THE WETTERHORN
Grindelwald, the most popular of the climbing centres of the Bernese
Oberland, is dominated by the Eiger and the Wetterhorn. The former is
so close to the village that, owing to foreshortening, much of the
majesty of its huge precipices is lost to the casual observer below.
But the Wetterhorn, standing well back at the head of the valley, its
great limestone cliffs surmounted by terraced glaciers upon which the
snow-capped summit cone is so gracefully poised, has long appealed to
the artist--so much so, indeed, that the view of the Wetterhorn from
Grindelwald vies for pride of place with those of the Jungfrau from the
Wengernalp and of the Matterhorn from the Riffel Alp.
My first climbing acquaintance with the Wetterhorn was destined to be a
rude one. My brother Max and I had, for five seasons, served a faithful
apprenticeship to mountaineering in the lesser Alps of Northern
Switzerland and, long before the arrival of the summer vacation of
1908, had drawn up the plan of an ambitious climbing campaign which,
beginning with the Wetterhorn, should lead us over the principal peaks
of the Bernese Oberland into the Zermatt district, that Mecca of the
mountaineering world. Starting from Meiringen, we had, by a circuitous
route over the Gauli Glacier and the Wetterlimmi, gained the Dossen
club-hut, north-east of the Wetterhorn, whence the easiest way to
the summit starts. A party of five Germans, likewise bound for the
Wetterhorn, shared the hut with us.
We left the hut at 2 a.m. on July 24, closely followed by the Germans
who were roped in two parties. Walking up the snow slopes at a furious
rate, they soon left us behind, for, knowing that our strength would
be needed later on, we preferred to take things leisurely. Max and
I arrived at the depression south of the summit and known as the
Wettersattel, to find the Germans already breakfasting and bringing
by no means small appetites to bear upon the generous contents of
their knapsacks. A chilly north wind was blowing, and the sun had not
yet reached us, so we cut short our rest and were soon forging up the
final snow slope to the summit. The new snow which had fallen two days
before, though it had obliterated the steps and tracks of previous
climbers, was now good and firmly frozen; the slopes were nowhere
very steep, and with the help of our climbing irons we made rapid
progress. Save for the last few feet there was no need to cut steps.
The ascent had been easy--far easier than most of the climbs of our
apprenticeship; indeed, it seemed little more than a short mountain
walk, for in less than five hours after leaving the Dossen hut we stood
on the summit. The facility with which we had conquered this, our first
really great peak, however, did nothing to mar our feelings of happy
pride in the achievement. The wind had dropped and the sun was warm.
With our axes we scraped out comfortable seats for ourselves in the
snow and sat down to rest. Westwards from our feet the summit snow
slope curved gently outwards to fall away in ever-increasing steepness
till it was lost to sight, and the eye rested on the green meadows
above Grindelwald. To the south we saw the Schreckhorn, Eiger, Mönch,
Jungfrau and hosts of other giants of the Oberland, and in them beheld
with happy vision a new world awaiting conquest.
Twenty minutes of supreme happiness stole away ere our solitude was
interrupted by the arrival of two of the Germans. The other three had
given up the ascent. The spell thus broken, we prepared to return and a
few minutes later were making our way back to the Wettersattel, closely
followed by the two Germans who there rejoined their friends.
It was our intention to descend on the Grindelwald side of the
mountain. Part of the route leads down an immense gully to the Krinne
Glacier. Arrived at the top of the gully, Max and I made our inspection
and were satisfied. It seemed perfectly safe; it was broad and not
very steep, and the new snow that had fallen had already consolidated
and was reliable and so firm that it might even be necessary to use
the axe to cut occasional steps. There were traces of a previous party
who had attempted the descent but had given it up. By the time we had
completed investigations, the two Germans had already set off down the
tracks. They had decided to be the leading party on the descent, an
arrangement which we disliked exceedingly, but there was nothing for it
but to follow meekly. In the light of future developments, it was lucky
that their three companions, more modest regarding their capabilities,
elected to come behind us.
Now, unless it is extraordinarily steep, there is only one correct way
of descending a snow slope; you go down with your back to the slope,
facing outwards. Standing boldly erect with shoulders well back like a
guardsman on parade, you walk unconcernedly downwards with toes well
up, letting the impetus of your body drive the heel into the snow to
make a good, reliable step. Do not take little mincing steps, one
barely below the other, but plunge bravely. You will then be sure
of your foothold and make good headway. The Germans were evidently
not accustomed to snow. They advanced with hesitation. Indeed, one of
those behind us nervously faced into the slope and descended on all
fours. About four hundred feet below the saddle, the tracks ceased.
For some few feet farther, the leader of the party preceding us made
sufficiently firm steps by kicking with his heels, but soon we found
ourselves on much steeper and harder snow where step-cutting was
imperative. The Germans betrayed an inclination to take to the snow
and ice-plastered rocks to the left, but we warned them that safety
lay only in laboriously cutting a way down in the hard snow bed of
the gully. The leading German, however, soon abandoned step-cutting
and moved out on to the rocks where he and his companion sat down,
one close behind the other. Throughout the climb they had appeared
to find difficulty in managing the sixty feet of rope to which they
were attached; seldom had it been taut from man to man, and now, as
they rested, it lay in loose coils between them. Max and I carried on,
cutting steps down the gully, and had passed below the level of the
two Germans when I saw one of them stand up. He slipped. His legs shot
out beneath him and he began to slide down over the slabs on to the
hard snow slope below. He dropped his axe. I shouted out a warning to
his companion who was, however, too startled to take up the slack of
the rope which was fast running out as the man at the other end slid
on with increasing impetus. He had by now turned over on to his face,
and was scraping frantically into the hard snow with his fingers in a
desperate endeavour to save himself. At length the sixty feet of rope
had run out; with a terrific jerk the second man was dragged from the
rock and hurled through the air. Striking against a projecting crag,
his left arm was wrenched from the shoulder and his chest crushed in.
The body went on until the rope’s length was spent. Again a jerk, and
the first man, whose pace had slackened as his comrade was dragged
from his seat, was in his turn hurled through the air--to smash his
head in on the rocks below. It was a sickening spectacle. The bodies
bounded over and over each other in wide curves until the edge of the
first great precipice leading down to the Krinne Glacier hid them from
our sight. Their three companions, who had looked on aghast, were
naturally in a terrible state of nerves. There was nothing to do but
to go steadily on, and, not yet realising the condition of the party
behind, Max and I turned our attention once more to step-cutting. We
had not proceeded far before they implored us to lead them back into
the Wettersattel. Cutting steps up past them, therefore, we joined
their rope to ours, charging them to keep it always taut from man to
man, and so made our way back to the saddle. Thence we descended with
all possible speed past the Dossen hut to Rosenlaui, from where we
telephoned news of the accident to Grindelwald.
Rude as this our first experience had been, it was not to be the end of
our acquaintance with the Wetterhorn. The Wetterhorn has three summits,
all just over 12,100 feet. The Hasle Jungfrau, probably because of its
more imposing appearance when seen from Grindelwald, is usually called
the Wetterhorn, although the Mittelhorn is higher by a few feet; the
Rosenhorn is by only a few feet the lowest of the three peaks. They are
connected by a lofty ridge running roughly from east to west. Having
been informed that a traverse of all three summits in one day was
regarded as something of a _tour de force_, this was the climb which
headed our programme for the summer of 1909.
[Illustration: _Morning mists._
_Facing page 44._
]
On July 24, Max and I once again made ourselves at home in the
Dossen hut. A school friend of Max, Will Sturgess, aged seventeen,
accompanied us, keen as mustard and looking forward to his first
mountain climb. That evening the weather broke and remained bad until
the following afternoon, when a fierce westerly wind set in which swept
away the clouds and lashed up from the ridges the newly-fallen snow.
Towards sunset the gale dropped, and numerous parties arrived from
Rosenlaui and Meiringen. We prepared our simple evening meal--pea soup,
tea and plenty of bread and jam--and before nightfall were already
seeking sleep on the straw of the bunks. But the ceaseless chatter,
the noise of other people’s cooking operations, and last but not least
the insistence of the preponderating Teuton element on closed windows,
despite the fact that the little hut harboured some thirty individuals,
made rest impossible. Soon after midnight, no longer able to bear the
stifling atmosphere, we jumped down from our beds and gathered round in
front of the door to drink in the sweet, cool night air. A full moon
shone from a cloudless sky, streaking the quiet snows with bands of
silver.
We began to prepare breakfast, an example which was too soon followed
by the other inmates, and so once more the little hut was filled with
noise and bustle. Shortly after half-past one on the morning of July
26, we escaped into the peace of the night. In our rucksacks we carried
only the essential needs for the day, it being our intention to return
to the hut. Over the splendid, hard-frozen snow we mounted up to the
Dossensattel--the little snow depression on the rock ridge at the
lower end of which stands the hut--and within an hour had crossed it
and were making our way horizontally over a fairly steep snow slope
towards the Wetterkessel. Sturgess, who was in the middle of the rope,
slipped twice, but as we always kept the rope taut from man to man he
was easily held, while on both occasions he retained his grip upon
his ice-axe--a promising sign on the part of a beginner. We walked
quickly across the Wetterkessel, for the wind was bitingly cold, and
about an hour below the Wettersattel halted for a second breakfast,
finding shelter in a shallow crevasse. The first red flush of dawn was
creeping down the Hasle Jungfrau as we set off once more. In the snow
at the foot of a great rock pinnacle in the Wettersattel we deposited
our knapsacks. Sturgess, wishing to reserve his strength for later in
the day, elected to remain here and await our return from the Hasle
Jungfrau. In a wind-sheltered hollow he got the little aluminium
cooking apparatus into action, and promised that we should have hot
drinks when we came back.
We found the remains of good steps leading up the final snow slope
and, at 6 a.m., within twenty minutes after leaving the Wettersattel,
stepped out on to the summit. Not a single step had we had to cut. The
wind had died down, and the sky was cloudless. Again we gazed into the
snow and ice-clad recesses of the Oberland, no longer land of mystery,
for in the summer of 1908 we had successfully invaded its fastnesses.
Far below in the Wettersattel, numerous climbers were coming up from
the Grindelwald side--little black spots upon the white purity of
the snows. Sturgess was evidently feeling the cold, for we could see
him occasionally forsake the cooking-pot and indulge in short runs;
altogether he seemed to be exerting himself much more than we two.
After spending half an hour on the summit, we cut steps along the snow
ridge in the direction of the Great Scheidegg, until we could look down
on to the little Hühnergutz Glacier on the cliffs of the Wetterhorn
overlooking the Scheidegg. On our return we found several parties in
possession of the summit, so, carrying straight on and plunging down
the good snow, we soon rejoined our companion who was waiting to
welcome us with a cup of hot tea--veritable nectar to the climber on
the heights. Max and his friend being inclined to dally over this,
their third breakfast, I unroped and, leaving them to follow at their
leisure, proceeded alone up the snow slopes leading to the Mittelhorn.
There were no difficulties to be overcome, and presently I had gained
the summit where I stretched myself out in the warm sun on some near by
rocks and went to sleep.
At 9 a.m. Max, with Sturgess in tow, rudely awakened me, and we made
ready for the serious part of the day’s work. Hitherto, though we had
omitted none of the precautions so necessary for the safe carrying out
of even the simplest of mountaineering excursions, the climb had seemed
little more than a pleasant morning’s walk. Now, however, we were
confronted by the long, be-pinnacled ridge connecting the Mittelhorn
and the Rosenhorn, and unless appearance and rumour belied it, we
were not likely to have too little to do. We roped together. For the
first half-hour along the snow-crest everything was straightforward,
until we arrived on a rocky platform from which the ridge suddenly
fell away in an almost vertical cliff. About thirty feet lower down
was a ledge, narrow and sloping, but roomy enough to provide standing
ground for all three. Max lowered himself over, while I, well-braced,
held his rope and paid him out foot by foot until he reached the
ledge. Then came Sturgess’ turn. He advanced boldly, but lacking my
brother’s rock-climbing prowess, he completed the descent by a free
use of the rope. Now it was my turn. Max warned me that the pitch was
too difficult to descend without help from above; so I cut a short
length off the end of our rope, tied the ends securely together to form
a loop and hung it over a jutting out spike of firm rock. Meanwhile
the others had untied themselves, thus giving me sufficient rope for
subsequent manœuvres. Drawing up Max’s end of the rope, I passed it
through the loop and back to him, so that as I descended he could hold
me from below like a weight on a rope passing through a pulley--the
loop in this case performing the functions of the pulley--and check any
disposition on my part to fall. Safe on the ledge, I recovered the rope
by simply pulling on my end until the other passed through the noose.
This and similar methods of descending difficult pitches of rock or ice
are known to the mountaineer as “roping down.”
A brief scramble over easy rocks led to the upper edge of another
vertical step in the ridge, where we again roped down. This pitch,
however, was much longer than the last and, in addition, it partially
overhung. Here and there, also, it was plastered up with ice that was
softening in the warm rays of the sun. It was practically impossible to
climb, and for most of the way down I hung with my full weight on the
rope while Max paid it out. The ledge on which we now stood was on the
south side of the ridge, the backbone of which we soon regained by an
easy traverse over good broken up rock to the left. Here we made the
aggravating discovery that, by previously adhering to the crest, we had
missed a perfectly simple line of descent on the other side.
The way to the Mitteljoch, the depression on the ridge between the
Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn, was now clear. A few easy rocks followed
by soft snow slopes brought us to the foot of a great rock pinnacle
or _gendarme_. This was easily avoided by skirting round its base on
the north side, keeping as high as possible in the steep snow slopes
below its rocky flank. Before midday, we arrived at the foot of the
north-west ridge of the Rosenhorn and began climbing over the array
of bold, red-brown rock teeth that form its crown. For nearly two
hours, keeping well to the crest of the ridge, we scrambled merrily
over _gendarme_ after _gendarme_, finding the rock good and reliable
on the whole, with little danger of foot- or handholds breaking away.
Sturgess was feeling rather tired and occasionally required help. One
extra long and steep crack taxed his powers to the utmost. A pull on
the rope from above, however, and a push from below enabled him to drag
himself on to the almost level platform at the top of the pinnacle,
where for several minutes he lay and gasped like a fish out of water.
Shortly after one o’clock the difficulties were over, and, seeing
in front of us nothing more than an easy scramble to the summit, we
settled down to a rest and a meal.
[Illustration: _Climbing down a steep ridge._]
[Illustration: _The short cut--roping down._
_Facing page 48._
]
The cold wind to which we had hitherto been exposed had dropped,
and the sun beat warmly down upon us from an almost cloudless sky.
Presently I became assailed with doubts as to whether the highest point
visible were really the summit or merely masking a loftier eminence
farther along the ridge. To settle the question, I unroped and set off
alone. An hour’s easy clamber brought me to the point in question, to
discover to my intense satisfaction that it actually was the summit
of the Rosenhorn. I shouted the good news down to the others who were
already making their way up towards me. At the same moment I found
that my knapsack had been left behind at our resting-place. As Max and
Sturgess had both overlooked it, I hurried down past them, retrieved my
property and, climbing back in all haste, overtook them just below the
top. At 3 p.m. all three stood on the summit. Sturgess immediately set
about finding a comfortable couch for himself on a smooth, horizontal
slab where he dozed while Max and I got busy with the cooker. An hour
sped by quickly enough to the pleasant accompaniment of the munching
of stout sandwiches washed down by copious draughts of hot tea.
Meanwhile the weather was changing for the worse. A south wind had
sprung up; great, woolly cumulus clouds had gathered on the horizon
and were rolling over towards us. It was evident that a thunderstorm
was imminent. So at four o’clock we packed up, re-roped and moved off
along the south-west ridge over which the mountain is usually climbed.
Relieving Sturgess of his knapsack, we climbed over a rocky point
which is almost as high as the summit itself, and were soon making
our way down over the easy rocks to the snow slopes leading to the
Rosenegg. Curving round to the left, we then ploughed our way across
the Wetterkessel in the direction of the Dossenhorn. The noonday sun
had softened the snow, and at every step one sank almost to the knees
in slush. Coming as it did at the end of a long day, the making of
the track was toilsome in the extreme, and Max and I took the lead in
turns. Sturgess, however, showed such hopeful signs of recovering his
energies that we finally decided to regain the hut by climbing over
the Dossenhorn instead of only crossing the Sattel. By so doing, one
more summit would be added to the three already bagged--an important
consideration in our early mountaineering days. The decision involved
a slight change in route. Making for the Renfenjoch, the depression
at the foot of the Dossenhorn, we struggled up through the soft, wet
snow and at last gained the rocks of the south ridge of the mountain.
Thence to the summit was an uneventful climb over good firm rock. We
lost no time on the top. There was no view to be seen, for thick mists
swirled round us and it began to sleet. Soon Max was swallowed up in
fog as I paid out his rope while he descended the steep rocks in the
direction of the hut. When he had called out that he had found good,
firm standing ground, Sturgess followed, while by a steady hold on his
rope I checked any tendency on his part to gain too much momentum.
Soon after leaving the summit the electricity of the highly-charged
atmosphere surrounding us began to discharge itself slowly through our
axes and the sodden rope, making a noise like the tearing of linen.
Fearing the possibility of a more violent lightning-like discharge,
we moved out on to the western flank of the ridge and hurried along
with the greatest speed compatible with safety. We encountered no
further difficulties and at length, at 7 p.m., after an absence of
over seventeen hours, regained the Dossen hut, but not before we had
been drenched to the skin by a torrential downpour of rain that had
superseded the sleet.
Our gallant beginner showed naturally great fatigue, but we rubbed
him until he was warm again and rolled him up in blankets. Max and I
then prepared a hot meal and changed our sodden clothing as far as
the presence of a party of ladies, who with their guides were bent on
climbing the Dossenhorn on the morrow, would permit. Good food followed
by a night’s rest worked wonders for Sturgess who soon recovered
from the effects of his hardships. He was a stout fellow, keen,
uncomplaining and always ready to do his best, and had indeed acquitted
himself splendidly on this, his first great mountain climb.