THE DENT D’HÉRENS
One of the younger generation of mountain climbers once complained
bitterly to me that there were no new climbs to be done in the Alps,
the pioneers having, in his opinion, with extraordinary thoroughness
and selfish disregard for their posterity, climbed every virgin
pinnacle and explored all climbable ridges and faces. To his surprise,
I replied that our thanks were due to the pioneers, for though some
had no doubt digested much of the grain, the fattest and best grains
remained for the man of to-day who knew where to look. The good grain
that is left can no longer be picked up without trouble. We all know
what faces and ridges of mountains have not been explored, but the
successful climbing of these must be preceded by careful and patient
investigation.
In August, 1911, I enjoyed a happy day of perfect laziness on the
Stockje. My main purpose was to examine the Zmutt ridge, with the
intention of climbing it on the following day. But ever and again my
gaze was irresistibly drawn, as if for relief, from the solemn, dark
magnificence of the Matterhorn to the white purity and graceful curves
of the hanging glaciers of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens; and
I found myself seeking in vain to trace the way by which it had been
climbed. That winter, on searching Alpine literature, I discovered,
with no little astonishment, that the whole vast north face of the
mountain, from the Col Tournanche right round to the north-west ridge,
was every inch of it virgin ground. Here truly was a grain fat enough
to satisfy the greediest appetite, and I made up my mind to secure it.
It was not until 1913 that I had an opportunity of returning to
the Schönbühl hut. From there I set out on a prospecting trip and,
traversing the Wandfluh from the foot of the Dent Blanche down to
the Col d’Hérens, not only succeeded in spying out a feasible way
of conquering the north face of the Dent d’Hérens, but also gained
some insight into the geography of the mountain itself. The peak is a
curiously complicated one, and the errors into which even surveyors,
especially on the Italian side, have fallen, are well-known. The summit
is supported by four ridges--the south ridge which leads down to the
lower Za-de-Zan Glacier, the west ridge to the Tiefenmattenjoch, the
north-west ridge to the Tiefenmatten Glacier, and the east ridge to
the Col Tournanche. The west and north-west ridges meet at a point
less than one hundred feet west of the summit. The north-west ridge,
when seen from the Schönbühl hut, is easily confused with the west
ridge, from which it is actually separated by the steep, glaciated
slopes of the north-west face. The fact that the ice cliffs of this
face seem to be perched on the north-west ridge has probably given
rise to the impression that this ridge can no longer be climbed owing
to the formation thereon of a hanging glacier. In reality the ridge
is entirely free from such encumbrances. Between the north-west and
east ridges lies the north face. The watershed ridge between the Val
Tournanche and the Valpelline does not reach up to the Dent d’Hérens;
shortly above the Col des Grandes Murailles it loses itself in the
southern slopes of the east ridge.
From my point of vantage on the Wandfluh, I saw that the north face
of the Dent d’Hérens carries a huge glacier terrace, or corridor
which, beginning low down near the foot of the north-west ridge,
rises diagonally upwards across the face and reaches the east ridge
just below the great final _gendarme_ east of the summit. It was
perfectly clear that, could this terrace be gained at its lower end
and left at its upper, the problem of climbing the face would be
solved. Despite my conviction that the climb was feasible, however, the
objective dangers--that is, unavoidable dangers from falling ice and
stones--appeared so great that for the time being I gave up all idea of
making the attempt.
During the war a handful of mountain photographs beguiled many a
weary hour, and among them was one of the Dent d’Hérens as seen from
the Wandfluh. I studied this picture intently, and finally promised
myself another look at the mountain as soon as possible after the
war. In 1919, therefore, the Schönbühl hut became once more my base
of operations. I again traversed the Wandfluh and later, by climbing
the Tiefenmattenjoch from the north, was able to inspect more closely
the possible approaches to the lower end of the great ice corridor.
Eventually, in order to obtain a more comprehensive view of the upper
reaches of the corridor, I climbed the Matterhorn. At last, believing
that nothing else would furnish the required information, accompanied
by Mr. Hafers, I made the ascent of the north-west ridge. This climb
showed me that the dangers of the north face were by no means to
be underrated. The whole terrace gathered up much of the rock that
crumbled away from the uppermost slopes of the mountain, and the
approaches to its lower end were not only swept by stones from sunrise
to sunset, but were also defended by frequent falls of ice. Indeed,
real safety there appeared to be none until the east ridge had been
gained at the foot of the great _gendarme_ before mentioned. I retired
discomfited. But the magnet was strong, and, in 1921, having meanwhile
somewhat modified my views as to what precisely constitutes objective
dangers, I returned to the Schönbühl hut, whence a series of visits
to the Pointe de Zinal, the Stockje, and the Tête de Valpelline at
length convinced me that what, in ordinary circumstances, would be a
dangerous climb, could, if tackled properly, be converted into a safe
and justifiable undertaking. The lateness of the season, however,
prohibited my putting any theories into practice, but plans were
maturing favourably. By gaining the lowest rocks of the north-west
ridge, and climbing up either these or the rocks and ice of its north
flank to the level of the terrace, a short traverse over steep ice
would give access to the terrace itself. On account of the frequent
stone-falls which ricochet across the barely emerging rocks of the
north-west ridge when the sun is shining on the highest slopes of the
mountain, this part of the climb would have to be completed during a
cold night, before sunrise. As the ground was obviously difficult, a
moon would be of advantage. Two-thirds of the way along the terrace,
a large bergschrund threatened trouble, but, this overcome, there
seemed to be nothing to prevent one’s gaining the east ridge at the
foot of the great _gendarme_. The whole of the route along the terrace
itself appeared to be swept by falling stones and, in its lower end,
by falling ice; but, owing to the comparatively gentle angle of the
terrace, I believed that stones would be held up in the snow. In 1921,
I also crossed the Col Tournanche and from there received confirmation
of the fact that no insurmountable obstacle barred the exit from the
upper end of the terrace to the east ridge.
[Illustration: _An ice avalanche._
_The height of the cliff down which the avalanche is falling is over
two thousand feet._
_Facing page 196._
]
Unfortunately, in 1922, being busy elsewhere, I was unable to
return to the fray, but in 1923 the long-wished-for opportunity
arrived. Towards the end of July, I set out on a final series of
investigations, determined that they should lead to the conquest of
this great north face. My friend, Raymond Peto, and I climbed the Dent
Blanche, returning by the 1862 original route of Kennedy, leaving
the _gendarmes_ above us, while we traversed back along the snow and
ice-plastered slabs of the south-west face. The ascent was made with
a twofold object: firstly, to get one more thorough insight into the
great terrace of the Dent d’Hérens, and, secondly, to give Peto, whose
maiden climb this was, a chance of finding his mountain legs, it being
my intention that he should be one of my companions on the new venture.
And here I may be permitted a slight digression. I have more than once
been criticised for taking inexperienced people on difficult and what
my critics too readily refer to as hazardous climbs. In reply, I would
point out that a difficult enterprise is not necessarily a rash one,
though it may well be made so if one embarks upon it without thorough
investigation and detailed planning. If, by the simple inclusion
of a beginner in the party, the difficult be transformed into the
hazardous, the reflection is on the capabilities of the leader. Also,
fifteen years of guideless climbing have taught me, _inter alia_, that
in the mountains one must not take one’s responsibilities lightly.
Furthermore, the inexperience of the beginner, who is physically sound
and no coward, is a much less dangerous drawback to the leader of
a party than the argumentative embryo-mountaineer who, after three
or even fewer brief summer seasons spent in climbing, often only
in a secondary capacity, imagines that the mountains hold no more
secrets for him. To the experienced climber who feels that there is
still something new for him to learn, I would commend the tyro as a
companion--for his puzzled, but often fundamental questionings may
suggest a new train of thought or throw fresh light upon what seemed
but the obvious and commonplace.
To return to our problem. From the Dent Blanche I could see that
both the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west ridge and the
one intersecting the snows of the great terrace were of formidable
proportions and likely to give a great deal of trouble. Next day, by
going up the Tête Blanche, I was able to get a better idea of the
ground from the foot of the north-west ridge up to the terrace.
On the strength of the knowledge now possessed, I drew up a provisional
time-table. At midnight we would leave the Schönbühl hut. Going round
the Stockje and passing through the two icefalls of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier, we would reach the bergschrund at the foot of the north-west
ridge not later than 3 a.m. The bergschrund and the difficult ground
above, consisting of ice interspersed with rock, would have to be
tackled in the moonlight, and this would give us time to gain the
lower end of the terrace about six o’clock, before the sun’s rays had
become powerful enough to start stones falling. All would then be plain
sailing until about two-thirds of the way across the terrace, where
the formidable bergschrund would have to be negotiated. Should this
obstacle prove impassable, we could return in all haste to near the end
of the terrace, where, in the shelter of a great ice cliff, it would be
possible to bivouac. In the earliest hours of the following day, the
retreat would be completed _via_ the north-west ridge and the summit.
Should the bergschrund go, however, there would be nothing to prevent
our gaining the east ridge.
These studies of the north face of the Dent d’Hérens had entailed in
all eight visits to the Schönbühl hut of a total duration of nearly
six weeks. Was it time thrown away, or is not mountaineering worth the
endeavour to make it a justified source of intellectual and physical
training, invaluable in every phase of one’s daily life?
On returning to Zermatt we were joined by Guy Forster. The functions
of the various members of the party were easily arranged. Forster and
I were to act as guides and Peto as porter. On July 29, Peto, bent on
sketching, set off once more for the Schönbühl hut, and on the 30th,
Forster and I followed with the necessary provisions, climbing irons,
a one-hundred-foot Alpine Club rope, and a two-hundred-foot cotton
sash-line. The latter might prove useful in the event of a forced
retreat back to the north-west ridge and perhaps also on the terrace.
At a few minutes past midnight we left the hut, telling the caretaker
of our intentions. We crossed the glacier to the Stockje in the light
of a strong moon. Just beyond the ruins of the old Stockje hut, we put
on climbing irons and roped. The first icefall of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier was easily overcome near the left bank. But the second, which
experience had told me was most vulnerable on the extreme right bank,
gave more trouble. Here, close under the Dent d’Hérens, we were in the
shadow of the moon and had to make use of our lantern. For perhaps a
quarter of an hour, while making our way as fast as possible up through
a series of steep ice gullies and crevasses, we were in danger from the
séracs perched on the great cliffs above. Once in the upper basin of
the glacier, we ascended the slopes, bearing to our left round towards
the foot of the north-west ridge, and eventually arrived on the lower
lip of the bergschrund which defends the foot of the ridge. The spot
was strange, forbidding. In the gloom, a hundred feet above us, towered
the upper lip--inaccessible. In dark, shining patches the rocks of the
north-west ridge showed through, pitilessly smooth and glazed with a
thin covering of treacherous ice. To cross here was impossible, but,
by working out into the north-west face and following the bergschrund
to where it curves upwards almost parallel with the north-west ridge,
we found a likely place.
The first attempt to get over the bergschrund met with failure. The
bridge selected afforded, it is true, a means of access to the slopes
above, but I quickly discovered that it was too delicate a structure
and preferred to go back to where we could descend a few feet on to
some snowed-up blocks in the steeply rising schrund, whence we could
cut up the vertical other side. I gained the upper lip, but the work
involved was far from easy, and, before its completion, I had to retire
for a rest while Forster improved my sketchy foot- and handholds.
It was then that I took stock of the time: it was four o’clock; we
were an hour too late, and there was nothing for it but to go back.
On Forster’s return, I recommenced work on the ice steps, converting
them into great holes which would be certain to hold out until the
following day. This done, I informed the others of my decision, and,
without a murmur of dissent on their part, we turned back. Instead of
going straight down on to the glacier, however, we worked down along
the lower lip of the bergschrund to some distance beyond the foot of
the north-west ridge, in an endeavour to find another way across which
would give more direct access either to the north-west ridge or to the
slopes leading up to the lower end of the terrace. The search was vain,
and, just as the first red rays of the morning sun touched the summit
of the Dent d’Hérens, we fled towards the Tiefenmatten Glacier from the
stones that were soon falling. No time was lost in hurrying through the
upper icefall--for here safety lay in speed.
That morning, in time for a belated eight o’clock breakfast, three
dejected climbers arrived back at the Schönbühl hut to a welcoming
chorus of “We told you so.” The one crumb of comfort was the word
“Unmöglich,”[7] freely applied by all and sundry to the north face of
the Dent d’Hérens!
In the afternoon the weather changed for the worse. At 11.30 p.m. we
looked out to find rain falling heavily; towards morning it actually
snowed in the vicinity of the hut. It was not until after midday on
August 1 that a strong north-west wind set in and swept away the
clouds--all but the gossamer-like streamers which clung tenaciously
to the Dent d’Hérens and the Matterhorn, and the thick banks of mist
that sought and found refuge from the gale in the grim recesses of the
Tiefenmatten basin. Heavy, new snow had fallen on our mountain, and
great wisps of it were being torn up over the ridges and the slopes of
the north face and borne away on the wind. But the weather was good;
and the new snow, though it would undoubtedly impede us in some places,
would hold loose stones firmly in their beds for long after sunrise and
thus actually render our climb more safe. That night was the coldest I
experienced in the course of the wonderful summer of 1923.
At a quarter to midnight, on August 1-2, we left the Schönbühl hut. The
moon was hidden behind the Matterhorn which was silhouetted against
its light with almost startling clearness, and it was not until we had
gained the moraine of the Stockje that we were able to dispense with
the lantern. Walking rapidly and finding our way through the icefalls
without hesitation, we arrived in the upper basin of the Tiefenmatten
Glacier at a point below the north-west ridge, just where the slopes
steepen up towards the bergschrund. Here, sheltered from the cold wind
behind a huge block of fallen ice, we halted (2.30 to 3 a.m., August
2) to adjust climbing irons, breakfast and rearrange knapsacks. I had
the pleasure of handing mine over to Peto. We re-lighted the lantern
and climbed up to the bergschrund, to find the steps cut two days
before quite usable. Once over the bergschrund a steep ice slope lay
between us and the nearest rocks of the north-west ridge, now about
two hundred yards away. Alpine literature contains many examples of
that looseness of description which permits the raconteur to describe
as ice, a slope covered with inches of good firm snow. But here in
front of us was the real thing. On warm days, water from the ice
cliffs perched on the rocks above flows down over this slope, not in
well-defined channels, but fanwise, so as to leave bare ice. What the
angle of the slope is I cannot say, as I had no clinometer, but where
we cut across, always keeping about a hundred to a hundred and fifty
feet above the upper lip of the bergschrund, it was very steep. Higher
up, the inclination was somewhat more gentle; but for two reasons we
chose to cross the slope at its steepest--in the first place, fewer
steps would bring us to the ridge, and in the second, should stray
stones or odd blocks of ice fall in spite of the early hour and the
intense cold, there would be much more chance of such missiles going
over us than if we were standing on the less steep slopes higher
up. The order of the party was as follows. I led, untrammelled by a
knapsack, Forster came in the middle, and Peto brought up the rear. How
Peto would manage was rather uncertain, as this was his first serious
essay with climbing irons. Forster was to look after both my rope and
Peto’s, and would, in the event of a slip on the part of the latter,
have to hold him--a task of which I knew he was fully capable if only
the steps were well-cut and reasonably large.
Just as we began to cut our way across the slope, a fierce gust of wind
blew out the candle; and henceforth, though it was still rather dark,
for the light of the moon did not reach the secluded spot directly, we
decided to dispense with artificial light. I cut the steps as quickly
as possible without wastage of blows, but very carefully. Always the
same method--left-handed cutting, for we were traversing from right
to left; six or seven medium blows marking out the base, twice as
many heavy blows to break down the roof of each step, half a dozen
dragging hits to make floor and wall meet well inside, a scrape or
two with the blade to make sure that the floor was clean and slanting
into the slope, and another of the many steps was ready. But while I
was steadily cutting out my first rope’s length from Forster, he and
Peto were getting the worst of it in a heated difference of opinion
with the lantern. Now a lantern which is not burning should be folded
up and put away. But this particular sample proved stubborn. Peto’s
struggles to make it behave being unavailing, he very considerately
passed it on to Forster, by which time I was already straining at the
rope to cut a next step. Having only two hands, both of which were
wanted on more important business, Forster thrust the lantern between
his teeth, came up a few steps, and so gave me sufficient rope to
proceed. After a further desperate but vain effort to fold the lantern
up--with the candle still in it!--and handicapped by his limited number
of hands, he at last solved the difficulty by biting the candle in
two, and eventually succeeded in stowing away the very refractory and
useless article in his pocket. From then onwards we really got into
our stride. I worked away in a perfectly straight, almost horizontal,
line towards the rocks of the north-west ridge; my comrades moved
one at a time, Peto evidently enjoying the slope in spite of its
appearance--particularly formidable with darkness surrounding us and
the ever-increasing drop beneath.
It was very cold, and from time to time the fierce gusts of a fresh
wind made us pause in our labours and crouch well down on to the slope
to retain our balance. At a quarter past four, the last step had been
cut, and the rocks of the north-west ridge gained at a point a little
above the bergschrund. We immediately crossed over to the north face
where the rocks were more broken. They were well plastered up with ice
and snow, but nevertheless we all tucked our axes into the rope at our
waists and, with both hands free, moved upwards at a good pace. Our
mode of advance consisted in my going out the full sixty-foot length
of rope between myself and Forster and finding good standing ground or
reliable belay; whereupon the other two, moving together with the rope
taut throughout, would climb up to me. There was much ice on the rocks,
and everything was buried in fresh snow; but I steadfastly refrained
from using the axe, utilising hands and fists to clear doubtful places
and relying as much as possible on the climbing irons. To use the axe
on this kind of ground before it is absolutely necessary invariably
results in the loss of valuable time. We kept to the north side of the
ridge, only twice touching the crest, and, after one and a half hours’
climbing at full pressure, arrived at a point high up above the lower
end of the great terrace, where a feasible way of gaining it at last
appeared. Between the terrace and the rocks of the northern flank of
the north-west ridge lies an immense gully, at the narrowest point of
which we now stood. It was extremely steep, as the ice had run and
formed a sort of bulge. Forster and Peto having stowed themselves
firmly away on the last little island of rock, I started to cut across
the gully. After some heavy step-cutting in extraordinarily steep ice,
I arrived in the middle, only to see, about one hundred feet lower
down, a better means of gaining the terrace. So I returned and, joining
the others, descended these hundred feet and once more set out to cross
the gully. It was not very wide, being only some eighty feet from the
last of the rocks to the terrace itself, but the work was certainly
hard. After about twenty minutes’ step-cutting, I found myself standing
in the bergschrund formed by the terrace and the ice slopes above, and
there Forster and Peto soon joined me.
By following the lower lip of the bergschrund for a short distance,
and leaving it at a point where it curved abruptly upwards, it would
have been possible to make a horizontal traverse of about three
hundred feet across a steep snow slope to where the terrace was more
gently inclined. Unfortunately, owing to the state of the snow, such
tactics could not be indulged in. The slope was heavily covered with
an accumulation of new snow, much of which had fallen down from the
steeper slopes above. The old snow underneath had a smooth surface and
was hard-frozen, and the fresh snow was of that powdery, non-cohesive
quality which already possessed the thin, dangerous, wind-formed crust
so respected by the winter mountaineer. To traverse such a slope
would be simply asking for trouble: there was almost certain danger
of treading loose a snow-shield and being swept down by it across
the terrace and over the cliffs below. The only alternative lay in
descending for a distance of about two hundred feet and then crossing
the slope at its very foot, where it was no longer steep, hard up
against the lower edge of the corridor where it breaks away in the vast
ice cliffs overhanging the Tiefenmatten Glacier. It was here that our
spare rope proved most valuable. We cut out a large block of snow in
the lower lip of the bergschrund and laid our doubled spare rope over
the improvised belay. With Peto going first, we then went straight
down the dangerous slope towards another suitable belay lying about a
hundred feet below and consisting of a large stone which had fallen
from the Dent d’Hérens and was now firmly embedded in the old snow.
By means of this second belay we descended another hundred feet and
then arrived at the very foot of the slope, where its angle eased off
so rapidly that, in spite of the great masses of powdery snow, it was
at last possible to cross, in safety and without fear of loosening a
snow-shield, over to the great terrace.
The angle of the ground where we now found ourselves was
gentle--sometimes no more than 20°; but, under the threat of ice
falling from the hanging glacier above, Forster and I urged Peto, who
still led, to move forward with all haste until clear of the danger
zone. At one place our way passed through an extensive field of
ice-blocks--débris from the cliffs above. That practically the whole
of this particular fall of ice had been arrested on the terrace will
indicate how easy is the gradient at this point. 7.30 a.m. saw us more
than half-way along the terrace at a point where it appears almost
level. We were more or less directly below the summit. Close to the
edge of the ice cliff in which the terrace breaks away, we were at last
in perfect safety. Nothing falling from above could reach us now; for
the gentle slopes of the terrace between us and the final wall of the
mountain provided an efficient trap for all stones tumbling down from
the summit rocks.
It was with a sense of complete security that we sat down to another
breakfast and to enjoy a well-earned rest; for, since crossing the
bergschrund four and a half hours ago, we had been working at high
pressure. The spot must be one of the wildest and most solitary in
the Alps; behind us a rampart of precipitous cliffs, before us at our
feet a few yards of gently sloping snow, then nothing until the eye
rested on the Stockje, a mile and a half distant and nearly three
thousand feet below. Several parties were toiling up the Tête Blanche,
but halted upon hearing our exuberant yells of delight as we settled
down to our meal. It was cold; the wind was still strong and blowing
snow dust about, and, though all wore extra clothing and wind-proof
overalls, we were by no means overburdened with warmth.
Shortly after eight o’clock we again set off. The slopes of the
terrace now steepened up rapidly, and soon we were once more cutting
steps--this time in good hard snow--up to the bergschrund separating us
from the upper end of the terrace. Just before gaining the lower lip,
we heard the rattle of falling stones, and a generous avalanche from
the gully between the great _gendarme_ on the east ridge and the summit
crashed down straight towards us. During one of my reconnaissance
trips, I had watched, through a telescope, stones falling down this
gully and had observed that they were all caught by the lower lip of
the schrund. Indeed, it was precisely this fact that had led me to
the conclusion that the lower lip must protrude very much beyond the
upper which would, therefore, form a serious barrier in our path. On
this occasion, again, every stone of the avalanche was swallowed up by
the bergschrund, without the slightest danger to us. As soon as all
was quiet we resumed work and, on gaining the lower lip, moved down
along it to the left, where it approached more under the upper lip.
The obstacle we now faced was assuredly a difficult one. It appeared
to me that the upper lip could be attacked, with fair prospects of
success, at its lowest part by cutting steps up about twelve feet of
very steep ice and then drilling one’s way through a cornice formed of
hard-frozen snow, some three feet thick, extending from the edge of the
upper lip. An alternative way lay in making a difficult traverse still
farther to the left across the ice face leading to a fault or notch in
the cornice, affording access to the slopes above. At first I chose the
former way. Forster anchored himself well and, holding both my rope and
Peto’s, let us across the débris-choked floor of the bergschrund to the
foot of the steep pitch. I was soon cutting my way up this, while Peto
held me steady so as to avoid the necessity of making handholds. Now
out of arm’s reach, but jammed against the ice by his axe, I began to
drill through the cornice. I succeeded in driving my axe through into
daylight, but only after a great effort, and was forced to return for a
rest. Forster then followed up in my steps, but, not liking the idea of
laboriously enlarging the hole in the cornice, returned to investigate
the possibilities of the alternative traverse to the left. For some
distance, Peto was able to support him with his axe, but for the last
ten or twelve feet Forster had to cut with his left hand, relying on
his right to help him retain his balance. By a brilliant piece of
ice work, he wormed his way through the fault in the cornice out on
to the slopes above. As soon as he had obtained good standing ground
and driven his axe to the head into the snow, I followed quickly, and
together we gave Peto the necessary aid to enable him to join us.
Once more I took the lead. We were now aiming straight for the
eastern extremity of the level section of ridge lying immediately
to the east of the great _gendarme_. Everywhere the ground was so
steep that steps had to be cut, but four or five blows with the axe
were always sufficient, as the snow was hard and of good quality.
To gain the foot of the _gendarme_ over the slopes directly above
us was out of the question on account of the impassability of an
intervening bergschrund. Farther to the east, however, this schrund
was well-bridged, and we crossed without difficulty. Here the snow
changed. It was still good, but no longer so hard. Roped on to our
two-hundred-foot length of sash-line, Forster now took the lead and
kicked his way right up on to the ridge, while Peto and I enjoyed a
welcome, if brief, respite from our activities. At eleven o’clock
we were all sitting together on a great flat slab on the east ridge
overlooking the Val Tournanche, protected from the wind and revelling
in the warm sunshine. We had won. From here to the top was merely
a question of time and patience. The great north face of the Dent
d’Hérens, which had so long been spoken of as “unmöglich,” had this day
at last suffered defeat, and many were the shouts of triumph hurled
down at its hitherto hidden recesses. In the simple amusements so dear
to the mountaineer, a whole hour was spent at this delightful spot.
We ate, sunned ourselves, and drank in the beauties of the marvellous
view. I will not expatiate thereon, but will content myself with paying
tribute to the Matterhorn which, seen as we saw it that morning, must
surely be the most strikingly wonderful mountain in the world.
At noon, having discarded our climbing irons, we again roped, Forster
leading, I coming as second man, and Peto, as before, bringing up the
rear. Making our way up a steep snow ridge, followed by a vertical
chimney--which, thanks to liberal handholds, was not difficult, though
somewhat strenuous--we had soon covered the distance of about eighty
feet that had separated us from the east end of the horizontal stretch
of ridge, and now overlooked the uppermost snows of the Za-de-Zan
Glacier, from which we were divided by less than two hundred feet of
easy scree slopes. Early in the day we had noticed the formation of
fish clouds, and from here saw that Mont Blanc was “smoking a pipe.”
The weather was obviously breaking; but, provided no time was wasted,
we counted on its holding out long enough to enable us to finish the
ascent. The horizontal stretch of ridge, despite the fresh snow that
was lying about, gave no serious trouble, and soon we were at the
foot of the great _gendarme_. It was plain that the latter, even in
the best of circumstances, would prove a stubborn customer if tackled
directly over the ridge. For the sake of economising time, therefore,
we moved out on to the south side, and for more than two hours were
kept fully occupied on slabby rocks, where the handholds tended to
slope downwards. Had the ground been dry, the climbing would probably
have been fairly easy; but to-day ice and new snow were everywhere.
Forster, free from the burden of his knapsack, which now graced my
shoulders, was in his element. Our pace was not rapid, because the
conditions rendered it advisable to move only one at a time, and the
rock, apart from being glazed with ice, was so unreliable that great
care was necessary. At last, shortly before drawing level with the
summit of the _gendarme_, a scramble up some particularly nasty slabs
brought us on to a buttress of blocks where we were able to climb
together. Forster dashed away in great style. We regained the ridge at
the lowest point in the slight depression that lies between the summit
of the great _gendarme_ and that of the mountain itself. From there the
climb along the final ridge was pure joy. Nowhere did we meet with the
least difficulty. The rock was extremely good and wind-swept free from
snow. The ridge was very narrow--in places even sensational. Sometimes
it hung over to one side, sometimes to the other, and once it actually
assumed a mushroom-like appearance and overhung on both. Our pace was
furious, and Forster’s exclamations of delight at the splendid
climbing quite invigorating.
[Illustration: _The north face of the Dent d’Hérens, showing route
followed._]
[Illustration: _Back at the Schönbühl hut after the climb._
_Facing page 210._
]
At 3.15 p.m., fifteen and a half hours after leaving the Schönbühl hut,
we passed over the little snow-crest which forms the summit of the
Dent d’Hérens. We did not halt; the weather was too menacing, and it
behoved us to get off the mountain as quickly as possible. Just beyond
the summit, we again altered the order of the rope--Forster retained
the lead, Peto came next, and I brought up the rear. After a short,
easy climb down the steep but firm rocks of the little summit cliff
overlooking the north-west face, we struck a well-trodden track in the
scree slopes, and passing down these and two ice slopes--the first
a short one, the second long enough to induce us to put on climbing
irons--we reached a point on the west ridge whence a convenient descent
could be made over broken rocks towards the Za-de-Zan Glacier. With
the exception of one chimney, which might well have been avoided, all
was easy going until, at the foot of the rocks, we had to descend a
little ice slope and cross the bergschrund below it. The deep snow
covering the ice slope was in a parlous condition, and Forster had to
cut well into the ice beneath in order to obtain secure footing. As
luck would have it, we chanced to strike the best place to cross the
bergschrund; for the misty haze now obscuring the sun also hid detail
to such an extent that, until we were actually on the bergschrund, it
was at times hard even to detect its presence. The usual sort of little
zig-zag manœuvre by means of which the weak points in the bergschrund’s
defences were connected up, saw us safely over on to the soft snow
slopes below. We had no difficulty in getting through the first small
icefall to the Za-de-Zan Glacier, though at one place we had to descend
into a crevasse and make our way up the other side in order to effect a
crossing.
Passing close under the Tiefenmattenjoch, a long tramp in soft, wet
snow brought us to the edge of the lower icefall. Having been through
this fall in 1919, I now went ahead. But, failing to keep sufficiently
far to the left, I did not succeed in finding the quickest way through,
with the result that, to escape from its clutches, we finally had to
resort to the spare rope to descend a bergschrund which must have been
nearly fifty feet high. From there onwards all was plain sailing. A
glissade and a gentle walk over the nearly level basin of the glacier
led to the top of the moraine, whence, free from the sodden rope,
we plunged down towards the corner of the west ridge of the Tête de
Valpelline, at the foot of which stands the Cabane d’Aosta. The ten
minutes’ uphill walk to the hut was, for three weary mountaineers, as
hard a pitch as any they had tackled that day. The hut was none too
tidy, but we had food and, some kindly climbers having provided us
with sufficient wood, we were able to cook quite a passable meal. The
weather did not actually break that evening, but the whole sky was
filled with dense masses of cloud driven up by the south wind, and we
went to sleep expecting to have a lively time in crossing the Col de
Valpelline on the following day.
Next morning we were under way at 6 a.m., and in less than three hours
had gained the Col de Valpelline. The sky was completely overcast,
and all major summits were hidden in cloud, but we suffered no
inconvenience from mist and, in under four and a half hours after
leaving the Cabane d’Aosta, were receiving the warm congratulations of
the Schönbühl hut caretaker, who had watched our ascent through his
telescope with such assiduity that he had strained his right eye and
was now in a state of perpetual wink!
FOOTNOTES:
[7] “Impossible.”