building is erected; heavy beams as thick as my body, strongly fixed
together, make a truncated pyramid with a rectangular base, which looks
as if it might stand the storms, or get buried in snow. At present
the wind whistles through, and it presents no surface to the blast.
M. Vallot, who is building this for an observatory, has had to plant
the foundations in ice, finding no rock after thirty feet excavation.
Whether the ice will move, or piled up snow will displace the structure,
remains to be proved. Snow collects always more on the north (French)
aspect of the summit, and this tendency to collect may be increased by
the obstruction. The workmen stated at Chamounix that plum stones were
found at a depth of twenty feet, and if this be true it is exceedingly
interesting and important as showing that these stones, which must
have been dropped on the summit by travellers, had maintained their
verticalness, and had not been carried down towards the glaciers below.
There the hut stands at present with a small tricolour flag floating
alongside. My vulgar wish to climb the timbers was unexpressed and
unfulfilled. We were shut in completely by dark fog. Cold wind and the
dangers of storm drove us down to just below the top on the Chamounix
side, where there is a hut built as an observatory. This shelter we
feared at first to leave; wind and darkness kept us there, no tracks were
visible, nor anything to guide us but the snow all round. The wind was
not the dangerous (south) Föhn wind, and presently, after a cold blast,
we were able for a moment to see our direction; then by the advice of our
guides we hurried down over the Grand Plateau, scuttling and sliding to
the Grands Mulets, and safety, in two hours and ten minutes. After a cup
of tea and a rest we continued our journey over the beautiful glacier
des Bossons in bright sunshine. We reached Couttet’s capital hotel in
Chamounix at six o’clock, thus traversing Mont Blanc from Italy into
France in fourteen hours, including halts by the way. This is a far finer
expedition than up and down from Chamounix, but is not so popular, and
the traveller, bringing with him foreign guides into the place, is not
saluted by a salvo of artillery.
Next day we were at Montanvert admiring the Mer de Glace, and during
thunderstorms of many hours we made our arrangements to climb the
Aiguille du Dru. Sleeping out under a rock, where we had passed a stormy
night last year, we began in fine weather our steep ascent mostly of
rocks, with plenty of opportunities for adventures on the way. There is
one place in climbing the rocks where a rope is hung over a precipice,
and by gently swinging on this rope a long step or giant stride is
made across to a foothold beyond. It is only one of the many positions
in mountaineering where imagination shows you what a slight distance
there is between what you are and what you may become. In the descent a
frightful avalanche of stones fell down just as we cleared the rocks, but
it was not near enough to shake our nerves.
On the 28th of August I slept at the Couvercle to climb the Aiguille
Verte. This sleeping place is a good one where an enormous rock overhangs
the little platform on which the sleeper stretches, and it is grandly
situated above the famous Jardin in the Glacier de Talèfre. Being roused
before midnight in threatening weather, we hesitated before attacking
such a mountain as the Aiguille Verte with a high wind and storm-clouds
in prospect; meantime we had some hot chocolate, and only set off with
some misgivings at one in the morning. The wind moderated as the day
broke, we got over the bergschrund, and made a successful ascent in about
nine hours. The summit of the Verte is of snow, commanding a fine view
of Mont Blanc and the peaks around. We noted with feelings of annoyance
that the majestic snow curve upon the head of the Monarch is broken by
the erection of Vallot’s wooden building, which looks from here like a
projection of dark rocks. Time may revenge himself, and play skittles
with the timbers.
When I parted from my guides, whose conduct was worthy of all praise,
and came down to Chamounix, I saw there a most piteous sight, that of a
fine young fellow with both feet frost-bitten. All the toes of both feet
were black, and large blisters appeared on the reddened skin of the foot
above the blackened toes. He was a guide named Maquignaz, and forty-eight
hours before my visit had been exposed during one night on the Italian
side of Mont Blanc; he was with Mr. F. and another guide, a cousin of the
same name. The others of the party put their feet into their knapsacks,
and took such like precautions, and so escaped. On examining this poor
fellow’s boots I discovered that, though sound enough in the soles, they
had the tongues fastened only halfway up the upper leathers, and with no
gaiters or other wrapping except his trousers, he must have got his feet
wet. The latest accounts I heard were not hopeful as to saving the big
toes. Without the great toes he cannot climb again and his occupation
will be gone; the loss of the little toes is not so serious. The
reflection after such a sad sight is forced upon one, that though over
sixty deaths are said to have occurred on Mont Blanc, history takes small
account of the travellers who have lost portions of their bodies upon the
mountains and had their after lives wrecked by their maimed condition.
The delay caused by an endeavour to help this unfortunate man, decided
me to journey to Geneva with my friend rather than travel alone over
the Tête Noire. It was late next night before I reached Zermatt again
and joined my wife, who had reached the Riffelberg from Paris ten days
previously. We found most comfortable quarters at the Riffel Alp lower
down, in an enormous hotel, where two hundred and seventy people dined
every day, including an archbishop and forty-five clergymen.
The weather this year has been good for climbers, though there have
been peculiar dangers associated with the sunshine; and as every season
has its own peculiar dangers, so this year the weather was almost too
good. The sun tamed the severity of giant peaks, and made the descents
dangerous from avalanches.
The great rocks have been bared of ice and snow and tempted attacks,
while earth-fast and frost-bound stones were loosened from the heights
above and made the mountains dangerous. The steep couloirs of the
Aiguille Verte were decidedly dangerous from falling stones, and though
I do not pretend to have any hair-erecting story to tell, it will be
understood that we made our way up and down on the rocks, as much as
possible avoiding the tracks of the stones. The traverses across the
couloirs were as rapid as caution could permit, and only made when
absolutely necessary. Great stones occasionally hurtling down as if
shot from a catapult, with enough force to dash the brains out or hurl
to destruction the poor climber balanced in his ice step. Thus upon the
Aiguille Noire a man was killed by a blow on the head, and many had
narrow escapes. On all great mountains where ice, snow, and rock have all
to be climbed over, it must be difficult to find weather which will suit
so as to find everything in perfect order, but for the true enjoyment
of a climb both the man and the mountain must be in fine condition. The
weather of the day I have described on Mont Blanc, though it gave us
some uneasiness, was just perfect for avoidance of fatigue and mountain
sickness. Absence of sun and presence of wind enabled the climbers to
feel fairly vigorous, though at such a height. In other conditions of
hot, still weather, the strain might have been severe.
These days are now delightful memories for me, and if my remarks just
written do not rise above what Scott called the “ordinary bow-wow,” at
least they are “high notes” in one sense, and may find an echo in the
hearts of those who love the mountains.
An Alpine Letter
1892
Saas Fée—Grimsel Pass—Mountain sickness—A tired lady on
the Matterhorn—Ascent of the Matterhorn—Ascent of the
Ober-Gabelhorn—The Trift Joch from Zermatt to Zinal—The
Concordia Hut—The Jungfrau—The Lötschen Lücke—Mr. Nettleship’s
death on Mont Blanc—Beaten by bad weather on the Dru—The
disaster at St. Gervais—Neuchâtel to Bâle.
“In all my wanderings round this world of care” I have found few places
so free from the black canker as the mountain tops. Let the climber carry
out a burden as big as was Christian’s in the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, he
leaves it all behind upon the high peaks. If Mr. Gladstone could only
have managed to attain to the summit of Snowdon he might have seen more
than the coast of Ireland.
Truly it may be said that the outside of a mountain is good for the
inside of a man. So once again I take my holidays upon the Alps, and
will hope that the following account may interest readers who travel,
for these like to be reminded of beautiful places they have visited, and
those who stay at home may be encouraged to try the mountains abroad.
In order to avoid the hot part of the Rhone Valley, and to reach Saas
Fée, our first halting place, by an interesting route, my wife and I took
the train for Lucerne—by way of Calais, Rheims, Laon, and Bâle. This
journey takes less than a day. Starting from London at 11 A.M. we found
ourselves the following morning in a boat on the blue Lake of Lucerne
with the mountains around us. Travelling by rail over the Brünig Pass,
which we had crossed on foot ten years before, we reminded each other of
a long walk from Meiringen to Lauterbrunnen in one day, over the Greater
and the Lesser Sheidecks when our porter over-ate himself at Grindelwald,
about midway, and nearly collapsed at the end of the journey, turning
very white and sick in the steep descent to Lauterbrunnen. We came to
Meiringen, still chiefly in ruins from the recent fire. The hot, strong
Föhn wind blowing from the south is the cause of these awful fires,
it will both start and spread the flames. For miles round Meiringen
there are notices forbidding smoking in the open road when this wind is
blowing. From this sad spot by easy roads we came to Guttannen and here
spent the night, rising early next morning for a walk over the Grimsel
Pass, with a man to carry our light luggage.
The first early morning walk in Switzerland is always delicious, and
wipes away the discomfort of the journey out. We stayed at Handeck to
look at the finest waterfall in the country. Two converging torrents,
“with a mighty uproar,” pour their waters into an unfathomable,
mysterious abyss, hidden by clouds of spray, where a rainbow arches in
the sun.
As we walk up the pass, which has been described as a “sepulchre unburied
by the sun,” there are, on either hand, enormous, dark, smoothly rounded
rocks, the evidence of glacier action in the ages gone. The Grimsel
Hospice is situated in the most savage rock scenery, and is not improved
by containing a piano, electric bells, and a smart waiter in dress
clothes. However, I made use of their telegraph to order a mule from Saas
Fée to meet us at Stalden for my wife to ride up there. All the crooked
places are now being made plain by means of telegraphs and railways!
A great new road is in process of making over this pass, and as
we reached the summit, the blasting operations were heard in many
explosions; each was at first like the pop of a champagne cork, but after
a pause came a tremendous thundering echo from all the mountains around.
We left the Rhone glacier on our left hand, and descended to Obergestelen
in the upper part of the Rhone valley, taking there a carriage to Brieg.
The sensations are delightful on a sunny day, when, after some hours’
walking in bleak, bare, rock wilderness, you come down into a green and
fertile valley; the effect of the keen fresh air is still with you as you
drive along among the trees and flowers in the sun, and you are cheered
with a sense of well-being in the present and the future. Here you
“cannot see the smiling earth and think there’s hell hereafter.” A night
was spent at Brieg and then a short journey by rail to Visp and up to
Stalden, from whence I followed my wife’s mule to Fée. After spending a
few days in comfortable quarters there I left to make some expeditions.
My climbing friend, A. B., was at the Eggishorn Hotel, and had just made
the ascent of the Finsteraarhorn, the highest peak of the Oberland,
whereupon he had been taken with mountain-sickness, and made his ascent
with some difficulty, his guide helping him on and holding his head
occasionally while he vomited. His trouble was, probably, caused by
his going too fast up his first peak, for, though accustomed to the
mountains, he had only been out from England a few days of this season.
This interesting malady is well described in Whymper’s travels amongst
the Great Andes of the Equator; both himself and his men suffered from
headache and fever, but the conditions were very different from what
obtains on our mountains; the highest point is here only 15,700 feet
(Mont Blanc), compared with over 20,000 on Chimborazo. All exertion seems
more severe at great heights, and though in Europe mountain-sickness is
rare, there are few climbers who have not felt at 14,000 feet a sense of
breathlessness if going upwards at any great pace. It is often hard to
distinguish it from mere fatigue, and I do not think that guides would
acknowledge it in themselves; but for myself I have had the feeling, and
“thought I could not breathe in that fine air.” Whymper’s observations
prove that man may gradually accustom himself to these great alterations
in barometric pressure, though the dangers of want of training and of
sudden ascents are well known.
Paul Bert, by means of a metal cylinder, in which he shut himself, had
the pressure of the air reduced to be equivalent with that on Mont Blanc,
but was soon sick and dizzy; afterwards, in experiments, he was able so
much to revive himself with bags of oxygen gas, that three balloonists
were emboldened to ascend to a height of 28,000 feet, taking with them
a supply of oxygen: with the result that when the balloon again reached
earth two of the aeronauts were dead, and the third had a very narrow
escape. Man has not yet gained the summit of Mount Everest.
Very extraordinary is the description given of the effects of altered
atmospheric pressure by early climbers. Mr. Fellows (afterwards Sir
Charles Fellows) in 1827, with Mr. Hawes and ten guides, writes that at
the distance of 1000 feet below the summit of Mont Blanc, “the effect of
the rarity of the air was still more striking, for the noses of several
of our guides burst out with blood.... None of us were free from many
effects of the peculiarities of the atmosphere: we all spat blood;
the eyes of all were blood-shot, our faces were blistered, and in our
respiration we all suffered intensely; for it was impossible to proceed
many paces without stopping to recover our breath.” Near the summit “two
of our guides fell from faintness, and copiously vomited blood, while all
of us gave proof of its internal loss (we all experienced symptoms of
haematuria).” Mr. Fellows and his companions suffered less than did the
guides.
Those who are interested in this subject should read the account of
the ascent of the German Emperor’s balloon Phœnix in 1895, in which
Coxwell’s record was beaten. Oxygen cylinders were used.
My friend, A. B., joined me at Schwarz See to climb the Matterhorn. Our
two guides were also ready; the leading man, Alois Kalbermatten, we
usually called Hercules; his brother, a still stronger man, was named
Quinbus Flestrin, or the man-mountain. Together we went up to the hut to
spend the night, ready to begin our ascent in the morning. As we were
thinking about supper there came down a wretched, worn-out, grey lady,
who said she had been up the Matterhorn, was too exhausted to proceed,
and must stay the night with us. The place was very unfit, dirty, and
stuffy, so we made her rest awhile, restoring her with brandy and
lemonade. I then made her guides rope her carefully the whole of the way
down, and she reached the hotel safely.
On a fine day when the Matterhorn will “go,” the hut is always crowded,
chiefly with foreigners, and we stretched ourselves on the bunkers
alongside of a polyglot Pole, who talked half the night. Italian guides
stole one of our lanterns, and my friend’s silk scarf.
We had a lovely day for our ascent, which occupied six hours, including
halts and feedings. Upon the summit we spent about an hour of most
glorious life in view of Italy on one side and Switzerland on the other,
while we walked carefully on the delicate ridge of snow which forms the
apex of the peak. The ascent of the Matterhorn from the Zermatt side
is more interesting historically than as a climb. The hut occupied by
Whymper in early attempts still remains, and as the guides pass the fatal
spot they cheerfully point out where poor so and so broke his neck, where
poor Dr. B. died. The shattered photographic apparatus remains on the
precipice upon which, two years ago, an entire party was killed.
The difficult parts near the top are now so strongly roped that some are
tempted to make this climb who are not fitted by previous training, and
as a tired man is a dangerous man on a steep mountain which is 14,700
feet high, I fear we have not done with accidents on the Matterhorn. The
descent ought to be carefully done, and almost as long a time given to it
as the ascent. At present there is no railway up, but such a project is
seriously in the air, or, like the mountain, _in nubibus_.
After a pleasant day at Schwarz See wandering above the beautiful
Zmutt valley, we went to Zermatt and thence to the Trift Inn to try
the Ober-Gabelhorn, but bad weather beat us back. Later on we were
successful, and had a glorious day, starting at two in the morning in the
starlight.
“So climbers by some Alpine mere,
Walk very softly thro’ the clear
Unlitten dawn of day:
The morning star before them shows
Beyond the rocks, beyond the snows,
Their never-travelled way.”
We were five and a half hours climbing up, and were back about half an
hour after mid-day. The snow was in good order, but coming down we had
a run to dodge falling stones, though none came upon us. Next day we
crossed the Trift Joch, a famous pass from Zermatt to Zinal. From our inn
we reached the Mountet hut under five hours, intending to return over the
Rothhorn next day; but at the hut a great storm of hail and wind kept us
in shelter for a time, and drove us down in the afternoon to Zinal, where
it rained night and day continuously.
[Illustration: ICEBERGS STRANDED ON THE BED OF THE MÄRJELEN SEE AFTER THE
DEPARTURE OF THE WATER.]
With such a downfall, which on the high peaks would be mostly snow, it
was useless to think of any Zermatt mountains at present, so we decided
to go to the Eggishorn Hotel, and then try the Jungfrau, one of the
Oberland giants. The storm had rather scattered me, for I had some wraps
at the Trift inn, a bag at Zermatt, unpaid bills at both places, besides
a wife at Saas Fée. However, this was settled so far as luggage and
payment concerned me, by sending our man to arrange it, and we went off
to the Eggishorn. On a Sunday afternoon, after service in the little
church, we walked to the Concordia hut, and found the Märjelen See
drained almost dry; instead of a great blue sheet of water with icebergs
floating in it, there is nothing but a muddy pond. This is partly the
result of draining operations, and makes the valley below much safer as
a dwelling place, but takes away from the beauty of this part of the
great Aletsch glacier.
It is interesting to note the great stones which now and then are carried
about on these icebergs, or left stranded when the water is low; thus
illustrating, on a small scale, the theory which best explains the
position of erratic boulders—namely, that they were carried by icebergs
in the glacial age.
The Concordia hut is grandly situated near the beginning of the great
glacier, close to the Oberland mountains, and is a starting-point for
many expeditions. A member of the Swiss Alpine Club who shared the hut
with us was a most excitable little man, and signalled his arrival by
letting off with a frightful explosion a large maroon, and to my horror
he carried another, quite as large as my fist, ready for his departure
in the morning. He actually began to light the thing inside the hut just
before our start, but we got outside and out of the way, while in the
darkness before the dawn, under the quiet stars, he yelled, and waved his
hands about, and burst his infernal machine. It is hard to forgive these
queer foreign manners. He afterwards stopped his guide that he might
exchange cards with us.
After this adventure we had a quiet time and a perfect day on the
Jungfrau. We took five and a half hours to make the ascent, including
breakfasts and halts. There is just room to stand or sit carefully on
the highest point of snow. We had a glorious view. The beautiful green
valleys of Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen spread at our feet, and all the
peaks around us far and near were perfectly defined. The sun was all day
very powerful, and the reflection off the recent snow was dazzling in
brightness; my face and ears got touched slightly in spite of anointing
with lanoline, and peeled, though not painfully, during the next few
days. To prevent sunburn hazeline cream is a most excellent application,
combining a vegetable astringent with lanoline.
Early on the morning following we crossed the Lötschen Lücke, a
beautiful pass of snow and ice, with the finest crevasses full of
strange ice architecture, and came to Ried in the Lötschen Thal, where
is a comfortable inn at the foot of the Bietschhorn, the mountain we
were anxious to climb. Here the weather broke, great clouds came with a
south-west wind, and gathered all over Italy. The peaks could not be seen
in the stormy sky, while a large eagle or lämmergeyer hovered over the
hotel.
We had to give up our expedition, and after a quiet day in this peaceful
inn we went down to the Rhone Valley, dined at Sierre, slept at
Sion—lulled to sleep by pouring rain—and next night came to Chamounix
by way of the Tête Noire. A shadow was over Chamounix because of the
sad death on Mont Blanc of that well-known Oxford scholar, Mr. R. L.
Nettleship. I saw the newly turned sods on his grave in the little
churchyard, and heard again the story of his loss, so far as it ever will
be known. After a stormy night spent in a snow shelter, his guides came
down and left his body on the mountain, where it was found by a search
party later on. Mr. Myer’s beautiful lines seem to have been made for
such an event:
“Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
For funeral lamps he has the planets seven,
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.”
The survivors must have been very strong fellows and able to carry very
thick clothing. Certainly a storm on a great mountain is very awful to
encounter, and the strongest man may die if he tries to face it and fight
the elements.
At Montenvers, above Chamounix, there is the well-known inn, comfortable
enough if the weather be fine, from which we took blankets and food, and
crossing the _mer de glace_, bivouacked a few hours up the rocks on the
other side, in order to climb the Aiguille du Dru.
“The Dru is a Dragon of mountains,
They _scaled_ him long ago.”
Pardon the parody. But we were not to be fortunate—an angry sunset, so
gorgeous as to repay any day of laborious mountain climbing, was followed
before midnight by a storm of wind, hail, thunder, and lightning.
Crouched under a rock with the rain running into our ears, we got through
the hours of darkness, and in the morning, though we could hardly stand
up for the wind, our guides managed to light a fire in a deep hole, and
cooked some chocolate for us, and, as soon as the weather and daylight
allowed us, we climbed down to the inn.
My wife in my absence had arrived there, while I was on a rock all night
in the storm, and we each had our adventures to relate. A few days of
broken weather ended in snow all round the hotel. No more mountains were
to be climbed by me this year, and regretful good-byes had to be said to
my guides.
Our journey home was made by Geneva. On the way we passed the scene of
the great catastrophe at St. Gervais in July last. Here miles of mud
covered the green meadows, uprended trees stripped of their bark and
branches, demolished houses, fragments of timber and rock, were strewn
about wherever they had been hurled by the violence of the flood. An
inhabitant of a near village told me that at one in the morning the
avalanche and deluge came down on the ill-fated hotel, crushed down
everything in its way; that he saw next day the people who were saved
from the flood were dying in numbers, as he said, choked and poisoned
(_empoisonné_) by the filthy stuff which had filled their mouths, lungs,
and stomachs. One hundred and twenty-five bodies were found, but the
number of the dead will never be known. Only a week ago an arm and
part of the bust had been found five miles from St. Gervais; many such
dreadful relics are yet to be discovered. A baby still in its cradle was
carried miles away to a village below, but had not survived the perilous
voyage.