THE JUNGFRAU
A glance at the map of the Bernese Oberland will show that a straight
line drawn in a north-easterly direction from the Breithorn to the
Eiger will pass through, or close to, the Grosshorn, Mittaghorn,
Ebnefluh, Jungfrau and Mönch. The ridge connecting these great peaks
forms a lofty watershed flanked on the south by gently-rising glacier
slopes and on the north by precipitous ice-clad cliffs and icefalls.
Almost every route, therefore, leading from the north across this
great connecting ridge constitutes an arduous ice-climb followed by
a comparatively easy descent on the south side. Small wonder, then,
that the guides of the Oberland, who live in close proximity to such a
wonderful training ground, excel all others in the art of snow and ice
mountaineering.
The ascent of the north face of the Jungfrau is reputed to be one of
the finest ice expeditions in the Alps and, as such, attracted the
boyish attention of my brother and me, incited as we were even in
the earliest days of our climbing career by the picture of Himalayan
adventure that hovered in the background of our minds. In the event
of the picture coming to life, ice work, we felt sure, would stand
us in better stead than mere agility on rock, and it was, therefore,
our endeavour to perfect ourselves as far as possible in the more
serious side of mountaineering, that is, in the intricacies of snow and
ice-craft. The north face of the Jungfrau presents itself to the eye
as an imposing edifice built up of glistening, greenish-white terraces
of ice and snow of such purity that it were almost desecration to set
human foot upon them. To the mountaineer, who is perhaps actuated
less by poetic imagination than by the virile desire to pit his puny
strength against a much stronger force, these great terraces become
but the stepping-stones on the road to the summit. In number they are
five--the upper reaches of the Guggi Glacier, the Kühlauenen Glacier,
the Giessenmulde, the Silbermulde and the Hochfirn--forming a wonderful
spiral staircase, as it were, betwixt earth and heaven. No better field
could be found in which to test our skill and improve our knowledge;
and it was this ambitious climb that figured next to the Wetterhorn in
our programme for the summer of 1909.
[Illustration: _The north face of the Jungfrau._
“... an imposing edifice of glistening terraces of ice and snow....”
_Facing page 52._
]
Max, Sturgess and I, after traversing the three summits of the
Wetterhorn, left the Dossen hut on July 27 for Rosenlaui, and thence
walked over the Great Scheidegg to Grindelwald where we arrived with
barely an hour to spare before the last train of the day was due to
leave for the Little Scheidegg. That hour was a crowded one. Boots
required re-nailing and patching up, a stock of provisions sufficient
for eight days had to be laid in, and all superfluous baggage bundled
up and posted off to Zermatt, our next port of call in the valleys.
We spread out into the village bazaar where, thanks to a good
distribution of labour and unstinting use of what we were pleased
to imagine was Swiss-German, we stirred up the kindly but stolid
Grindelwald shopkeepers to unwonted activity and succeeded in arriving
at the station just on time. The spectacle we presented--dissolving
in perspiration, weighed down by bulging knapsacks, with climbing
irons, cooking apparatus and ropes slung on anyhow, loaves of bread
tucked under our arms--caused some merriment amongst the trippers
who thronged the waiting train. However, we succeeded in finding room
for ourselves and belongings and utilised the leisure afforded by
the journey up to the Little Scheidegg in repacking stores in more
convenient and comfortable fashion. We also made the acquaintance of
the famous Swiss climber, the late Dr. Andreas Fischer who, with the
two guides Hans Almer (son of Christian Almer, in his time the greatest
of Swiss guides) and Ulrich Almer (son of Ulrich, Christian’s almost
equally renowned brother), was, like us, bound for the Guggi hut. All
three were extremely kind to us. We told Dr. Fischer that Max and I
intended to climb the Jungfrau from the Guggi hut. Somewhat amazed
and not a little concerned at this bold project on the part of two
mere boys, he urged us to be careful. When we assured him, however,
that we were fully aware of the toughness of the impending task and
intended to spend at least one whole day in reconnoitring the way and
cutting the necessary steps up as far as the Schneehorn, he saw that
we meant business and returned our confidences by telling us of his
own ambitious plans, from which it appeared that our roads would lie
together as far as the Schneehorn. There, however, our ways would
part, for it was his intention to cut up long and tremendously steep
ice slopes to the then unascended north-east ridge of the Jungfrau and
climb over that ridge to the summit.
In spite of the novelty of our surroundings and the wonderful aspect of
the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau as seen from this side, the walk from the
Scheidegg over the Eiger Glacier to the hut was, for us with our heavy
loads, far from being a pleasure. More lightly laden, Fischer and his
guides soon outstripped us, and it was with a sigh of relief that, just
before nightfall, we arrived at our destination.
The old Guggi hut, now almost disused, is one of the smallest in the
Alps, measuring as it does in floor space only ten feet by twelve.
In 1909 more than half that space was taken up by two tiers of
straw-filled sleeping bunks, and what remained was largely exhausted
by a tiny stove and rickety table. Within comfortable walking distance
of the Eiger Glacier station of the Jungfrau railway, the hut is
frequently visited by trippers, a section of the community noted in the
Alps for the trail of disorder they leave behind them; and we arrived
to find the Almers endeavouring to clear up the pigsty condition in
which they had found our resting-place for the night. We lent a hand
and, a semblance of tidiness once more restored, prepared a simple
dinner and turned in to sleep. There was a rug for each man and one
huge horse blanket which sufficed to cover us all, so we slept warmly.
Shortly after midnight the disturbing ring of my alarum watch drove
us forth to inspect the weather. The night air was warm, and long
streaks of fish-shaped clouds in the west threatened trouble. Fischer’s
party required settled weather for their expedition, and as on the
first day we only intended prospecting as far as the Schneehorn and
could, therefore, afford to wait for an hour or two, all turned in
again to sleep while waiting for the weather to show its hand. At 1
a.m. Max and I became impatient. Prospects were still doubtful, though
for our purposes fair enough. The Almers could not make up their
minds to start; but we, not so dependent upon the weather, decided
to clear for action. Dr. Fischer now came forward with a plan which,
even then, I realised was prompted by his anxiety for our safety and
the liking which he had already formed for us. He suggested that
we should join forces and go together as far as the rocks of the
Schneehorn and bivouac there for the night. Next morning, weather
permitting, we could then complete our climb, and he and his guides
would carry on with their great task. We at once fell in with this
generous proposal. Hans and Ulrich, hitherto obviously downhearted at
the idea of a day’s idleness, now brightened up. One by one we crawled
out of our bunks--the cramped space would not allow all to get up
together--and while the cooks monopolised the interior, the rest of us
busied ourselves outside the hut, groping for clothes in the darkness,
seeking the more elusive garments with matches and generally completing
our toilet under difficulties. Breakfast, coming so soon after a
late supper, was but a shadow of a meal; and it was barely half-past
one when, shod with climbing irons, we put on the rope and, bidding
good-bye to Sturgess who intended returning to Grindelwald in the
course of the day, stepped forth with lighted lanterns into the night.
With a few steps we had left the ridge upon which the hut stands and
were proceeding through the icefall of the Guggi Glacier. Max and I
had an easy time of it here. We could not risk wounding the feelings
of such splendid guides as the Almers by offering to take our share in
finding the way, and therefore had to content ourselves by following in
our best style, always paying attention to the correct handling of the
rope. Once, while making our way round the corner of an ice pinnacle
below which yawned the black depths of an appalling crevasse, Dr.
Fischer expressed anxiety for our safety. But Hans, watching us coming
along, reassured him: “They are sure-footed like cats; they know how to
use the rope; they are quite safe”: ample reward for the self-restraint
we had imposed upon ourselves in not attempting to take the lead. Young
Ulrich, who went ahead, had plenty to do. The icefall is very broken
up. Clambering over or round, or even under enormous séracs, towering
all about us like the suddenly frozen waves of a storm-tossed sea,
we gradually made our way upwards, amidst a brooding, gloomy silence
that was rendered more vast and impressive by the occasional chipping
of Ulrich’s axe, the tinkling of fragments of falling ice and the
crunching sound of the climbing irons as their sharp points bit at each
step into the ice.
[Illustration: _The icefall of the Guggi Glacier._
_Facing page 56._
]
Almost at the head of this first icefall we encountered the most
serious of its defensive barriers. A huge crevasse, a great open gash,
stretched across our path and was lost in the darkness, its bottom far
beyond the reach of the dim light of the lanterns. Hans having paid us
the compliment of asking us to explore out to the left while his party
reconnoitred to the right, we were fortunate in soon discovering a
solution to the problem in the shape of a slender flake of ice forming
a fragile bridge. After some judicious step-cutting, the flake being
too frail to endure much belabouring, we were across and shouting the
news of our success to the others, already returning from a fruitless
search.
All now lay clear before us up to the foot of the second icefall,
where the Kühlauenen Glacier tumbles down on to the Guggi in a mighty
mass of séracs. Uncrevassed slopes, gentle at first but rising up more
steeply as we mounted higher, brought us rapidly to the foot of the
icefall where we foregathered and studied the outlook while waiting for
the pale light of dawn to enable us to stow away the lanterns. Beyond
the frozen torrent of séracs merging into the Guggi Glacier stretched
a great vertical wall of ice, a gaunt, lofty rampart forty to sixty
feet high, which gleamed clear and unbroken in the cold, grey light
from under the cliffs of the Mönch right round to the rocks of the
Schneehorn. It was plain that the obstacle could not be turned; the
flanks were too well guarded by steep ice-glazed and avalanche-swept
rocks. Yet nowhere was there apparent a flaw which would aid the
besieger. In Hans Almer, however, there was no lack of decision.
He seemed to act on the principle of poking his nose right into a
difficulty in searching for its key. Presently, with a cheery “Come
along!” he cut ahead and, with amazing speed, worked his way through
a steep tangle of crevasses and séracs, never at fault for a means
of negotiating the many obstructions met with, until we arrived on a
débris-strewn ledge at the base of the great ice cliff. Haste had been
imperative, for almost throughout this passage we had been endangered
by lurching monsters of séracs. It is true we were still in the shade,
and according to the best authorities séracs do not fall until the
warmth of the sun’s rays or the hot breath of the föhn wind strikes
upon them. Later in the day Hans emphatically characterised such
beliefs as “Unsinn,” and told me that, in his experience, séracs fell
just when they thought fit and often displayed the greatest activity
on cold and frosty nights when it behoved them to be asleep. My later
observations tend to show that the falling of séracs is most likely to
occur just before sunrise, during the coldest hours of the night. On
the east face of Monte Rosa I once counted sixteen falls of ice and
séracs between 3 and 4.30 a.m., eleven between 6 and 8 a.m. and two
between 3 and 4 p.m.
The swift scramble up the séracs had somewhat robbed us of our breath,
and we welcomed the brief halt which a search for a possible breach
in the great ice wall before us demanded. Immediately above, the wall
showed sure signs of disintegration; several great sheets of ice were
in process of detaching themselves. One monster, fully fifty feet in
height, leaned forward in an ominous manner. As its fall would have
strewn with blocks the ledge where we stood, Hans moved over to the
right where a great square-cut bastion of undoubted firmness afforded
security from the perils of falling ice. From here we sighted the one
and only weak spot we were ever able to detect in the great barrier. A
huge crevasse in the glacier above cleft the wall in twain, and were
it but possible to gain the floor of this crevasse, the problem of
surmounting the wall itself would no more exist. But the approach to
the chasm was defended by an immense archway of rickety séracs which
looked ready to collapse at any moment. The presence of masses of very
broken ice under the archway promised slow and, therefore, unsafe
progress, and Hans decided that we must look round for another way out
of our trouble. Max and I were told to climb to the top of the bastion
now shielding us and to report on the prospects as seen from up there.
The others, bent on a similar mission, moved along the ledge towards
the Schneehorn rocks. But neither party had any luck; there remained
nothing but to risk the archway passage or retire, beaten. We were
on the point of leaving the issue to chance by tossing a coin, when
nature stepped in and providentially staged a thrill. Suddenly a loud
crashing as of thunder was heard, and the ground upon which we stood
trembled and shook under the impact of tons of ice blocks; dense clouds
of ice dust filled the air and, enveloping us, hid everything from
view. As the mists slowly thinned we saw that the giant archway had
fallen in. The ruins, choking up the floor of the crevasse, furnished
us with a causeway giving egress to the glacier above. The god had
indeed descended from his chariot. Without the necessity of cutting a
single step, we arrived a few minutes later on the almost level plateau
of the Kühlauenen Glacier, the second of the five glacier plateaux
characteristic of the north face of the Jungfrau.
Meanwhile, the weather had not improved. By now we ought to have
been able to bask in the warm rays of the rising sun, but fish-shaped
clouds filled the morning sky, and great masses of clammy mist floated
up the Guggi Glacier and rolled down upon us from the Jungfraujoch.
A snowstorm was brewing. We sat down in the snow for a rest and,
while eating a few biscuits, noted the best point for crossing the
bergschrund which defends the approach to the rocks of the Schneehorn.
The mists had closed in ere we began the final stage of the day’s work.
Largely filled up with masses of snow and fallen stones, the schrund
was easily crossed, and, walking up a short slope of good snow, we
soon gained the rocks which were dry and firm and nowhere actually
difficult. Knowing our dislike for merely following in the footsteps of
others, Dr. Fischer tactfully encouraged us to choose our own line of
ascent. So henceforward we climbed on a level with, and some distance
out to the left of, his party.
At 9 a.m. we arrived at a point about half-way between the bergschrund
and the summit of the Schneehorn and, observing that the rocks higher
up were sprinkled with new snow, decided to look round for a suitable
site to bivouac. Failing to find a platform large enough to seat all
five together, we rummaged about in detachments for convenient ledges
and eventually settled down within speaking distance of each other.
The ledge chosen by Max and myself was small and narrow. With our backs
to the wall above and feet dangling over the cliff falling away to the
glacier below, we planted the cooking apparatus between us. The next
two hours were spent partly in attending to cooking operations and
partly in chipping Hans Almer who, every few minutes thinking he espied
a more suitable abode than the one he was occupying at the time, was
continually on the move changing house. At 11 a.m. it began to snow in
a desultory, intermittent manner. Then came a sleet and hail storm with
chilly gusts of wind from which there was no sheltering. Before midday
it snowed in real earnest, and it was obvious that, unless an immediate
change set in, there could be no hope of our continuing the climb next
day. New snow lay two inches deep over the rocks when, at one o’clock,
Dr. Fischer gave the word for retreat.
The descent over the now snow-covered rocks demanded great care; but,
once down on the glacier, we plunged in long strides over to the
crevasse in the great ice wall. The steps of the morning were all
obliterated, but, unhesitatingly and in spite of the mist and snow,
Hans unravelled his way through the séracs and presently brought us
out on to the Guggi Glacier. Dr. Fischer elected to rest here; but
Hans told us to go straight on, advising us not to retrace the line
of previous ascent, but to try and get through over on the right bank
close under the rocks of the Mönch. Acting on his advice we found there
a good way and at 3 p.m. were safely back in the hut.
Presently Dr. Fischer’s party arrived and, after a brief halt, returned
to Grindelwald to await more auspicious weather. Max and I, having a
stock of provisions sufficient for more than a week, could afford to
wait on the spot, ready to drive home a renewed attack as soon as the
weather cleared. In the early hours of the morning of July 29, the sky
was still overcast; so we slept on well into the day, awaking, too
late for breakfast yet too early for lunch, to find the sun blazing
down from a cloudless sky and dissolving the rolling billows of
cloud in the valleys below. After an orgy of a meal that we elected
to call “brunch,” we basked on the roof of the hut until, early in
the afternoon, the sun sank behind the Jungfrau. Towards evening
we carried our surplus provisions over to the Eiger Glacier to be
forwarded by rail to the Eismeer station. On returning to the Guggi
hut, we found Dr. Fischer and his guides once more installed therein,
full of confidence in the prospects.
At 2 a.m. on July 30, we again set forth on our quest. Not a breath
of wind stirred; the sky was cloudless. Hans Almer sent us on ahead
to lead the way. Knowing the ground well now, we forged up through
the first icefall and came to a halt on the gentle snow slopes at the
foot of the Kühlauenen Glacier icefall, there to await the arrival of
the others. They had no sooner reached us than Dr. Fischer found that
he had lost his tea flask, so he and Hans went back to look for it.
In the meanwhile Ulrich and we two shivered and stamped about in a
vain endeavour to keep warm. Just as it was becoming light enough to
dispense with the lanterns, Dr. Fischer rejoined us, having found his
precious flask in the snow at the very edge of an immense crevasse just
above the Guggi icefall.
By 5 a.m. we were walking over the almost level basin of the Kühlauenen
Glacier and soon afterwards were grappling with the rocks of the
Schneehorn--no longer without difficulty, for much fresh snow hampered
us in the finding of foot- and handholds. Beyond the site of our
bivouac of two days ago, we found the rocks so buried in snow that Hans
had to clear a way with his axe. Progress was accordingly slow, and
it was not until 7 o’clock that, cutting through the little cornice
at the head of the final, short, steep, snow slope over which the
summit of the Schneehorn (11,200 ft.) is approached, we set foot on the
Giessenmulde, the third of the five plateaux. Henceforward our ways
lay apart. While Max and I were bound for the direction of the Little
Silberhorn, Dr. Fischer and his guides were to turn off to the south
towards the immense slopes of gleaming ice leading up to the north-east
ridge of the Jungfrau. But so quickly are friendships formed in the
mountains that already, after such a brief acquaintance, we were by no
means loth to retard the hour of parting by settling down to breakfast.
[Illustration: “_We basked on the roof of the Guggi hut._”
_Facing page 62._
]
At a quarter past seven Dr. Fischer said, “Now then, you boys, it’s
time you were off!” and, after bidding an “Au revoir” all-round and
expressing the hope that we would meet on the summit, Max and I got
under way. While crossing the level, hard-frozen snow surface of the
Giessenmulde, we had ample time to study the icefall guarding the
approach to the Silbermulde, the fourth glacier plateau. This icefall
was obviously formidable, and it looked as if a huge, unbridged
crevasse which cut across it might prove, if not insuperable, at all
events a source of much delay. The icy north-east ridge of the little
Silberhorn, however, offered a sure, even if arduous, means of flanking
the obstacle; and we quickly decided to choose the harder work of
cutting up this ridge in safety, in preference to the less laborious
but much more uncertain and, on account of possible falls of ice,
perhaps dangerous passage through the icefall. The ridge was covered
with a thick layer of crystals of rotten ice, in which two, or at the
most three, well-directed blows of the axe sufficed to make a good
step. Working hard and as fast as possible, we rose so rapidly that,
half an hour after leaving the others who were now just beginning to
tackle their big ice slope, we arrived on the beautifully curved ice
ridge which forms the summit of the little Silberhorn. After a brief
descent, we crossed the Silbermulde and faced the next difficulties,
a great bergschrund and a short, but very steep, ice slope below the
Silbersattel. Over to the left, away from the Silbersattel, the two
edges of the bergschrund approached more closely together, so that by
discarding my rucksack and standing on Max’s shoulder I was able to
effect a lodgment on the slope above. I then saw that, to get over to
the Silbersattel, handholds and footholds would have to be cut round to
the right, past an almost vertical ice bulge. Only the right hand could
be used to ply the axe; the left would be fully occupied in holding on.
Max unroped and tied himself on again, but this time at the extreme end
of the hundred-and-fifty-foot rope; then, after carefully working round
the bulge, I was able to cut straight up into the Silbersattel where,
finding good standing ground, I held the rope firmly and afforded Max,
with his double burden of rucksacks, the necessary assistance over the
bergschrund and round the bulge. It is quite probable that in some
seasons this obstacle may prove impassable. The Silberlücke, however,
could always be gained by crossing the Silberhorn, a roundabout
route which would entail some loss of time. The ridge known as the
Silbergrat, stretching up before us to the Hochfirn, commences in a
great rock pinnacle which looked difficult, but was, with the ensuing
ridge of good firm rock, quite easy, though enthrallingly interesting
in view of the dizzy precipices that fall away to the Lauterbrunnen
Valley. Higher up, cornices, wind-whirled into fantastic shapes,
crowned the ridge. We hacked them down and strode triumphant over
their battered remains until at length the rocks merged into a slender
snow-crest, along which, swinging the axe in rhythm with our pace and
leaving a step after each blow, we passed quickly over to the Hochfirn,
up which, almost knee-deep in soft snow, we laboriously plodded our way.
The day was now won; no further difficulty lay between us and the
summit. It was still early, and time was our own to squander as we
willed; so, veering towards the left, we stamped through deep snow
up on to the Wengern Jungfrau (13,320 ft.), the lower summit of the
Jungfrau, in order to see how Dr. Fischer’s party were progressing.
They were still far below the north-east ridge--three tiny black dots
sticking like flies to the smooth, glassy wall. Our shouts of triumph
were faintly echoed by them; then, realising that there would be no
chance of our meeting up here, we turned towards the true summit of
the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.) and, walking up the easy rocks of the south
ridge, soon gained the top. It was 11 a.m.; we had been in all only
nine hours _en route_, and of those nearly one hour had been spent down
below the Kühlauenen icefall, awaiting dawn.
As on our last visit to the Jungfrau, the view was clear. To the north
we looked down into the valleys of the Bernese Oberland, invitingly
clad in the soft, restful colourings of forest, pastureland and lake.
Southwards, the gaze passed over glaciers and snow-clad mountains,
through the bluish haze rising from the dark rift of the Rhône Valley
to beyond the Pennine Alps, and lingered at last on the glistening snow
cap of Mont Blanc. The hardest part of the day’s work was over. The air
was warm, still and languorous, so, after setting the cooking apparatus
on to melt snow for a brew of tea and having, by way of precaution
against the consequences of any tendency to sleep walk, belayed the
rope to our axes driven deep into the snow, we lay down and were soon
wrapt in slumber.
Two hours later we awoke at the chill touch of a gust of wind. Clouds
hovered all around, warning us of the approach of yet another spell
of bad weather. We finished lunch and made ready for the descent by
the ordinary route to the Bergli hut. As was to be expected, we found
a beautiful staircase of immense steps already cut in the moderately
steep snow slope leading down to the Rotthal Sattel. The bergschrund
below the saddle was smaller than we had ever known it before, and soon
we were plodding a monotonous way over the Jungfrau Glacier through
the now thoroughly softened snow towards the Mönchjoch. There was not
a breath of wind; and so fiercely did the sun blaze that we almost
marvelled that the whole glacier did not turn to water. At 4 p.m. we
arrived at the Bergli hut. The sky had become completely overcast; but,
though the sun was obscured, the air was hot and stifling. A break in
the weather seemed certain; a matter of small concern to us, however,
for our labours had been so strenuous that a day of enforced idleness
was a welcome prospect. At 6 o’clock we turned in and slept peacefully
and uninterruptedly until 8 a.m. next morning.
Dr. Fischer and the Almers had arrived at the hut about midnight.
They had gained the north-east ridge, only to be driven down to the
Jungfrau Glacier by bad weather. Snow-glasses are apt to disturb one’s
aim when cutting steps, and as the Almers, for this reason, had not
worn theirs during the ascent of the great ice slope, they were now
snowblind and in considerable pain. But they were a merry pair of
companions notwithstanding. After a joint breakfast, we all went over
to the Eismeer station, Fischer and the Almers leaving for Grindelwald
while Max and I returned to the Bergli hut with a fresh supply of
stores. Early in the afternoon the weather showed unmistakable
signs of mending, so we settled down to try and shape our somewhat
uncertain plans for the future. Our first big ice-climb had left us
with a voracious appetite for more. The wicked, green shimmer of the
appallingly steep ice slope leading from the Kühlauenen Glacier up to
the Jungfraujoch held out a persistent challenge. But how to get there
from the Bergli hut? The solution was simple, if perhaps a little
ambitious: climb the Jungfrau, descend the north face to the Kühlauenen
Glacier, and then cross over the Jungfraujoch to the Concordia hut. The
north face had already so far exceeded our expectations for ice work
and wonderful scenery that there was no fear of our finding a renewed
visit dull. The ascent to the Jungfraujoch would provide some hours of
continuous step-cutting, and we were still in need of practice with
the ice-axe. Furthermore, by descending to the Concordia hut we should
find ourselves well on the way to Zermatt. Fair dreamstuff for the
mountain-mad! Content and expectant, we turned in to sleep.