THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
In early February the winter sports season at Gurnigel was already
on the wane.
The four hundred odd people in the great big hotel _de luxe_ had
dwindled down to about three hundred, all of them English, yet the
gaieties both day and night proceeded merrily under the direction of
the genial and ever-popular manager, whose chief object was to know
each of his visitors personally and see that they were looked after by
his efficiently-trained staff.
The Swiss have ever been the best _hôteliers_ in the world. Wherever
you go in either hemisphere, you know that if you decide upon a
Swiss-managed hotel you will be comfortable at moderate expense.
So it was at Gurnigel. The many petty jealousies and little bickerings
between the English clientèle often caused the amiable director to
retire to his chalet at night and clench his fists in desperation. And
well he might. He held an onerous and responsible position, and no one
knew his troubles more intimately than the old artist Mr. Gordon
Mitchell, who almost daily sat in his private office and held counsel
with him.
Mitchell was a man of world-wide repute who had no axe to grind. He
very naturally treated the conspiracy against himself by a few
nobodies as the result of disappointed ambitions. “People pay their
little round sums to a tourist agency, and expect to be regarded as
little tin gods,” was how he expressed it to his intimates.
One day Sibell, who had grown friendly with the smiling, round-faced
old bachelor, was sitting at tea with him and her financé, when she
said:
“Do you know, I’d love to see a glacier. I’ve read lots about them,
but I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, Miss Dare, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t. Why not take the
train up to the Little Scheidegg, and go out upon the Eiger Glacier?
That would give you a very good idea of what a glacier is like.” Then,
turning to Otway, he said: “I have to go up to the Scheidegg the day
after to-morrow, and I’ll escort you both, if you like. You’ll want a
guide. Why not take John? He’s excellent at glacier work--that is, if
you can induce him to leave here for three days.”
The idea appealed to the young pair.
“Your aunt put you both in my charge before she went away, you know,”
Mr. Mitchell laughed. “So I make no excuse for the suggestion. You
want to go on a glacier, so I’m ready to take you there. The Eiger
Glacier is close to the Jungfrau, beneath it, as a matter of fact, and
will give you perhaps the best idea of glaciers you can get in
Switzerland.”
“But what is a glacier really like?” asked the girl in her ignorance.
“Imagine a sea of ice with huge fissures in it on every hand, cracks
hundreds of feet deep--all pure grey-green ice--the ice of ages,”
answered Mr. Mitchell, who, in his younger days, had been an ardent
Alpine climber. “Sometimes, if you are lucky enough to see an ice
avalanche, you witness one of the most stupendous alterations of
Nature. You see the ice edge of a gigantic glacier of countless ages
break away and fall with thunder over a precipice, the great ice
boulders bounding from rock to rock down thousands of feet until they
become pulverized, and, like white powder, stream down like
swift-moving rivers out of the ravines, into the valley below. The
sight of a great ice-avalanche is one of the most awe-inspiring scenes
in the world, hundreds of thousands of tons of the remains of the ice
age breaking from the edge of the dangerous glaciers to be hurled into
space with irresistible force, carrying everything before them. It is
usual for all glaciers to move forward some eight or ten inches each
day, and as they move, they form deep and dangerous crevasses,
sometimes two hundred feet deep, terrible death-traps for the Alpinist
who climbs.”
“How wonderful!” said the girl. “I’d love to see a glacier and go on
it.”
“Well, I am ready to take you both,” said the grey-haired old Alpine
climber. “So if you like to fix it, I’m quite game to go to
Interlaken, and then up the Wengern Alp to Scheidegg.”
They decided to go, and two days later took train up the delightful
valley of Lauterbrunnen, and there by the rack and pinion mountain
line for a further four thousand feet, climbing on the face of the
Alps past the popular winter-sports village of Wengen up to Wengern
Alp and Scheidegg.
As they sat together upon a seat at the lonely little mountain halt,
with the dark Trummelbach Valley between them, and beyond, the Eiger,
Mönch, and Jungfrau, with the Schneehorn and a dozen other finely
poised peaks, with their glaciers, black rocks, and fields of eternal
snow forming a wonderful panorama, they suddenly heard a roar.
“Avalanche!” cried Mr. Gordon Mitchell, springing to his feet. “Look!
Several!”
Then across from the valley came an increasing thunderous roar of
ice-avalanches from the glaciers of the Kühlauenen, the two
Bandlauenen, and from the deeply-cleft Giessen and the Lammlaui in
rapid succession, while, from one or other of the five narrow gullies
in the black rocks, the steam of ice, ground to powder, poured forth,
raising great clouds of dust. It was a unique sight and never to be
forgotten, for they were face to face with Nature, witnessing the
irresistible force of the mighty, grinding glaciers, as they slowly
moved down towards the valley, until in the ages to come the last
relics of the Ice Age will have vanished and left their traces upon
the ice-worn rocks through which they have passed.
Have you ever seen an avalanche? The warm wind, known in the Alps as
the Föhn, is probably blowing. The glaciers and snowy sides of the
mountains are slowly thawing. We hear ominous cracking sounds deep in
the crevasses if we happen to be on the glacier, while water is
everywhere trickling across the surface of the ice, for under the
Föhn the snow is gradually disappearing.
As the trio watched, the roar slowly died away.
“Look!” cried Sibell, pointing to another glacier high up near the
summit before them. “There’s another! Oh, what a wonderful sight!”
Of a sudden Nature trembled as though in expectation. They held their
breaths instinctively, when, in a few seconds, they saw great walls of
ice collapse, detaching themselves from the glacier and toppling over
the edge of a precipice, followed by rumbling, a blustering, and then
a deafening roar, as from the lowest part of the glacier the ice
smashed in its fall, and poured through the funnels of rock, far down
into the valley, just as it has done for thousands of years, and as it
will for yet more thousands. The thundering of the avalanche is the
angry voice of the Giants disturbed from their winter silence by the
presence of man. It was an awe-inspiring sight, the memory of which
would live with them always.
That night they spent at the comfortable Bellevue Hotel at Scheidegg,
over seven thousand feet above the sea, and, looking from their
windows, saw deep in the valley the lights of gay Grindelwald
twinkling thousands of feet below.
After sunset a keen frost set in, as it always does at that altitude.
Scheidegg is, _par excellence_, the resort of the practised skier, who
can run down to Grindelwald or to Wengen without danger, and it is
consequently very popular, for the snow up there is always good when
often impossible at lower heights.
After dinner the well-known artist sat with his two young friends over
the big log fire in the hall, all three smoking cigarettes with their
coffee and _kirsch_ discussing the morrow’s adventure on the Eiger
Glacier.
“I’m getting most excited!” cried Sibell. “Fancy walking out upon a
glacier!”
“Yes, but it is not without a certain element of danger,” remarked Mr.
Gordon Mitchell, who had had a good deal of experience in glacier
work, and who had picked up his ice-axe at the well-known Hôtel du
Lac in Interlaken, where he kept it from year to year. Sibell and her
lover had borrowed axes from the hotel in which they had taken shelter
for the night, and they had been greatly interested in the
strongly-made implements, with their hafts of ash and hatchets of
finest steel, upon which human life so often depends in the Alps.
While they were enjoying the warmth of the fire and chatting with half
a dozen skiers of both sexes who, like themselves, were going on an
expedition in the morning, the smart Swiss hotel manager entered, and,
addressing Mr. Mitchell, whom he knew well as a devotee of winter
sports, said:
“John, the guide, has just telephoned from Gurnigel that he has
unfortunately hurt his ankle while giving a lesson this afternoon.
Somebody ran into him, so he cannot come up in the morning. I propose
to telephone to Amacher and Stutz down in Wengen to come up by the
first train. Both are good guides of the Jungfrau and they know the
glacier well.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Mitchell. “I’ve had Amacher before, up to the
Guggi Hut and also to the summit of the Breithorn and on other tours.
He’s a first-class fellow. Thanks, if you’ll get them both for us,
I’ll be obliged.”
“Stutz was one of those who climbed with Prince Chichibu of Japan last
season,” said the hotel manager. “The Prince is a wonderful climber,
he says, as well as a good skier. Everyone in the Oberland admired him
when he was in Mürren. A pity he had to leave to return to Japan
under such tragic circumstances.”
“Yes. Everyone knows what a real winter sportsman he is,” remarked the
old Alpinist. And then the conversation turned upon the daring
exploits of the Imperial Japanese Prince in the Bernese Alps.
That night a blizzard raged, one of those blinding snowstorms which
arise in the high mountains so suddenly and abate so rapidly, yet are
so dangerous to those who may be caught in them without shelter. The
railway watchmen on duty, seeing the rapidly increasing drifts,
telephoned down to Lauterbrunnen to set the snow-ploughs at work in
order to keep open communication with the world below. So all night
the electric ploughs were slowly going up and down to keep the road
clear, though it was impossible to keep open that section of a couple
of miles between Scheidegg and the Eiger Gletscher station, where the
tunnel enters the mountain and climbs to the Jungfrau.
Hence, when Sibell--rising early and putting on her mountain kit,
consisting of a waterproof wind-jacket and breeches, thick woollen
stockings and her heavily nailed climbing-boots, which differed in
many respects from those built for ski-ing--appeared below in the
hall, she met Mr. Mitchell, who said:
“The line is blocked, so we’ll have to walk to the glacier. Amacher
and Stutz are here having breakfast, and they are packing their
rucksacks for us.”
Just then Brinsley put in an appearance, and the three went into the
_salle-à-manger_ to a substantial English meal of ham and eggs, which
the popular artist had specially ordered as a preliminary to the day’s
expedition.
Later the two guides joined them in the hall. Amacher, a short,
thick-set man, dark and ill-shaven, with that keen eagle’s look in his
great blue eyes which seems inborn in the mountain guide, approached
and greeted Mr. Mitchell.
“_Grüss Gott_, Herr Mitchell!” he exclaimed, putting out his big,
hard hand. He wore a battered round felt cap with his snow-glare
glasses around the band, and over his shoulder a coiled safety-rope of
best and strongest hemp, while suspended from his wrist was his trusty
ice-axe, that had saved his life in a dozen or so tight corners when
climbing.
“Goin’ across the glacier to-day, eh?” he asked in his kind of
parrot-English. He was one of the bravest guides of that perilous
range, and always acted as director of the search-party of guides who
were ever ready to risk their lives to save those reported missing
upon mountain or glacier.
“Yes, Fritz. We want you to take us on the glacier. My friends here
are anxious to see the crevasses--the deep ones.”
The sturdy, sun-tanned Swiss--brown-faced because of the reflection of
the glaring sun upon the ice--replied:
“All right, Herr Mitchell.” And then he introduced the tall, thin,
wiry man who stood behind him, as Hans Stutz. The guide, proud of the
bronze badge with the white enamelled cross on his chest, which showed
him to be approved and licensed by the Swiss Alpine Club, smiled and
lifted his peaked cap and wished them “Good morning, gentlemen and
lady.”
He, too, had his rope on his shoulder, his well-filled rucksack upon
his back, and his ice-axe ready for the crossing of the treacherous
glacier.
“The weather is none too good,” Fritz mentioned to Hans in
Swiss-German, and Mr. Mitchell, understanding the remark, asked at
once, “Look here, Amacher, is there any danger?”
“Oh, no,” laughed the guide. “If the weather turns bad we can get back
again. We will go by the safe route and show the lady and gentleman
the deep crevasses. There are lots of them just now--after the Föhn.
We’ve got the food in our rucksacks. Shall we go?”
The others assented, for all were ready dressed.
“Walk very slowly, mees, over the snow,” Amacher advised, taking the
girl’s arm. “You have a long way to go and hard walking. Just
easy--easy--so!” And he slowed down and made her walk his pace. “You
see, we are climbing another thousand feet, before we get to the
glacier, and you must not be fatigued before we get there. If you hear
noises, great cracklings, water running far below and look down into
the darkness, don’t get frightened. Hans and I are with you. We know
the glacier from boys.”
“I trust in you,” said the girl, placing her gloved hand upon his
strong arm, while Brinsley was walking with the tall Stutz.
“No danger. Not at all,” Amacher said. “I am guide. Trust me, mees.”
“I do, Amacher,” she said, and they went along up the steep hill,
following the railway lines and passing the kennels of the grey wolf
Uke Arctic dogs kept there, until at last they reached the moraine,
that beach of stones and débris left by the Ice Age, while beyond it
lay an undulating mass of square miles of ice, full of treacherous
ice-bridges across wide and fatal crevasses, yawning chasms from
twenty to three hundred feet deep.
At the edge of the ice they paused. It seemed to them--as it really
was--the roof of the world.
The guides removed their rucksacks from their backs to rest, and
Sibell, at Amacher’s invitation, seated herself on one of them and had
a cigarette her lover offered her.
The sky had changed. From the howling blizzard of early morning the
bad weather had abated, and now the sun shone so brightly in a
cloudless sky that Amacher and Stutz had put down their glare-glasses
over their eyes as precaution, though their charges felt no
inconvenience.
Already it was noon, so it was decided to have a sandwich before
venturing out upon the glacier. Weatherwise, Amacher scanned the
mountains around, and in a low voice remarked in his native
Swiss-German to his fellow-guide: “Bad weather coming, friend Hans.”
“Yes,” replied Stutz. “We won’t go very far. Up to the corner, if it’s
narrow enough to get them over.”
Mr. Mitchell, who understood only very little Swiss-German, for it is
a language which few Englishmen have ever been able to master,
believed it to be a joke between the two guides, for both men laughed.
A few minutes later Amacher uncoiled his rope and began to make
mysterious turns and knots in it as he placed it over Sibell’s
shoulders, naturally thrilling her with the idea of mountaineering in
the high Alps.
Having securely roped her around her waist, and putting a hitch over
her shoulder, he gave her several coils of slack to hold and then
roped her to her lover in the same way, and afterwards to Mr.
Mitchell, while he roped himself to one end of the file, and Stutz
fastened on the other.
“Now,” he said warningly, “be careful. I go first and prick the snow
with my axe. Watch me, all of you, and put your feet exactly in the
steps I have made. Now--off!”
And they went out upon the snow-covered glacier in single file,
Amacher in front picking his way very carefully, fearful of stepping
upon a thin crust of snow concealing some deep crevasse.