ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND (_continued_)
In later years we visited many other parts of the Alps on skis; but
it was not until the Easter of 1914 that we returned to the great
glaciers of the Oberland. On April 9, I boarded the continental
train at Charing Cross and, on the following day, joined my brother
in Zürich, where he was completing his studies. My arrival being
totally unexpected, I was indeed fortunate in finding him free from
climbing plans and obligations. Next evening at eight o’clock we were
in Wengen. After dinner, and having written a few letters informing
relatives and friends that we were off for a week’s ski-ing mid the
peaks of the Bernese Oberland, we put on skis and, at 10 p.m., left
the Schönegg Hôtel. The moon shone brightly, and we strode up the
buried railway track through a land of silver dominated by the great
ghostly shapes of that wonderful Alpine trinity, the Eiger, Mönch and
Jungfrau. All shuttered up and deserted were the railway station and
collection of hôtels at the Little Scheidegg--a forlorn colony of the
dead. In the eerie magic of an hour past midnight, we should not have
been astonished had a ghostly throng of perspiring trippers appeared
from nowhere and begun that fight for seats of vantage on the train,
which we had more than once witnessed during the bright sunny days of
a summer season. Braving the possible presence of the supernatural,
however, we paused here to indulge in the infinitely prosaic--a meal
of dry bread and raw bacon fat, our favourite winter tit-bit!
Soon we were off again up the railway track. The snow throughout was
safe and in perfect condition, and at 3 a.m. we reached the Eiger
Glacier station. We saw the engineer on duty, who most kindly undertook
to make the necessary arrangements for a special train to be at our
disposal after breakfast. Unwilling to disturb others, we contented
ourselves with a table each for bed and slept soundly until after
sunrise. The train left just after eight. During the six years that
had elapsed since our last visit, considerable progress had been made,
and the tunnel completed up to the Jungfraujoch. The railway track,
however, was not yet finished, and the walk from the train to the Joch
was no easy matter, as the final section of the tunnel was still in the
rough stage. Thanks to the kind offers of one of the tunnelling foremen
who remembered us from the winter of 1908, we were provided with a warm
meal at a trifling cost.
With the good wishes of all the staff, we stepped out of the tunnel at
noon on the 12th and, descending carefully over a steep snow slope,
crossed a small snow-choked bergschrund on to the Jungfrau Glacier.
Here we put on skis and, leaving the heavy knapsacks to be picked up on
the return journey, headed for the Mönchjoch. We wore the rope, though,
at this time of the year and with the snow in its present condition,
there was no difficulty in detecting the presence of crevasses or
in sounding with the axe and accurately estimating the strength of
snow bridges. The weather was sunny and windless, and, though the
temperature in the shade was far below freezing, we gradually divested
ourselves of coats and shirts and arrived in the lower Mönchjoch
stripped to the waist, but fresh and aglow from the exertion. There
we were accosted by the gentlest of breezes; sufficient, nevertheless,
to persuade us to resume some of our discarded coverings. The skis,
not needed for the time being, were left behind as we turned up the
south-east ridge of the Mönch. The climb up the ridge was as easy as
I have ever known it, so good were the conditions. Along the final,
almost level section, we found the remains of old steps which we at
first followed. Presently, however, we forsook them. According to
our views, they went dangerously close to, and were sometimes even
on, the overhanging portion of the immense cornice which adorns the
crest of this part of the ridge. We preferred to keep well down on the
steep slope to the left, though such a procedure did involve a little
step-cutting. At 3 p.m. we paid our third visit to the summit of the
Mönch. Filmy mists of the kind that the mountaineer usually associates
with fair, settled weather floated up from the north and enveloped us
almost immediately. Despite a fresh breeze from the south-west, they
clung tenaciously about us, completely obscuring the view. For nearly
an hour we waited for things to clear; but in vain. Too chilled to
prolong our stay, we sought warmth in action and turned back towards
the Mönchjoch. As we passed along the highest section of the ridge, I
re-cut one or two of the steps. Suddenly I was startled by a crashing
noise, followed by a thunderous roar, as almost the whole of the
great cornice broke away for a distance of about a hundred yards in
front and fifty yards behind us and fell down in a mighty avalanche
towards the Eismeer. Where a moment previously the view to the left
had been shut off by a steep snow wall, I now had an uninterrupted
survey down the precipice, from the brink of which I was separated by
a distance of only an inch or two. At first we were a little startled
by the suddenness of the happening, but later regarded it as merely
another demonstration of the fact that, if mountaineering is to be a
safe pursuit, knowledge and the exercise of care are indispensable.
Although much of the ridge along which we now had to pass was still
heavily corniced, we had faith in the safety of the tracks we had left
on ascending and, following these, made our way down to our skis.
Strapping them on and coiling up the rope, we skimmed in a sheer
riot of exhilaration down towards the Jungfraujoch, keeping as much
as possible to our previous tracks. It being our intention to make
the Concordia hut our home for the next few days, we recovered our
knapsacks and, at 5 p.m., set off down the Jungfrau Glacier on the last
lap of the day’s journey.
The run down the glacier was somewhat spoilt by the fact that the
weight of our knapsacks rendered crevasse-dodging rather difficult
unless the pace of travel was kept down by frequent braking. Far
from easy to negotiate, too, were the occasional patches of snow,
hard-crusted by the action of the fierce winds that from time to time
sweep up this glacier in winter. It was, however, a wonderful evening.
There was no cause for haste, so we halted frequently to ease our
shoulders of the weight of the knapsacks and to point out to each other
old friends amongst the surrounding peaks. We had last crossed the
Concordia Platz in the summer of 1909. Then we had found it a vast,
almost level expanse of glacier covered with an abominable slush of
snow and water. But now it was in the grip of winter. We ambled and
slid over a dry, powdery snow surface, the soft, fresh breezes of dusk
playing about us and cooling the flush that exercise had called to our
faces. A little, fairly steep slope lay between the edge of the glacier
and the rocks on which the Concordia hut stands. I ski-ed down this
slope and brought up with a Christiania swing; but not in time to
prevent twisting my left ankle against a stone--a painful experience,
though no bones were broken, and, beyond the throbbing pain, I seemed
to suffer no inconvenience. We climbed up the almost snow-free rocks
and, at 7.30 p.m., arrived in the hut. By this time there remained
to us but faded memories of our last meal, and it was not until ten
o’clock that our ravenous appetites were satisfied.
[Illustration: _Cornices on the Punta Margherita._]
[Illustration: _A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge._
_Facing page 98._
]
Next morning, after a night of wonderful sleep, we awoke at 9.30. The
weather was doubtful, with cloudy skies and a gusty wind varying in
quarter from west to south. Shortly before midday, after alternating
between hopes and fears as to the prospects of being able to do
something by way of an excursion, we left the hut, carrying only the
rope and a little chocolate, it being our humble intention to potter
about on the Concordia Platz. However, after putting on the skis,
which had been left down on the glacier, we decided that, though the
clouds and the wind gusts were still as evident as ever, the weather
might hold out sufficiently long to enable us to climb the Ebnefluh. We
crossed the Concordia Platz and, mounting up the main Aletsch Glacier,
eventually turned up the Ebnefluh Glacier and headed almost straight
for the summit of our peak. We were able to keep the skis on until
within a few hundred feet of the top. Had the snow been powdery and
suitable for ski-ing instead of hard and frozen, we might have ski-ed
right on to the summit. At 6 p.m. we had gained the highest point.
The most striking feature of the view from the summit of the Ebnefluh
(13,005 ft.) is the wonderful outlook it affords over the tremendous
precipices falling away to the Rotthal Valley, one of the wildest and
most secluded and, from the climber’s point of view, most interesting
valleys in the Alps.
We had put on the rope on leaving the skis, but even on foot, by
exercising ordinary, reasonable caution, there was no danger of falling
into a crevasse. With the passage from early to late winter, glacier
conditions suffer enormous change. I have previously pointed out how
the winter snows form most unreliable bridges over crevasses and often
mask them so effectively that the vision of even the most experienced
mountaineer is sometimes unable to detect them. But later on, towards
the close of the winter season, usually in March and almost always in
April, the keen mountaineer will never be at fault in this respect.
I am frequently at a loss to explain to a less experienced companion
how this can be. Perhaps long experience in the mountains tends to
develop in one an extra and particular sense which warns one of the
proximity of hidden crevasses; but to those who wish a more scientific
explanation, I would draw attention to the following facts. Towards
the end of winter the snow is more consolidated, that is, packed more
closely by reason of its own weight and the effect of wind. Where snow
is unsupported from below, that is, where it lies over a crevasse, a
slight, sometimes almost imperceptible hollow will be formed on its
surface. These hollows, slight though they be, betray themselves to
the experienced eye by the difference in the shade of the light that
they reflect and thus give warning of the existence of a crevasse.
In the earlier part of the winter, the snow, as a rule, has not had
time to “pack” sufficiently to form such hollows, and the detection of
chasms is therefore immeasurably more difficult. A heated controversy
is now raging amongst ski-ing experts as to whether the rope should
be worn when ski-ing on glaciers in winter. It is by no means easy
for a party roped together to keep the rope taut while ski-ing down
a glacier, without inflicting bad jerks and causing each other to
fall. For this reason the rope is considered by many ski-ers to be an
unmitigated nuisance. Hence the rise of the two contesting parties. To
me, the question does not seem to admit of an answering unqualified
“Yes” or “No.” Owing to the difficulty of sighting crevasses during the
beginning and middle of winter, the wearing of the rope at these times
should certainly be urged, even on the simplest of glaciers. But the
rope must be worn properly, kept taut from man to man; and as one’s
rate of travel is far greater on skis than without, and the difficulty
of holding a man who has fallen into a crevasse is proportionally
greater, there should be not less than a hundred feet of rope between
each member of the party. Later on in the season, an experienced party
may unhesitatingly dispense with the rope on glacier expeditions,
provided that they are not only adept ski-ers with full command of
their skis, but really skilled mountaineers, with eyes open, ever on
their guard against the hidden dangers of the mountains.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, our halt on the top of the Ebnefluh
was a brief one. Within five minutes of leaving the summit we were back
at our skis, rubbing them fondly with grease in anticipation of a swift
run home. With veils of snow dust flying out behind us, we whizzed down
on to the Aletsch Glacier and, half sliding, half shuffling, worked
across the Concordia Platz, arriving in the hut just after nightfall.
On the 14th we were up at the fairly reasonable hour of six, but though
the weather was calm and fine we did not launch out on any ambitious
programme. My ankle, though no longer very painful, was so swollen that
I had great difficulty in getting on my boot. Thinking, however, that
a little exercise would do no harm, we ski-ed up to the Grünhornlücke
and climbed a neighbouring peak called the Weissnollen (11,841 ft.).
What with my ankle and the deep powdery snow, it took us three hours to
plough our way up to the former. The return from the Grünhornlücke to
the hut, however, was accomplished in barely fifteen minutes.
Early next morning, dense mists surrounded the hut, and snow was
falling fast. At 9 a.m. we looked out, to find the snow had ceased
and the mists were being blown away by a fierce north-easter. But we
dallied until the weather became more certain, and at a quarter to
eleven set off for the Fiescherhorn. To climb the Fiescherhorn, it was
necessary to gain the upper level of the Ewigschneefeld above its great
icefall. By keeping to the left bank of the latter, we succeeded in
finding a passage without having to remove our skis; but by the time
the glacier above had been gained, the weather had taken a turn for the
worse, and in the end we had to content ourselves with climbing the
Walcherhorn (12,155 ft.). Skis were kept on right up to the summit.
No view rewarded our labours. Mists clung about us, and a cold wind
hastened our retreat. Through the clouds, keeping to our former tracks,
we ran down to the head of the icefall. Then came five wonderfully
exciting minutes as, in and out of crevasses and séracs, we twisted and
turned and sped, without a halt, out on to the unbroken slopes below
the icefall and down to the Concordia Platz, to reach home in time for
four o’clock tea.
We voted the next day to be one of rest. The strain of manœuvring
through the icefall of the Ewigschneefeld had caused my ankle to swell
up again, and Max was suffering from a cough which made him declare he
felt ready for a coffin. It was beautifully clear weather when we rose
from our sleeping bunks at one o’clock, and the rest of the day was
spent sitting in the sun in front of the hut, Max wrapped up in layers
of blankets in an attempt to sweat out his cold, while I, between meal
times, endeavoured to allay the inflammation of my ankle with frequent
applications of bandages soaked in ice-cold water.
On April 17, we were up before daybreak and left the hut at seven
o’clock, bound for the Jungfrau. Once again a bright sun shone from a
cloudless sky and a dead calm reigned. So warm was it that our progress
was a most moderate one and punctuated by many rests. At one o’clock we
gained the large bergschrund immediately under the Rotthal Sattel and
there left the skis. Fifty minutes later, having mounted for the most
part in perfect snow and having found it necessary to cut only a few
steps, we were on the summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.). It was our
fifth visit to the Queen of the Oberland; she had always received us
well, but never so kindly as on this late winter afternoon of cloudless
sky and total absence of wind. Much though we would have preferred
to dally, our stay had to be cut short; for a deficiency in certain
articles of provisions rendered necessary a visit to the Jungfraujoch
on the way back. Threading a way down on to the glacier and then
mounting a steep little snow slope, we arrived, in due course, at the
tunnel of the Jungfraujoch station where we loaded up fresh supplies,
not forgetting wax for the skis which were no longer slipping as freely
as they should. After re-waxing them, we sped down to the edge of the
Concordia Platz in ten short minutes. The temptation to loaf there in
the sun proved irresistible, and it was not until six o’clock that we
arrived back in our little winter home.
It was our plan to tackle the Grüneckhorn and the Gross Grünhorn on the
following day; a more ambitious undertaking than any we had attempted
this season. The weather was doubtful when we looked out just before
sunrise. A south wind was driving rolling banks of mist up the Aletsch
Glacier, and cloud caps, omens of evil weather, had settled on the
summits of all the greater mountains. By eight o’clock no improvement
had taken place, so we decided to shift our abode and cross the
Grünhornlücke to the Finsteraarhorn hut. An hour later, just as we
were preparing to leave, the north wind at last seemed on the point of
gaining the ascendancy over the south, and the weather took a distinct
turn for the better. We straightway made up our minds to adhere to our
original plan. With a rope slung over Max’s shoulder, and a camera and
a few provisions in my pockets, we ski-ed up towards the prominent gap
in the south-west ridge of the Grüneckhorn. Before reaching it, the
badly crevassed nature of the glacier and the icy condition of the snow
forced us to leave the skis. We put on the rope and kicked a way up
in snow that was so hard and good that we never sank in to more than
ankle-depth. From the gap onwards, we followed a delightful ice ridge
which forced us to a free use of the ice-axe in cutting steps. Knowing
that there was not much time to spare, we worked with a will and,
shortly after one o’clock, gained the summit of the Grüneckhorn (12,500
ft.). The climb from here along the snow-free rock ridge to the summit
of the Gross Grünhorn was child’s play. The weather was perfect; and
no cold wind whipped our faces. We might almost have been climbing on
a fine summer’s day, so warm were the rocks, and so good the climbing
conditions. We sat on the top of the Gross Grünhorn (13,278 ft.) till
well after three. The view from this summit is almost unique. One is
so closed in on all sides by great peaks that, no matter where the eye
roves, it rests on nothing save rock and ice and perpetual snow. No
green valleys suggesting the homes of human folk are there to offer a
contrast to the sterner majesty of nature.
Within three-quarters of an hour of leaving the summit, we were back
on the Grüneckhorn, and there conceived the idea of descending by the
hitherto unclimbed south face, a tremendously steep snow slope through
which rocks jutted out here and there. The wonderful condition of the
snow tempted us to this decision. Under less favourable circumstances,
indeed, such a venture might well have led to trouble. Facing inwards
towards the steep snow, we kicked our way downwards step by step,
surely but quickly, and crossed the bergschrund at the foot of the
slope without the slightest difficulty. Twenty minutes after leaving
the summit, we were back at our skis and a quarter of an hour later had
entered the hut.
According to programme, we were due at the Finsteraarhorn hut on
Sunday the 19th. The barometer had fallen so low, however, and the
weather had become so threatening, that we entertained scant hopes of
being able to carry our projects into effect. We waited till midday,
but no improvement took place; so we packed up to return home via the
Lötschenlücke and the Lötschberg railway. Steering by map and compass,
we crossed the Concordia Platz and mounted the main Aletsch Glacier
through thick mists and gently-falling snow. At four o’clock we left
the Lötschenlücke, having paused at the Egon von Steiger hut, close to
the pass, for lunch. In a few minutes we had run down below the cloud
level. From the ski-ing point of view, the snow was bad, possessing
almost throughout a hard, thick, frozen crust which made it difficult
for one to exert proper control over the skis. The strap of one of
Max’s bindings, cut by the crusted snow, gave way, and replacing it
by a spare was no easy matter, for the narrow little slit in the ski,
through which the spare had to be threaded, was partly blocked with
ice. Lower down the snow was deep and wet and of such a consistency
that we seemed to be running through treacle.
Just before reaching the little village of Blatten in the Lötschen
Valley, we took off the skis and trudged down the long path to
Goppenstein where we caught the train for Zürich, little thinking that
we were turning our backs on the mountains and all that they meant to
us for the next five years.
There is much to be said for winter mountaineering. In summer, if one
wishes to climb the Jungfrau or any other similar mountain, the ascent
of which involves a lengthy walk on snow-covered glaciers, one must
start very early, well before daybreak; otherwise, the sun will have
softened the snow so much that the ascent, and still more the descent,
will be most laborious. On skis and in winter, this nightmare of a
long and wearisome trudge in soft snow hardly exists. The return from
a climb, especially, is a simple and almost effortless affair. Again,
fewer people by far climb in the winter season, and, if one so wishes,
one’s solitude need not be disturbed. Throughout this glorious week in
the Oberland we had had the huts and the mountains all to ourselves.