away, leaving a
huge overhanging platform which would have made an excellent site for a
bivouac if only the mountain had been turned upside down.
Whilst munching some bread and chocolate we had ample time to review
our surroundings thoroughly. We made the best use of our opportunities,
the more so as we were beginning to think this was to be the highest
point of the day’s climb. We knew that the Austrian climber, Herr
Albert Gerngross, and his guide, Konrad Kain, had attempted the climb
during the previous year; also, Dr. von Cube, a well-known pioneer
of climbing in Corsica, had referred to the wall in terms of the
impossible. At present, after a lengthy inspection, we were scarcely
in the mood to disagree with him. Finally, admitting defeat, we turned
to descend. When almost a rope’s length down the now dangerously soft
snow slope, I remembered having omitted to photograph the ledge running
out to the right. I halted a moment and asked Bryn to use his camera
to save me the trouble of reascending. To obtain a better view, Bryn
carefully crawled out along the ledge in the opposite direction. This
chance move saved the day, for, some ten feet above his standing-point,
Bryn now caught sight of another ledge which would enable us to enter
the chimney above the most difficult pitch. On hearing this welcome
news I rejoined the others with all possible haste, and together
Maxwell and I shouldered Bryn up on to the newly-discovered ledge.
Once on this, Bryn made rapid progress. Maxwell followed, and, after
a struggle, I arrived to find that they were already attacking
the chimney immediately below the huge, ice-covered chock-stone.
The climbing had now become extremely difficult. Bryn rounded the
chock-stone by climbing out of the chimney over some precipitous slabs
to the right, finally gaining the upper level of the chock-stone. A
period of intense anxiety followed upon our rejoining Bryn. Should we
have to return or could we push through? A series of short snow-filled
chimneys and ledges led up and round several corners. Each time on
clearing one corner we could overlook only the ground as far as the
next. But whether we were getting nearer to the summit or to a forced
bivouac still remained to be seen. At last we gained the beginning of
the C-ledge. On following this, though not without difficulty because
of its incline, we saw that it was broken off at the foot of the huge
chimney previously considered as possibly affording an alternative
route to the summit. We now perceived, however, that the chimney was
formed by a clean-cut buttress jutting out at right angles from the
wall, and that it overhung considerably. Bryn crossed the chimney and,
by climbing a very difficult and exposed series of cracks in its left
wall overhanging an appallingly steep precipice, regained the C-ledge.
“How’s the view?” we called out from below in one breath. Once again
we only learn that the climb can be continued to the next corner. While
Maxwell was rejoining Bryn he had the misfortune to drop his axe. It
fell, providentially without once striking rock, into a tiny patch of
snow some eighty feet lower down the big chimney. Maxwell and Bryn
lowered me down until I could reach it, and then unmercifully hauled me
up to their perch without giving me the least opportunity of climbing.
Exercising the utmost care, we proceeded along a series of highly
sensational ledges leading in an almost unbroken line from corner to
corner. All the time belays were few and small. On rounding what proved
to be the last corner, we saw before us a broad chimney which was
choked by what resembled a frozen waterfall crowned by a huge cornice.
The sun shining on the cornice told us we were at last approaching the
north-east ridge where we could expect easier climbing. What appeared
to be an excellent belay enabled us to pay out Bryn’s rope with some
measure of security as, crouching, he followed the ledge to its extreme
end. The sloping floor of the ice-choked chimney was about two yards
from the end of the ledge on which we stood. Far below could be seen
our tracks in the snowfields, but of the wall beneath we were only able
to imagine the appearance. Altogether, even a climber could hardly
conceive of a more exposed spot.
[Illustration: _Paglia Orba from the Cinque Fratri._
_The C-ledge is visible on the dark rock precipice immediately below
the summit._
_Facing page 36_
]
Bryn took the fateful step from the ledge to the chimney and was soon
mixed up in the intricacies of the frozen waterfall, whose icicles were
clustered together like the pipes of an organ. Skilfully cutting his
way diagonally from left to right across them, he succeeded in finding
a comparatively firm position whence he was able to take in Maxwell’s
rope with his teeth and left hand, as the latter made the wide and
difficult step from the end of the ledge to the foot of the waterfall.
To add to the insecurity of the situation, the belay on the ledge
proved worthless; it broke off as I was testing it, and nothing would
have saved us in the event of a slip. The following fifteen minutes
were indeed anxious ones. I contrived to make myself fairly comfortable
on the ledge, but poor Maxwell, standing in a very shaky step and
hanging on to an icicle, had patiently to submit to freezing while
fragments of ice and snow were showered on him by Bryn’s hard-working
axe. At last Bryn had come to the end of his rope, but there were
still six feet separating him from the nearest belay at the top of the
waterfall and almost directly under the cornice. During a moment of
suspense both he and Maxwell had to climb together. Then, just as the
latter began to tackle the worst bit of all, Bryn reached the belay
and firm footing. We soon joined him, though not without thoroughly
appreciating the great difficulties of the pitch. We avoided cutting
through the cornice by climbing two short but stiff chimneys to the
right of and above the frozen waterfall, and at 5.15 p.m. were beyond
the bend of the great C-ledge, with only easy, though steep, rocks
between us and the summit. Feeling that we were now safe from a forced
bivouac, that constant nightmare of the last five hours, we indulged in
a brief rest. While swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and dry bread we
reviewed the many little episodes, exciting moments, disappointments
and hopes of the last two hours. But so far the sun had eluded us. When
we first viewed the frozen waterfall the sun was shining on the cornice
above; now it had disappeared to the other side of the mountain in its
haste to sink into the Mediterranean, for we had taken over two hours
to master the last hundred feet. Anxious to get warmed in its last
rays, we began work once more. The climb up the final rocks was pure
joy; the plentiful handholds were still quite warm, and their touch
was as welcome to our frozen fingers as the iced handholds had before
been painful. We rose very rapidly and at 6 p.m. stepped out on to the
top of Paglia Orba. A strong westerly wind somewhat counterbalanced the
warming effect of the setting sun, but no discomfort could detract from
the pleasure we all felt at the success of the day’s venture.
The summit of Paglia Orba is covered by a large snow field (at least,
as long as the snow lasts) sloping down from the north to south and
east. As near to the highest point as possible we built a little cairn,
within which we hid a piece of paper giving our names and a description
of the route and times of the ascent. To indicate the spot to future
climbers we wound a piece of spare rope round the rock. Pausing once
more to look down the wonderful precipice of the north-east face, we
re-arranged the rope and set off towards the Col de Foggiale. We soon
came upon a steep gully filled with firm, frozen snow and descended
the first few feet cutting steps. Then, glissading down to the col, we
dropped over the cornice and slid or ran down to the river and, wading
through, regained our camp at 7.30 p.m., just one hour and a quarter
after leaving the summit.
Our success was suitably celebrated by a _grand bal masqué_, followed
up with the most glorious dinner of our lives. Two days later we struck
camp and, casting many a look back towards the noble form of Paglia
Orba, that Matterhorn of Corsica, slowly filed out of the Viro Valley
towards Calaccucia, Corte, Ajaccio, and home, bidding Corsica _au
revoir_ but not adieu!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Col is a French term denoting a depression on a ridge connecting
two summits.
[2] A rock pinnacle on a ridge.