in _Knowledge_, written by The Right Hon. Sir Edward Fry. An enormous
amount of subglacial water was suddenly let loose from high up on the
Tête Rousses glacier, where two great chasms were photographed next day.
The moving mass of ice and water destroyed the village of Bionnay and
hurled down everything in its irresistible course, including a rock of
vast dimensions. “The villagers of Bionnay were intending to celebrate a
fête on the 14th July, and, with a view to letting off feux de joie on
that occasion, holes had been bored in a stone then in the village. That
stone, with its holes, is now at St. Gervais, and was probably highly
effective in the destruction of the baths. It is rather a rock than a
stone. It is further stated that the iron safe in the office of the baths
was carried five miles down the stream to Sallanches, where it was
found.”
Geologists do not perhaps yet realize what such deluging catastrophe can
effect. Slow action, as of evolution among the living, and the gradual
change effected by ice and water in the inorganic world, chiefly impress
us to-day. But such conditions of ice as are described by Sir Martin
Conway in his valuable book on the Karakoram-Himalayan glacier, whereon
large quantities of water would lie with no crevasses or chinks to carry
it away, seem to afford opportunities for catastrophe on a gigantic
scale, and help the imagination to realize such possibilities in the
glacial age.
These great disasters, with the terrible boiler explosion on the Lake
of Geneva, have made the fire at Grindelwald seem quite a small affair,
and there have been very few climbing fatalities this season. My wife
told me that a victim of the Grindelwald fire arrived at Fée in his only
surviving suit of clothes. To the victim the rhyme fitted aptly:
“I’ve lost my portmanteau! I pity your grief!
My sermons were in it! I pity the thief!”
For all the poor parson’s garments were looted, but he discovered at the
Fée post-office his two bags crammed one inside the other, containing
only his twelve original sermons and two old shoes!
A romantic robbery took place at Arolla, where a gentleman walking alone
on the glacier was set upon by a brigand, who covered him with his gun,
and made him put his property on the snow—a selection was then made by
this Italian rascal, who fled over the frontier into his own country,
where such thieves abound.
The railway journey through Neuchâtel to Bâle is through fine country,
and Bâle itself between the Black Forest and the Jura, with its old-world
look and its bridges over the Rhine, is well worth a visit. You will find
here memorials of Erasmus, of Holbein, of Paracelsus, with museums full
of interesting mediaeval work—while at the Hospital you have evidence
that modern methods are understood, and the appliances, especially on
the surgical side, are the best obtainable in Europe. Three hundred beds
are contained in the building, and, like our own noble institution of
Addenbrooke’s, this is endowed and supported by liberal citizens, who
wisely use their wealth and knowledge, not merely for profit and loss,
but “for the glory of God and the relief of man’s estate.”
A Month upon the Mountains
1891
Contrast between fens and mountains—The south side of the Lake
of Geneva—The Great St. Bernard Pass—The St. Bernard dogs—A
walk in Italy—The St. Theodule Pass—Last year’s accident
on the Matterhorn—The Täsch Alp hut and a lady climber—The
Mischabeljoch and Alphubel mountain—Saas Fée and the walk by
the chapels—The old stone bridge at Fée—The Portjengrat—The
ascent of the Südlenzspitze and Nadelhorn—The Laquinhorn with
Mr. Eyre—The Rothhorn ascent from Zermatt—The Märjelen See.
What change can be imagined greater than from these “gray flats” to the
glorious snow mountains? The sea, except where there may be a bold and
broken coast line, is too much like our own surrounding surface, which
God never meant to be seen, and which, according to our forefathers, we
owe entirely to Drains, Dutchmen, and the Devil. My wife and I are both
active persons, and, as we usually take our excursions in the Alps, it
may interest other travellers to have this year a brief account of a fen
man’s adventures in foreign parts. To start at 11 o’clock in the morning
from London it was formerly necessary to sleep in town overnight: now the
train serves, and we go direct from Cambridge and travel in twenty-four
hours to Switzerland. Rather avoiding the more usual routes, after a
nasty game of pitch and toss in the channel we arrive at Paris, cross
that city in a cab, refusing to be dropped by the ingenious driver at
the wrong station (Vincennes instead of P.L.M.), dine comfortably, and
then sleep uncomfortably in the carriage until we reach the Lake of
Geneva, the south side of which, by the way, is not so well known as is
the other. This blue sheet of water is shaped like a crescent moon, the
horns pointed downwards so that the concave edge is south, and along
this we coasted fifty miles in a small steamboat, admiring the beauty
of the lovely lake and the vine-covered slopes of the shore with the
mountains beyond. It was too far away to the north for any view of the
other coast—or of the famous castle of Chillon. On board we can wash,
feed, and write letters, delight ourselves with the varied scenes around,
the voyage made more refreshing from the contrast after the dusty shaking
railway box in which we were packed so many hours.
Landing at Bouveret—our heavy luggage having been sent by post to Zermatt
from Geneva—we are free of everything except satchel and stick, knapsack
and ice-axe. A short journey by train to Martigny in the Rhone Valley
brings us at about 4 P.M. on the second day of our travels, and here we
took a one-horse carriage up as far as Liddes, on our way over the famous
Great St. Bernard Pass. At 9 o’clock the new inn at Liddes was all dark
and shut up, but we soon had out the landlord, who got us supper and good
beds. Next morning we were up at 4 o’clock, and I walked after my wife’s
mule as far as the Hospice, just halting to see the place, the monks, and
dogs. All is very like the Hospice on the Simplon Pass, with like rules
and regulations for the society of Austin Canons regular who live here
a life of genuine charity. Alas! to give up the cherished delusion that
the dogs search for lost travellers in the snow! Have we not seen the
picture of the dog with a child on its back and brandy keg round its
neck? “Travellers pass every day during the winter, notwithstanding the
perils of such a journey at such times. These persons, when they arrive
at a certain house not far from the summit, are desired to wait until
the following morning, when a servant and a dog descend from the top to
this kind of refuge and take up all the persons assembled, the servant
being conducted by the dog, who, it appears, never misses his way, but,
entirely hidden, except his tail, in the snow, directs the march of the
whole cavalcade.” If any traveller lie dead or dying in the track, the
dog will probably discover him, and in this way rescue has come for
wanderers over the pass when lost between the stations.
There are five or six dogs at the Hospice; they are not so fine and large
as the show of St. Bernard dogs in England. They are bred in the canton
of Berne, and are supposed to be a cross between the Newfoundland and the
Pyrenean.
The Great St. Bernard, though not so grand as other high passes, is full
of historical interest—we are on the track of the great Napoleon, we
lunch in the same room at Bourg St. Pierre—we realize what it must have
cost him to drag his cannon over such a place. From the Hospice we both
walk an hour down to St. Rémy, the Italian frontier—with our muleteer,
who left his animal at the Hospice, to carry our things; he was anxious
to know whether I had tobacco or cigars, and carefully hid his own modest
packet before he led us to the Custom House. The soldiers dismissed us
civilly after a complete inspection of our knapsacks.
At St. Rémy, after lunch we drove down to Aosta. In this valley live
many cretins; everything else is perfectly beautiful under the blue
Italian sky, strangely different from the desolate and dreary pass above.
From Aosta a short railway journey brought us to Châtillon at about 4
P.M., on our third day out. Hiring a likely looking man, named Luigi
Bich, to carry our traps up to Valtournanche, we finished the day by
a good four hours’ walk, all up hill, with a very fine view of the
Matterhorn at the end of our climb. Here we sup and sleep, rising before
day to follow a lantern and walk over the St. Theodule Pass to our hotel
at Schwarz See, above Zermatt. We had breakfast at Breuil, best known to
British travellers from its forming the base of operations in the ascent
of the Matterhorn from the Italian side.
Our guide, who seemed rather out of condition, begged to be allowed
to bring along a boy, his nephew, who was to be no further expense to
monsieur. When we reached the top of the pass after a hot and fatiguing
walk through fresh snow, a little mountain inn offered us rest and
refreshment. The view is very fine, especially of the Matterhorn and the
range on the other side beginning with the Breithorn; here the sunlight
on the vast snow slopes was far too brilliant to be faced without dark
glasses. After a short noon-day sleep this is indeed like waking in
another world. The wily Italian at the proper moment now interviewed me,
and represented that it was impossible he could properly care for madame
unless he should bring his boy also; of course the boy went with us, and
obtained a vast amount of pleasure at a small cost to his employer.
We roped as in duty bound over the névé, and came to Schwarz See; the
hotel is built on one of the spurs of the Matterhorn, about three hours
above Zermatt. As usual we found friends in residence, and after so long
a journey were glad of the shelter of a comfortable inn. A daughter of
the great Alexander Seiler is in charge, and is devoted to the care of
her visitors, who find all they can possibly wish for, and more than
would be expected at 8,000 feet above the sea.
One object of my visit here was to climb the Matterhorn, that grand
rock which is more impressive than most higher peaks from its isolated
position, standing “alone in its glory.” It is impossible to avoid
thinking of the many mountaineers who have been killed there; one comes
to regard it as a great gravestone in memory of these, and can fully
realize the expression of Tyndall as to the “moral effect” of this
mountain upon the climber. Unfortunately, the Matterhorn would not “go”
this year—only three ascents were made so far as I know—whereas in a good
year 75 have gone up.
Of these three ascents I witnessed the second, and could see with a
telescope that it was a long and laborious business, with much snow to
plough through, and many steps to be cut. The man with his two guides
came down just before dark, so why the _Times_ should in the notice of
this feat have left the poor fellow on the summit at 9 P.M. it is hard to
say. In September a party of five got up, and came down with difficulty,
much of the descent being by lantern, and only arrived at Schwarz See at
3 in the morning. They had found, near where ropes are stretched over a
difficult bit of the mountain, a portion of the camera which belonged to
the party of three who were killed last year, thus confirming one theory
of the disaster, that in the descent the box on the back touched the
steep slope, and throwing the bearer off his step, hurled the whole party
to destruction.
A man who saw their bodies told me that they were battered beyond
recognition, and described how the brother of one of the victims howled
loudly at the sight, in that utter abandonment to grief so rarely seen in
a strong man, so terrible to witness.
But these are the adventures of others—to continue my own. By a short
excursion round to Staffel Alp I nearly completed a tour of the
Matterhorn; it appears from this aspect like an enormous snow cathedral,
just the tower remaining to show the dark rock of the peak, the rest is
ice and snow.
The weather was too uncertain to attempt much of an expedition, and
after a week, down came the snow—over boot tops—all round the hotel. But
all is ready, guides are waiting, an active friend comes to the hotel,
and as soon as the sun shines we go down to Zermatt, where I part with my
wife, she to journey next morning to Rieder Furka, while I and my friend
with guides sleep up at the Täsch Alp hut for an ascent in the early
morning.
My first experience here occurred of a real lady climber in action;
she had sent on her guide and secured a room to herself, rather hard
upon the unfortunate male, as the dens of the wooden cabin contain each
two or three beds. My friend and I had to toss up who should sleep on
the floor—I won the only remaining bed. This lady was dressed in a
Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, and worsted stockings; she looked very
business-like; one of my guides was much interested and said, “She is
a gentleman-lady.” She was a Viennese, and kept possession of her more
comfortable quarters, though my friend was not polite enough to say that
he preferred sleeping on the floor. On this point I feel very strongly,
that a lady should behave on such occasions exactly as if the cabin were
a railway carriage.
At about half-past two we were up, intending to traverse the
Mischabeljoch, and ascend the Alphubel Mountain, thence down to Saas Fée.
We followed a lantern up to the snow and rock, on a very steep, frozen
moraine, awkward to walk on in the dark; then roped, and had a good day,
except that the snow was fresh and fatiguing. Also we were longer in the
descent than we liked, my friend’s knee, which had been slightly hurt on
a mountain some days before, was now rather severely taxed, and this was
the only expedition we accomplished together. We stayed at Saas Fée, one
of the best places in Switzerland, good for walkers or climbers; it is
about three-quarters of an hour above Saas Grund—said to be the abode of
Mrs. Grundy, who has not yet reached Saas Fée.
The most charming walk down to the valley is by the chapels, of which
there are a dozen or more, each full of quaint, coloured wooden figures,
about two feet high, representing scenes in the life of our Lord. The
artistic merit of these figures is very unequal—some few are said to be
the work of an Italian artist named Tabaketti, of the sixteenth century,
who crossed the frontier and worked on the Swiss side. An odd effect
is produced by the villainous-looking wretches who are torturing the
Saviour, being represented with goitres and a cretinous aspect truly
repulsive.
A few minutes’ walk from the hotel towards Mattmark is a wonderful
old bridge over the mountain torrent. It is one of the most ancient
structures in Switzerland; flat stones are laid, over-lapping more and
more, to meet similarly placed flat stones on the other side of the
stream, advantage being taken of big boulders of rock which approach to
form natural buttresses. The whole is so overgrown with trees and moss
that many pass over it without notice.
At Saas Fée, on a moraine in the midst of glaciers and ice falls, there
is a tiny timber-built inn, presided over by Clara, who is well known for
the good tea she always gives the tired traveller, and certainly her name
ought to appear in the guide books. If only a hut could be built higher
up the Lange Fluh, mountaineers could sleep above, and Clara could supply
provisions from below; this would be a real gain to climbers.
[Illustration: OLD STONE BRIDGE AT SAAS FÉE.]
To test my friend’s feeble knee, he was to try the Portjengrat, a most
interesting climb, in which I was much tempted to join; but having done
it in a former season, I took a lazy day—then finding that after his
climb my friend limped a good deal, I set about a serious expedition,
the ascent of the Südlenzspitze, without him. With two good guides, and
a porter to carry up blankets, firewood, and provisions, I started one
afternoon and reached a rock some hours above Fée, where we were to
sleep; with our axes we cleared away several hundredweight of ice and
snow, lighted a fire, cooked two tins of Moir’s turtle soup, mixing it
in a big pot with pannikins of snow. Words can’t express how good it
was, how it hit the right place! We ate in the dark, except for a feeble
lantern; then spreading a rug over the little shelf we had cleared, we
all lay down as tight as sardines in a tin, so that I could not even
turn on my long axis. I was not very cold, having on three pairs of
stockings, three waistcoats, a shawl, a rug, and the blanket in which
we were all packed. There was no need for me to fear walking in my
sleep over a precipice. I didn’t sleep. The wind nearly blew me out of
my rug and howled like a savage beast, but at length the morning broke
and “tipped the hills with gold.” Day-dawns such as these live in the
memory for ever. After a cup of hot chocolate, the porter went down, and
we began to climb the Südlenzspitze, a peak over 14,000 feet high, next
to the Dom one of the highest points in Switzerland; several parties
had failed this year, and we were anxious to do it with the Nadelhorn
as well, to crown our success. The Südlenzspitze is not a “guide book
mountain,” but it is a good climb, and there is an awkward _gendarme_,
or pinnacle, standing up like an obstructing sentinel on a ridge along
which it is necessary to travel. This _gendarme_ may be the size of a
church or not larger than a lamp post, and give serious trouble to the
climber. However, we struggled to the top, and found a tremendous wind on
the peak, so that we had to wear our sleeping caps over our ears and feel
now and then our frozen features. Byron must have imagined such an ascent
when he wrote those fine lines:
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though far above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to these summits led.
We left a card in a bottle at the top, where none had been this year
before us. Descending a steep snow edge to come to visiting terms with
the Nadelhorn—a peak of steep but easy rocks with some gendarmerie—my
leading guide loosened a big stone at the top, which narrowly missed me
and dropped on the man below, hitting on the steel of his axe, but he
held firm, and this was the only escape I was aware of. We came down into
a snow storm and thick mist, but got safely home after fifteen hours’
climbing, then a light dinner with a glass of champagne, and so to bed.
From Fée I walked with a strong man who wanted to stretch his legs to
climb the Laquinhorn. It is a long way there and back, but not a great
climb; we returned by the chapels, after a roasting day in the sun. My
companion had bargained with me over night that he was to be allowed to
stop and feed every four hours. He did so, and ate up everything, even
the cheese; the guides then hurried us home lest they themselves should
be eaten too! Alas! there will be no more such pleasant walks. Eyre was
killed on the Sparrenhorn, 1895. Later on, again I went to Zermatt, slept
at the Trift Inn, and climbed the Rothhorn. I greatly wished to go down
from the summit to Zinal and back by the Trift Pass next day, but my
guides would not permit the descent to the Constantia Hut, and no doubt
they were right. How do these men, Xaver Imseng and Alois Kalbermatten,
win my regard? Xaver has an angel face, and Alois a form like Hercules.
It is not only their courage, skill, and devotion to duty, but their
sympathy with my delights or difficulties—this is the great charm.
One night only at Zermatt and then up at 4.30 to catch the six o’clock
train from Zermatt to Visp in the Rhone Valley. This is the new line
which many climbers believe will disturb the happy hunting-grounds. The
journey was very pleasant; being allowed to stand outside, and the train
moving slowly, I enjoyed the scenery and chatted with one of the few men
who this year climbed the Matterhorn.
Four hours’ walk above Brieg in a blazing sun on one of the hottest days
known, ended in a storm of rain which wet me through; it delayed me in
a forest where I had the luck to see a fine fox at close quarters; we
watched each other quietly for some minutes. I found my wife and friends
at Rieder Furka and walked with them up and down a baby mountain called
the Riederhorn; then later, with an active fellow made the ascent and
back to the hotel in twenty-two minutes, just to dry my clothes.
The hotel is well placed above the Great Aletsch Glacier, upon which
delightful expeditions are made, especially to the Märjelen See, a
wonderful ice-bound lake with icebergs in it, which has before now
threatened Brieg with a flood from the sudden bursting of its waters upon
the valley far below.
Home again by Geneva, I visited the Cantonal Hospital there, which is
well built and planned; but in the summer the building is empty and
clean, the patients being in open-air barracks, timber-built with canvas
sides. Would that our English climate would allow of the like. On the
other side of the city, at the Rothschild’s Eye Hospital, there seemed
every comfort, but few patients to be treated.
The sight of England again always cheers us, with homely peaceful scenes;
well may we say in travelling through the Kentish hop fields:
“Let Frenchmen boast their straggling vine,
Which gives them draughts of meagre wine,
It cannot match this plant of mine
When autumn skies are blue.”
NOTE
The Birrenhorn by the south face. This good climb, which has
probably not before been done by travellers, is said to be a
hunter’s way.—_Alpine Journal_, Nov. 1895, p. 600.
To climb the Birrenhorn (2,511 metres) by the south face, go from
Kandersteg up the nearest and steepest grass slopes which lie to the
E.N.E. of the Victoria Hotel, to a couloir which is found by following
the highest shingle. Here it is well to rope in order to ascend the
couloir to a chimney. Climb through this to a shelf above, and turning
slightly to the W. continue straight up until a narrow horizontal shelf
is reached running to the W.S.W. as far as some little pine trees; thence
ascend by going up the face more to the E., until after a stiff scramble
up twelve feet of difficult rock (which may be avoided by a circuit) a
cleft is found in which lies an enormous grass-covered fallen block.
Beneath this you crawl through a “Fenster,” and soon reach a narrow
grass saddle with views into the two valleys (Kander and Oeschinen).
The final climb is then before you. Cross the grass saddle, ascend the
rocks or grass slopes beneath which the shepherd’s path is seen. The
rock arête above the highest grass has a cairn and pole on the summit,
reached in four and a half hours from Kandersteg. In descending the path
towards the Oeschinen See, the way down to the valley is difficult to
find, especially if there be any mist. The three-fingered rock (Drei
Eidgenossen) will be seen opposite the couloir, which is the last but one
before reaching a great grass promontory. After a considerable descent a
traverse is made to the right, where two iron stanchions guard an awkward
place.
The Climbing Foot
It has often been noticed in mountaineering that a guide can go face
forward and whole-footed up a slope, while the amateur following, and
coming to the steep part, cannot plant his whole foot upon the slope, but
has to go on his toes or else turn sideways.
The difficulty with the young climber seems to be to get his heel down,
and he learns to look out for little humps or embedded stones on which he
may place his heel.
Then if his calf muscles permit his foot to be correctly planted down,
this interferes with his upward step, giving him discomfort at the back
of the leg, experience very slowly enabling him to walk with the pelvic
roll characteristic of the guide’s uphill gait.
It is worth noting here that rowing men in using sliding seats cannot
always keep the heel down on to the stretcher at the beginning of their
stroke.
It seems possible, and many climbers must have considered it so, that
the angle made by the foot with the leg may be more acute in the guide
who has climbed from childhood, and that in the case of the guide’s feet
there may be some structural difference, both hereditary and acquired,
actually permitting more freedom of movement at the ankle-joint, which
neither muscular action nor power of balance could ever give to the
amateur.
The guides wear their thick leather boots loosely laced at the top during
an upward climb; so that it is difficult to judge of the play of the
ankle: but last year I was fortunate in falling in with Captain Abney,
who kindly photographed for me the naked feet of my guides in the act of
climbing a rock, and in other positions for purposes of comparison.