THE MATTERHORN
Perhaps no other mountain in the Alps, or for that matter in the whole
world, can make such an appeal to the eye as the Matterhorn. This
appeal is not merely one of beauty and boldness of form, but also
one of position. The Matterhorn has no neighbours in close proximity
to invite comparison; it stands utterly alone--a great, dark, rocky
pyramid with sides of tremendous steepness, and towering up towards
the heavens from out a girdle of glistening séracs and snowfields. It
was one of the last of the great summits of the Alps to succumb to the
onslaughts of man, and the terrible tragedy whereby four of the seven
men who were the first conquerors lost their lives on the descent is
still fresh in the public memory.
The summit of the Matterhorn consists of a narrow, almost level, rock
ridge, about two hundred and fifty feet in length. The northern end of
this ridge is called the Swiss summit, and the southern the Italian
summit. In the former converge the Swiss and Furggen ridges and in the
latter the Italian and Zmutt ridges. The first successful ascent of the
Matterhorn was made by the Swiss ridge. Here the climbing is nowhere
really difficult until one is above the level section lying immediately
below the summit and known as the Shoulder. Beyond the Shoulder,
the rock is steep and difficult, and would demand great care and
climbing skill were it not for the fact that this part of the ridge is
festooned with stout ropes, thanks to which the most inexperienced and
untalented of climbers can be dragged in safety to the top. The second
ascent of the Matterhorn was carried out over the Italian ridge. The
climbing here is more difficult than any met with on the Swiss ridge;
and though, even here, the rock is nowadays decorated with a profusion
of thick ropes which enable many to climb it who would otherwise not
even dream of attempting to, there are still unroped sections of such
difficulty that the Italian ridge is unquestionably a harder climbing
problem than the Swiss. Of the other two ridges of the mountain, the
Furggen ridge, though it has been climbed, is in sections so exposed to
falling stones that it cannot be regarded as a justifiable undertaking.
But the Zmutt ridge is a sound climb and has the distinction of being
the only really practicable route to the summit which is devoid of the
artificial aids of fixed ropes and chains. Both the Swiss and Italian
ridges of the Matterhorn were climbed in 1865, but it was not until
many years afterwards that the summit was gained over the Zmutt ridge.
In September, 1879, two of the strongest climbing parties that have
ever been known in the Alps at last succeeded in opening up what is
to-day the finest line of approach to the top of the Matterhorn. The
first party consisted of the late Mr. A. F. Mummery, with the guides
Alexander Burgener, Johann Petrus and A. Gentinetta; the second, of Mr.
W. Penhall with Ferdinand Imseng and Louis Zurbruggen. Mummery’s party
followed the ridge almost throughout, but Penhall climbed for the most
part on the Tiefenmatten face, that immense series of cliffs enclosed
between the Zmutt and Italian ridges, reaching the ridge only at a very
elevated point.
After crossing Monte Rosa from Macugnaga, Case, Obexer, Max and I
arrived at the Monte Rosa Hotel in Zermatt, where we were welcomed
by two old members of the Academic Alpine Club of Zürich, Ernest
Martini and Val Fynn. The latter suggested that we should join forces
and make a combined attack upon the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn,
descending via the Italian ridge to Breuil. Coming as it did from Fynn,
probably the most experienced and best guideless climber the Alps have
ever seen, the suggestion was received with enthusiasm; and, on the
evening of August 12, 1911, the six of us berthed down together in the
Schönbühl hut which lies far up in the Zmutt Valley, at a distance of
about three and a half hours from Zermatt.
At one o’clock next morning, under the guidance of Fynn who had
reconnoitred the preliminary part of the route on the previous day, we
descended over the loose blocks of the moraine below the hut on to the
glacier, and made our way across towards the great shut-in basin of the
Tiefenmatten Glacier which lies at the foot of the Zmutt ridge. Keeping
far over to the right so as to avoid the crevasses of the icefall, we
gained the basin, whence we were able to work round in a wide curve
towards the cliffs below the lower, snowy section of the Zmutt ridge.
Soon we were climbing up the rocks and, passing by two little walls
of stones, possibly the remains of Mummery’s bivouac, we reached the
snow slopes above. The snow was good and well-frozen, and we were able
to kick steps up on to the ridge which we struck just above the lower
end of the prominent snowy section. The ridge was not steep, and the
snow was in excellent condition. Kicking steps, we made good headway.
The snow ridge finally merged into a crest of broken rocks up which
we scrambled, to arrive at a deep gap beyond which towered several
grim _gendarmes_ or rocky teeth. It was six o’clock, and, though our
progress had been anything but hurried, we were nothing loth to
making breakfast an excuse for a halt. The early morning sun, weak
though its rays were, helped to take the edge off the knife-like
northerly breeze. Nevertheless, we were glad enough when Fynn,
reminding us that the real part of the day’s work was now before us,
gave the order to prepare to move off.
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn from the Stockje._
_The Tiefenmatten face is enclosed by the Zmutt ridge, seen on
the left, and the Italian on the right. In the foreground is the
Tiefenmatten Glacier._]
[Illustration: _The Matterhorn at sunset._
_Facing page 184._
]
We roped in two parties; Fynn, Max and Obexer on one rope, Martini,
Case and myself on the other. Our commander-in-chief, bent on putting
the younger recruits through their paces, detailed Max and myself
as leaders. We on our part were only too eager to obey, and, as
soon as all was in readiness, we climbed down into the gap. Despite
appearances, no difficulty was encountered; the three prominent teeth
in the gap were easily circumvented. By the time that we had passed
the third, the sun disappeared behind the mountain, and for the first
time the cold really made itself felt. A few days previously, a violent
thunderstorm had deposited a sprinkling of snow, and the steep rocks
now before us were still white and partly glazed with a thin veneer of
ice. Under these circumstances we considered it advisable to forsake
the backbone of the ridge and traverse out for some considerable
distance into the huge and precipitous gully falling away to the
Matterhorn Glacier. The work now demanded great care, for, owing to the
absence of jutting out bits of rock over which the rope might have been
belayed, a slip would have entailed grave consequences. We all felt we
could trust each other, however, and without anxiety we pursued our
course, cautiously plying the axe to clean out the snow and ice from
every hand- and foothold, until we at last reached some good broken
rocks which, though steep, led us without much difficulty back to the
ridge. We were now far above the teeth. For a short time the ridge was
adhered to, but once again it became steep, and a treacherous layer
of ice on the rock, masked by a covering of snow, drove us once more
out into the gully on the left. The rock here was very steep, but more
broken up. To even matters up somewhat, however, snow filled up the
interstices. It was extremely cold for midsummer, but, owing to the
steepness of the gully and the tricky nature of the work, gloves could
not be used, as they interfered too much with one’s grip on handholds.
For the second time that day we were climbing under conditions where a
slip on the part of one man would have involved all his comrades on the
rope in destruction, and we could not afford to make mistakes. Fynn’s
cheery voice exhorting us to “take our time and put hands and feet down
as if the Matterhorn belonged to us” supplied extra encouragement,
if indeed such were necessary, to do our best to show a master in
mountain-craft that the younger generation were eager to emulate.
Up and up the gully we climbed, and, as we rose, it became steeper and
steeper, until the man below saw nothing but the nailed boot soles
of the man above. Snow choked all cracks and crannies and concealed
handholds, but fortunately the rocks were free from ice. Carefully
scraping and kicking, we cleared the snow away, and at last, just as my
bare fingers had become so cold as to be devoid of feeling, I scraped
out a channel in the little snow cornice crowning the exit of the gully
and stepped back on to the crest of the Zmutt ridge. Here at last was
good standing ground. The ridge was fairly broad. Behind us stood a
prominent rocky tower; in front the ridge led up towards the summit. On
the left, flanking the great gully by which we had ascended, was that
tremendous overhang on a branch on the ridge, which has been so aptly
called the “Nose of Zmutt.” The sunshine on the ridge was welcome
indeed after the chill hours spent in the shade. During the intervals
in a course of energetic exercises designed to restore circulation and
warmth to feet and hands, we ate a second breakfast. Again, however,
the north wind cut short our stay, and at eight o’clock we prepared
for the final section of the climb. Given normal conditions, two hours
might have sufficed to see us on the summit. As things were, however,
five hours were needed, in spite of the fact that from here onwards
we climbed as fast as we could go with safety and without resting. We
attempted to follow the ridge, but in a short time great steep steps,
which occasionally were overhanging and from which gigantic icicles
depended, forced us off the crest, this time out to the right towards
the Italian ridge. Hitherto, though we had undoubtedly surmounted two
pitches requiring care and delicate handling, and the work as a whole
had been far from easy, the task which now confronted us was an even
more serious one. I gathered the impression that under favourable
conditions the ground over which we were now to pass would have been
perfectly straightforward and by no means difficult. As it chanced,
however, fresh snow lay about everywhere, and, more pernicious still,
the rocks were glazed with ice. Shortly after leaving the ridge, we
had to cut steps across a wide ice slope on to a little rib of broken
rocks, the crest of which was ice-free. Viewing the rest of the ground
from this point, I judged it advisable to continue the traverse before
attempting to climb upwards. Fynn, however, who had taken over the lead
of the second party, elected to proceed directly up, although by so
doing he had to climb over more difficult ground. The reason for this
choice was quite simple. There was a great deal of loose rock about,
and, owing to the difficult nature of the ground, it was quite within
the bounds of possibility that one or other of us might start stones
falling. It was in order to minimise danger from this source that
Fynn set himself the more laborious and intricate task of continuing
straight upwards.
[Illustration: “_... that tremendous overhang called the ‘Nose of
Zmutt.’_”
_Facing page 186._
]
After traversing for another hundred feet or so, I appeared to be
almost vertically under the summit. Considering that my opportunity
had come, I struck up over ice-glazed rocks and through ice-filled
gullies; preferably the latter, as the ice, as a rule, was sufficiently
deep to permit the cutting of good steps. Our party soon drew level
with Fynn’s, but could not overtake them, though we were working over
less difficult ground. Steadily and safely, Fynn led his party across
ice-covered rocks which would have taxed the skill of the very best.
For over three hours we fought our way inch by inch, until at last,
almost simultaneously, both parties reached the famous ledge known as
Carrel’s Corridor. This ledge runs from the Italian ridge across the
face of the Matterhorn to the Zmutt ridge. Here our difficulties were
at an end. It is true that the rock wall above the ledge was vertical,
even overhanging, and that below were the slippery slabs up which we
had just come; but the corridor itself was in places almost level and
broad enough to afford perfectly secure footing--a relief after what
we had undergone. The ledge was heavily laden with powdery, incohesive
snow, through which we ploughed, knee-deep, over towards the Zmutt
ridge. Fynn had gained the corridor at a point nearer the ridge than
we had, and presently I saw him disappear round a bold corner of rock.
Obexer and Max in turn followed, and from their lusty yells of joy we
knew that they were back again on the ridge, and all was now plain
sailing to the top. On rounding the corner, I looked out beyond those
grim slopes, the scene of the tragedy of 1865, and espied two parties
making their way down to the Shoulder on the Swiss ridge. Then I looked
up. All was clear. The ridge, though in parts still steep, consisted of
rock which offered a profusion of holds for hand and foot, and, dashing
ahead at a great pace, we caught up Fynn’s party just as they arrived
on the Italian summit (14,705 ft.).
It was one o’clock. With us arrived another, and to us unpleasant,
visitor. Harbinger of ill weather, a dense bank of cloud shut out the
sun and obscured the view. But bad weather or no bad weather, we now
claimed the right to a square meal and a rest. The cooking apparatus
was brought forth, and knapsacks searched for food. Fynn unearthed
a veritable gold mine in the shape of a plum pudding, while Martini
produced that peculiar speciality of Italy called salami, a sausage
whose inside is reputed to be either cat, dog or donkey, or a discreet
mixture of all three. But appetites were too big to be over-fastidious,
and what with plum pudding, salami and other good and solid odds and
ends, to be washed down by generous supplies of hot tea, a feast was
laid which received full justice.
At two o’clock Fynn shepherded us together again, and the descent was
begun. Martini was the only one amongst us who had ever been on the
Italian ridge before, but, as he confessed to a bad memory, I was
deputed to find the way down, while to him and Fynn fell the onerous
post of bringing up the rear of their respective parties. In the dense
fog surrounding us, I was, for a moment or two, at a loss as to where
to seek for the start. Acting on Fynn’s advice to “go to the edge
of the drop,” I stepped out carefully towards the brink of the huge
precipice that falls away towards Italy. Almost at once I saw before me
the bleached strands of a stout rope fixed to a strong iron pin driven
into the rocks. The details of the Italian ridge having been dealt
with in the preceding chapter, it will, therefore, be unnecessary to
repeat them here. Suffice it to say that we descended the frost-riven
rocks and precipices of this magnificent ridge with all possible speed,
goaded by the constant threat of a storm that fortunately never broke.
It was not until we were far below the Pic Tyndall, and had descended
the great rope which enables one to avoid the battlemented crest above
the great tower, that we met with adventure. To regain the ridge
below the tower, a steep ice slope known as the “Linceul” has to be
crossed. On approaching this slope, we sighted a party of four German
climbers, who later informed us that they had already spent two hours
endeavouring to cross. Incapable of cutting steps, they were helpless.
One, however, possessed of more resolution than his comrades, was
preparing to set about making a last desperate effort to cross and,
to assist him in his endeavour, had called upon one of the others
to hold him on the rope. The latter untied the rope from around his
waist and held it in his hands as his companion did his utmost to cut
steps. To us, who came upon the scene at this very minute, the base
object of the second man in untying himself was only too obvious. He
feared that, in the event of the first man slipping, he might not be
able to check the fall, and, tied to the rope, he too might be dragged
down over the precipice. By unroping and merely grasping the rope in
his hands, he would, in the event of a slip proving too much of a
strain on his strength, be able to save himself at the expense of his
comrade, by simply letting the rope go. The mountains are indeed true
and stern testers of friendship, loyalty and courage. On seeing us,
the Germans brightened up. They were profuse in their explanations of
their difficulties and requests for assistance. Both were unnecessary,
especially the former, for we recognised at once the peculiar type
of mountain climber with whom we had to deal. They belonged to a
self-styled group of “guideless” climbers who are singularly deficient
in mountaineering knowledge and ability and many other qualities
besides, which it will not be necessary to enumerate. Their kind are
to be met with everywhere in the Alps. Usually they confine their
activities to the easiest of climbs and snow trudges, where they can
follow unthinkingly in the deep-trodden tracks of previous parties.
Sometimes they venture on expeditions the difficulties of which
are beyond their powers; and, on such occasions, they take care to
follow on the heels of some efficient climbing party, be it guided or
unguided. This is actually what these four men had done. Early that
morning they had started out to follow a guided party up the Swiss and
down the Italian ridges of the Matterhorn. As far as the summit, they
had contrived to keep close behind. The difficulties of the descent,
however, overtaxed their powers, with the result that the guided party
soon far outstripped them, and they were left to their own resources.
Hence the sad predicament in which we found them. It is this special
breed of “guideless” climber, who is guideless only in that he does not
himself engage and pay for the services of a guide, that has in the
past done so much to bring discredit upon guideless climbing proper.
The man who professes to be a guideless climber should avoid frequented
routes and has no right to embark upon an undertaking to which he is
not fully equal, no matter what the circumstances may be.
Fynn sent on my party to cut the necessary steps across the Linceul,
while he, with the assistance of Max and Obexer, carefully nursed the
four incompetents over to the safe ground beyond. Soon afterwards we
passed the ruins of the old Italian hut and, descending some steep
slabs by means of a long fixed rope, arrived at the Italian Club Hut
at 6.30 p.m. It was filled with climbers intending to make the ascent
on the next day, and, as the four rescued men were clearly incapable
of proceeding farther that evening, we had to make up our minds to
continue the descent, in order that they might find room for the night.
We carried on past the Col du Lion, down the Grand Staircase--those
easy, broken rocks south of the Tête du Lion--and gained the meadows
above Breuil just after nightfall. We boasted only one lantern amongst
us. Fynn carried it and unravelled the vagaries of a twisting track
leading down towards the far off, beckoning hôtel lights. At ten
o’clock, twenty-one hours after leaving the Schönbühl hut, tired but
happy, we made our way through a throng of inquisitive holiday makers
to the dining-room of the Jomein, and were soon bringing such hearty
appetites to bear upon the good food provided that the brows of even
our worthy host rose high with astonishment.