ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND
With the coming of the Christmas vacation of 1908, Max and I, in
accordance with our well-established custom, returned to Grindelwald.
Having in the preceding summer become more intimately acquainted with
the towering, snow-bound heights at whose feet nestles the winter sport
resort _par excellence_ of the Oberland, short ski-ing expeditions to
the Faulhorn, Männlichen and the other lesser satellites of the great
Oberland giants no longer satisfied us. We were now eager to penetrate
into the winter fastnesses of the glacier regions.
Prior to the advent of skis in Switzerland, winter ascents of
first-class peaks were, as a rule, formidable undertakings. Winter
conditions in the mountains are quite different from those met with in
the summer. Deep snow, often soft and powdery and requiring extremely
careful treatment to avoid the danger of starting avalanches, lies
right down into the valleys. Thus the ascent to the mountain club-hut,
usually a simple matter in summer, is often in the cold season a long
and arduous expedition. Frequently it is impossible to follow the usual
route, and deviations involving hours of fatiguing stamping in snow,
into which one sinks to the knee, or even deeper, at each step, may be
necessary to steer clear of dangerous slopes and gullies. Simple rocks,
when laden with their wintry cloak of snow, become difficult and demand
great care in climbing. The lower reaches of glaciers, snow-free or
“dry” in summer, are in winter clad in a deep, white pall that obscures
crevasses with a covering deceptive and insecure for the human tread.
Higher up, above the hut, differences are not so obvious, though they
are far from non-existent. Cold may be severe. Changes in the weather
seem to occur more suddenly and with less warning. A summer storm in
the high Alps can be serious enough; but it is nothing to the ruthless,
inhuman and deadly force of the elements let loose in winter. The
snow, to all appearances perhaps the same, is yet different. One must
constantly be on one’s guard against avalanches and snow-shields; the
snow bridges across crevasses are deceiving in their massiveness. In
summer, the experienced mountaineer can readily detect the presence
of a chasm in a snow-covered glacier; but in winter he may find his
judgment sadly at fault. These changed conditions have naturally
undergone no alteration with the coming of skis; but skis enable one to
mount long snow slopes and cross wide expanses without sinking deeply
in, and thus, by relieving one of the labours of snow stamping, they
reduce the fatigue consequent upon walking in snow. Also, owing to the
fact that one’s weight is distributed over a much larger area, they
diminish the danger of falling into crevasses. And again, they enable
one to descend snow slopes at a far greater speed and with much less
expenditure of energy than is possible without them.
Christmas festivities and their usual after-effects failed to take
the edge off our mountaineering keenness, and after breakfast on the
26th, Max and I strapped on our skis in front of the Eiger Hotel and
shouldered our knapsacks containing provisions, a rope and an axe each.
Dr. Odo Tauern, an experienced mountaineer and first-rate ski-er,
joined us. He was to accompany us to the Bergli hut where two friends
were due to meet him on the 28th. From Grindelwald we ski-ed down into
the valley, and crossed the Lütschinen stream by the bridge of the
railway connecting Grindelwald with the Little Scheidegg. In winter,
of course, this railway is not open. As a preliminary to facing the
long pull up before us, we fastened on seal-skins under our skis.
These are long strips of seal-skin which one fixes to the skis in such
a manner that the lie of the hairs is such as to prevent one’s skis
from slipping backwards when going uphill. We followed the railway
track, diverging only in one place where it crosses the middle of a
long, steep slope. Here the snow had drifted so that a smooth slope was
left, and no sign of the railway was visible. The snow on the slope
was bad, and thinking it highly probable that the making of ski-tracks
over it would result in the formation of an avalanche, we preferred to
work down underneath the slope and so avoid danger. Before arriving at
the Little Scheidegg, we turned up to the left towards the Eiger and,
mounting steeply, gained the Eiger Glacier station where the tunnel
of the Jungfrau railway begins. Active tunnelling operations on the
railway were then in full progress, and it was our intention to travel
by one of the workmen’s trains to the Eismeer Glacier station, in those
days the most advanced station on the track. As luck would have it, we
just missed the last train and had to spend the night at the office
of the engineer-in-chief, Herr Liechti, who received us with every
possible kindness.
At five o’clock next morning, with skis and other paraphernalia, we
stepped out into the keen, cold air and trundled down to the entrance
of the tunnel. Packed like the proverbial sardines into the railway
carriage with a crowd of marvellously cheerful, Italian tunnelling
workmen, who even at this miserable hour were able to sing their
songs with zest, time passed rapidly enough until the Eismeer station
was reached. Here we were led down a tunnel which broke through the
rock at a point some thirty feet above the snow of the glacier, on
to which we and our belongings were lowered on ropes. Strapping on
our skis, we began to seek a way through the intricate icefall, over
towards the Bergli hut. The ordinary summer route, which Max and I
knew well enough, could not be used; it was far too much endangered by
avalanches. The only alternative was to approach the lower Mönchjoch
and descend to the hut. This involved finding a passage right up
through the icefall, but by keeping close to the wonderful precipices
of the Eiger, so steep that they were almost free from snow, a feasible
way was found. In spite of our skis, it was hard work, so deep and
soft was the snow. As the presence of crevasses in winter is often
so extremely difficult of detection, and a fall into one cannot be
arrested so quickly when on skis as without them, we were roped at
a distance of seventy feet from man to man. In addition, Maxwell,
who brought up the rear, carried a spare hundred-foot rope for use
in case of emergency. Zig-zagging in and out between great pinnacles
of ice, probing with the axe at each step for concealed crevasses,
we had almost passed through the icefall and were not far below the
lower Mönchjoch, when an opportunity of working over to the left,
towards the snow slopes above the rocks whereon the Bergli hut stands,
revealed itself. It was obvious that caution would be necessary in
effecting the crossing, not on account of avalanches or the danger of
treading loose a snow-shield, for the ground was hardly steep enough
for that, but because the new route, instead of leading us at right
angles across crevasses, led in the general direction in which the
crevasses lay; that is, _along_ instead of _across_ them. Using the
axe to discover the whereabouts of crevasses was by no means always
effective; in places the snow was so soft and deep that the axe could
be plunged in right to the head without meeting with the resistance
that betokened the presence of firm, safe snow, or that lack of
resistance indicating the void that meant danger. On this part of
the journey, therefore, we had to rely to a great extent upon mere
external appearances. We had all but gained the slopes just below the
Mönchjoch and above the Bergli hut, when Tauern suddenly broke clean
through a snow bridge. The violent shock of his weight coming on the
rope dragged me backwards on my skis for a yard or two and my brother
forward; thus Tauern had completely disappeared before we could arrest
his fall. Try as we would, we were unable to pull him up. So Max
crossed the crevasse at another point, and together, heaving with all
our might and main, we managed to pull our companion over to one side
of the chasm, and even raise him until his head was almost level with
the edge of the hole through which he had broken. Still hanging in the
crevasse, he unfastened and threw his skis up to us, and also gave us
the much-needed information as to the direction in which the walls
of his prison ran. It was then an easy matter for me to approach the
brink of the crevasse and push the shaft of an axe in underneath the
rope by which Max held Tauern suspended, and thus prevent its cutting
more deeply into the snow. After I had cleared away some of the snow,
leaving a channel, Tauern, aided by the united pull of my brother and
I, was able at last to set foot above ground again.
This is the first and last time that I have seen a man fall into a
crevasse in winter. It is not an experience to be repeated lightly; it
had been by no means an easy task for two of us to get our comrade
out, and had he been unequal to assisting us and not the capable and
ready-witted mountaineer that he is, the task might well have been
an insuperable one. Mountaineers to-day seem somewhat inclined to
under-rate the dangers of falling into a crevasse. In summer, except
perhaps immediately after heavy falls of fresh snow, it should be
possible for a party to avoid this danger altogether. But in winter,
the greatest care and experience, combined with keenness of vision, are
necessary to steer clear of making the acquaintance of the interior of
a crevasse--an acquaintance which may, if one is fortunate, be merely
unpleasant, but is likely to result in very grave danger indeed.[3]
[Illustration: _The Eismeer icefall._
_The Bergli hut stands on the rock ridge to the left centre._]
[Illustration: _Sounding a snowbridge._
_Facing page 86._
]
After Tauern had shaken his clothes as free from snow as possible
and put on his skis, we set off once more. Meeting with no further
adventure, we reached the slopes above the hut. Here we left our skis,
planting them upright in the snow, and then plunged down thigh-deep
to the hut. It was just on nightfall. Being mid-winter, it was not
surprising that the thermometer inside the hut registered 42° F. of
frost. But there was a compensating abundance of wood and blankets.
Like most of the Swiss Alpine Club huts, the Bergli is soundly built
with a view, _inter alia_, to conservation of heat in its interior;
and it was not long after lighting the fire, upon which we placed pans
full of snow to procure water for cooking purposes, that a pleasant,
comforting warmth was suffused throughout the little building. In those
days Max and I rather fancied ourselves as cooks. But Tauern, whose
mountain experience was greater than ours, had stocked his knapsack
with such a supply of well-chosen dainties, forming a marked contrast
to our own stodgy and unromantic though filling and nourishing food,
that there was nothing for it but to come off our pedestals and act as
mere assistants. That evening we enjoyed a wonderful dinner of many
courses. As it was the first really square meal we had indulged in
since leaving Grindelwald, our appetites came well up to scratch. At
peace with ourselves and the world, we presently turned in to sleep.
Being alone in the hut, the supply of blankets was in excess of our
needs; each man slept on three spread on the straw of the bunks and
covered himself with half a dozen more. With the exception of boots
and coats, we slept in our out-door clothes. The warmth inside the hut
lasted until well past midnight; but long before daybreak, in spite
of our many coverings, the cold disturbed our slumbers, and at five
o’clock we were glad to throw back the blankets, all frosted where the
moisture from our breath had condensed and frozen upon them, and get
up and light the fire. After breakfast we thawed our boots against the
stove, and put them and puttees on. Still inside the hut, we roped and
shortly after sunrise set off towards the lower Mönchjoch.
It was laborious work forcing our way up towards the skis, for the
snow was as soft as ever. The day was gloriously fine; the sky was
cloudless; strange, cold, yellowish-green near the horizon, but
deepening to a pale, hard blue overhead. Most of the peaks about us
were already bathed in the warm light of the sun, but we ourselves were
still in the shade. Presently we reached the spot where we had left
our skis. Snow ploughing was at an end; with these useful things on
our feet we no longer sank deeply into the snow and, forging a zig-zag
track, soon arrived at the lower Mönchjoch and into the sunshine--a
pleasant relief after the cold shadow. The bergschrund below the lower
Mönchjoch was choked with masses of snow, and we ski-ed down over it
and across a short slope on to the plateau of the Ewigschneefeld,
stirring up merry clouds of snow dust in our wake. We had planned to
cross the upper Mönchjoch and climb the Jungfrau. But from the lower
Mönchjoch, the presence of fish-shaped clouds behind the Jungfrau and
a fresh and gusty west wind gave warning of a possible change in the
weather. However, we shuffled over the Ewigschneefeld, deciding to
wait until arriving at the upper Mönchjoch before coming to a definite
decision as to further movements. But no improvement in the weather
outlook took place; on the contrary, things had taken a distinct turn
for the worse, and the wind was occasionally strong enough to prove
troublesome by whirling up streamers of snow dust in our faces. To
try the Jungfrau under these conditions would have been unwise; so we
decided to content ourselves with climbing the Mönch. From the upper
Mönchjoch, the most convenient line of ascent to the summit lies over
the south-east ridge. Using skis as far as possible, we mounted until
we reached a point on the ridge where the wind had swept the rocks free
from snow. These were perfectly easy; so gentle was the slope that it
was not even necessary to use one’s hands. Beyond was a snow ridge,
the steeper portion of which was quite simple, though the final part
needed some care in negotiating. It was covered by an immense snow
cornice, overhanging on the right, and, in order to avoid walking on it
and incurring the risk of its breaking away, we had to keep well down
to the left where the presence of ice occasionally necessitated the
cutting of steps. Shortly after half-past ten we gained the spacious,
snow-capped summit of the Mönch. A little way down on the north side,
we found complete shelter from the wind which had now veered round and
was blowing from the south. We sat for a whole hour, feeling none too
warm perhaps, but revelling in the wonderful view spread out at our
feet. A dense, moving sea of cloud, which rose to an altitude of seven
or eight thousand feet, blotted out the plains; and here and there
midst the softly-foaming billows, snow-capped summits, like little
islands, thrust their gleaming heads.
On turning to make our way down again, we found that the wind had
risen and was whipping up into our faces great streamers of snow from
summit and from ridge. The stinging sensation of the wind-driven snow
spicules as they struck the unprotected skin was painful if also
exhilarating, and, retracing our steps as fast as we could, we eagerly
sought the comparative shelter of the upper Mönchjoch. The descent was
without incident, and, after regaining our skis, we sped back with
all haste over the lower Mönchjoch towards the Bergli hut. Above the
hut we espied two strange pairs of skis planted upright in the snow.
No tracks, however, were visible; the wind-blown snow had levelled
them out. We arrived at the hut at 1.30 p.m., an hour and a half
after leaving the summit of the Mönch; and stepping into the pleasant
shelter, were greeted by Tauern’s friends who had come to keep their
tryst with him.
In view of the almost certain approach of bad weather, Max and I now
made the mistake of not continuing our descent to the Eismeer. The
others had ample provisions to tide them over an enforced stay in the
hut, but our own stores were sufficient for only one, or at the most
two, more meals. Loth to leave the pleasant companionship of the others
and the warm, hospitable shelter of the hut, we decided to remain for
the night and go down to the Eismeer on the following morning.
During the night snow fell heavily. Next day, after a belated
breakfast, Max and I, in spite of the fresh snow and the fact that
the weather, though quiet, was still uncertain, decided to set out.
Everything was obscured in mist. Tauern, more aware of the danger of
our plans than we, did his utmost to dissuade us. The thought, however,
that our remaining in the hut would spoil his and his companions’
climbing programme, through unexpected depletion of their supplies,
settled the matter. Max and I put on the rope and, with the others’
wishes for good luck, set off. The struggle up through the soft, deep
snow to our skis, left sticking some two hundred feet above the hut,
was most laborious. Less troublesome was the long traverse towards the
head of the icefall, close under the cliffs of the Eiger. I doubt,
however, if either of us realised the great danger we were incurring
here. Owing to the recent snow fall, it was doubly difficult to
detect the presence of crevasses, and, though we made use of every
precaution then known to us, I have no doubt that it was sheer good
luck that saw us across more than one snow bridge in safety. Had either
broken well through into a crevasse, it is most unlikely that the
other, unaided, could have pulled him out. But fortune was with us.
Notwithstanding dense mists, wind, and lashing snow dust, we kept in
the right direction, and when hard under the cliffs of the Eiger, of
the proximity of which the reflected sound of a shout gave adequate
indication, we turned down through the icefall. Struggling along
through the deep snow had resulted in our underclothing getting wet,
and we began to feel the cold. To add to our discomfort, the descent
of particularly steep pitches necessitated the removal of our skis,
and the continual taking off and refastening of these became a trying
task for the fingers. However, things went passably well despite minor
troubles, and we had almost reached the safe ground below the icefall
when I felt a tremendous wind sweep down upon me from _above_. Next
moment, almost before I had become aware of what was happening, I was
choking for breath in the dense snow dust of an avalanche falling down
upon us from the cliffs of the Eiger. Max was about a hundred feet
behind me at the full length of the rope and, as luck would have it,
clear of the falling stream of dust. He could see me disappear as the
thick snow cloud enveloped me. The snow fell until I was buried to
above my head, and, just as I thought I would be stifled, the avalanche
mercifully ceased. By keeping my hands above me and moving them as if
I were swimming, I had left a sort of funnel through which I could get
some air. Fortunately the snow dust had not packed firmly, and after
herculean efforts I succeeded in twisting my feet loose from my buried
skis and, helped by Max’s pull on the rope, was able to free myself
from the unpleasant situation. As my skis were absolutely indispensable
for the completion of the descent, we had to set about recovering them;
but it was not until we had grovelled for nearly an hour in the floury
snow that they were found.
Five minutes later we stood below the entrance of the railway tunnel.
This, it will be remembered, was separated from the snow upon which we
now stood by a rocky wall some thirty feet high and unclimbable in its
lower part. We shouted ourselves hoarse in an endeavour to attract the
attention of workmen who might be in the tunnel, but all to no purpose.
In the end we had to fall back upon self-help. Taking off the rope,
we made a noose and then set to work to try and lasso a large iron
pin which had been driven into the rock a few feet below the entrance
of the tunnel. Cast after cast failed, each flung wide by the gusts
of an erratic wind. A quarter of an hour at this game showed us that
we had over-estimated our prowess with the lasso; but at last a throw
succeeded. A twitch or two of the rope settled the noose firmly on the
pin, and I then proceeded to try and haul myself up hand over hand; but
the struggle in the avalanche had sapped my strength to such an extent
that I failed miserably. Then Max tried, and after a desperate battle
grasped the pin. As soon as he was up he hauled in the knapsacks, axes
and skis. He next fastened one end of the rope to the pin while I tied
the other about my waist. Then, with Max hauling with all his might,
I struggled up. After a rest, we gathered together our belongings and
walked up the tunnel towards the station. Even now, troubles were not
at an end. The entrance to the station was barred by an iron grating.
Outside was a bell with a polite invitation to ring. We accepted with
all our hearts. But for nearly half an hour we stood there, shivering
in the fierce, cold draught that swept up from the glacier world
without. At last, just when we were beginning to despair of attracting
anyone’s attention, a tunnelling foreman came and opened the gate.
Noticing our plight at once, he led us to the engine house and tucked
us in between two great compressed air cylinders belonging to the
Ingersoll rock-drilling outfit. There we slept, warm and comfortable,
until it was time to descend by one of the workmen’s trains. As night
had fallen ere we arrived at the Eiger Glacier station, it was too late
to continue our way to Grindelwald, but the engineer-in-chief once
again proffered hospitality.
Next morning Max, who had suffered frost-bite in one heel, had
difficulty in getting on his boots; but once this painful task
was accomplished and our skis were strapped on, all went well.
Three-quarters of an hour later we were mounting the slopes beyond the
Lütschinen stream towards Grindelwald, the Eiger Hôtel and comfort.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] In connection with the wearing of the rope on glaciers, attention
should be drawn to the fact that the so-called “middleman noose,” a
knot which is warmly advocated in many quarters, must never be used. It
is a slip-knot.