_MORE ABOUT GUIDES._
It has often been a matter for discussion whether the talent of
path-finding, or, more often, of discovering a possible route when no
semblance of a path exists, comes from instinct or from training. It
seems to me that it usually proceeds from something of both, though
especially from the latter. Those who would confine this power to
instinct pure and simple, bring forward as an argument on their side
the fact that hardly any amateurs possess it to a great degree, and
none to the extent exhibited in a first-rate guide. But they forget
that people in our own class cannot by any possibility have the
early experience of Swiss peasants, many of whom are accustomed from
childhood to scramble about in all sorts of difficult and perilous
places, and are often taken by their fathers and neighbours for
lengthened excursions on mountains and glaciers, either during hunting
expeditions, or sometimes, with the kindly permission of a traveller,
as porters. I remember, on one occasion, Peter Taugwalder asking me
to allow his son, then aged fourteen, to go with us up the Breithorn,
and most efficient did the little fellow prove himself, insisting
on carrying my camera a good part of the way. Imboden’s eldest son,
Roman, had at fifteen made quite a number of first-rate ascents with
his father, including the passage of the Ried Pass (twice), of the
Alphubel, the ascent of the Balfrinhorn, Brunegghorn, and other big
peaks. When, in 1887, I took him up Piz Kesch, I noticed that his
“form” had already attained to a point which few amateurs could beat.
The manner in which a first-rate guide will find the way in darkness,
a thick fog, or a snowstorm is really marvellous. In descending Mont
Blanc in January, we were in a thick fog from the moment we turned at
the top of the Mur de la Côte, and it was pitch-dark before we were
fairly off the Grand Plateau. Yet on the guides went, with a cheery,
confident air about them, never hesitating for a moment, and only
halting twice, the first time to root out a knapsack of provisions,
left on the Grand Plateau that morning, and since buried in the thickly
falling snow, and the second time, at my request, to light the lanterns
when, within half an hour of the Grands Mulets, I awkwardly walked into
one of the crevasses across which we had to pass. Again, in coming
down at the end of November from the Aiguille du Tour to the Cabane
d’Orny, darkness overtook us. Before beginning the descent of the
Glacier d’Orny, I suggested that our lantern should be made use of; but
the guides laughed, and breaking into one of the songs of the district,
trotted unhesitatingly down the ice, in and out amongst the crevasses,
and at last up to the door of the hut, which was so deeply buried in
snow as to be hardly distinguishable. Indeed, the little cabin is at
all times hard to find, and Chamonix sometimes confidentially whispers
how an ex-guide and a friend, after crossing the Col du Tour, entirely
failed to discover the hut, and, after much poking about, returned over
the pass to Chamonix!
Another example of path-finding which greatly struck me was during a
descent in the dark of the Italian side of the Matterhorn. We had the
moon a good part of the time, but often, owing to the conformation of
the rocks, we were in utter darkness, and Alexander Burgener would
rummage about for a bit, then seize on the commencement of one of
the fixed ropes, and, with a series of his characteristic grunts and
snorts, work his way down it. He never missed the right route for an
instant, though the mountain was in a very bad state from the amount
of ice and snow on it. One more incident before we pass on to the
consideration of the next of the qualities which I have noted. Some
years ago, during the month of January, I found myself with Edouard
Cupelin (of Chamonix), and a couple of local guides, in the long
_couloir_ which leads from the Sella Pass towards the first peak of
Piz Roseg. A discussion arose as to the best route to take, the local
guides advising our bearing to the left, and Cupelin recommending
keeping to the right. The latter’s opinion, as leader, of course
prevailed, and though he had never been in the Engadine till the day
before, we cheerfully followed him. On reaching the plateau above, it
became obvious that we had saved both time and trouble by selecting
this route, which, indeed, we afterwards found was the one usually
taken.
Pontresina guides have gone rapidly ahead since then, and it would now
be hard to beat, say, Martin Schocher as a rising guide.
Now let us travel from the Engadine to the Bernese Oberland, and I will
tell you of an occurrence there which made much stir amongst the few
who heard of it, but an account of which did not, as far as I know,
reach the ears of the Alpine world.
Again Joseph Imboden must come to the front, and never did he more
deserve applause than on this occasion.
One morning in August, two parties set out from the Eggischhorn to
cross the Mönch Joch to Grindelwald. One of them consisted of an
Englishman accustomed to climbing, accompanied by Imboden and a good,
steady porter. The second party comprised two Englishmen and a guide
and porter, all of whom were more or less lacking in the qualities
so conspicuous in party the first. In descending the slopes above
the Bergli Hut, the second party was leading, and the position was
as follows. Just below was a deep _bergschrund_, or large crevasse,
approached by a slope of ice, down which the guide was cutting steps.
Behind him was one of the travellers, then came the other, and last
on the rope, and in a desperate state of apprehension at the sight of
the horrors beneath, was the porter. The other party, in which, most
providentially, Imboden was first on the rope, was close behind--in
fact, Imboden himself was only separated by a distance of about a
couple of feet from the other party’s porter. At this particularly
auspicious moment, it occurred to the gentleman on the ice-slope to
stick his axe into a neighbouring patch of snow, nearly out of his
reach, and to take off his spectacles for the purpose of wiping them.
Hardly had he commenced this operation, than, to his horror, the
guide, who was cutting below, slipped. The gentleman of the spectacles
followed suit, so did his companion behind, and so, with a wild cry
of “Wir sind alle verloren!” (We are all lost!) did the porter. But
hardly had he lost his footing when, in calm, clear tones, came the
remark from behind him, “Noch nicht!” (Not yet), and he felt himself
arrested and held back. What actually occurred was this (I had it from
the gentleman whom Imboden was guiding, and who, from his position
behind and above him, had the best possible view of the situation).
When Imboden saw the spectacle-wiping begin, he instinctively scented
danger, and hooked the cutting point of his axe through the rope which
was round the porter’s waist. Immediately after, if not simultaneously,
the slip took place, and the whole strain of the weight of the
foremost party came on Imboden. However, he was firmly placed, and
held without difficulty till they recovered their footing. But for
Imboden’s coolness and quickness, a very serious, and most likely a
fatal accident would have occurred. Two or three days afterwards, while
ascending the Eiger with Imboden, I questioned him about this incident.
He took his extraordinary performance entirely as a matter of course,
and declined to admit any merit in it. I fear that the two Englishmen
(or rather the spectacle-man) hardly realised the escape they had.
Well, it is not for a mere matter of thanks or reward that men do
deeds such as this, though I can vouch for it that a few warm words of
gratitude are far more valued than a mere pecuniary manifestation of
the same.
A good guide is usually able to turn his hand to most things, and has
generally plenty of resource in unforeseen difficulties of all kinds.
In short, he is ever ready to rise to the occasion, no matter what it
may show of the unexpected. Many a guide with whom I have travelled
has combined the qualities of an excellent cook, a lady’s-maid (!), a
courier, and a first-rate carpenter, with those of a pleasant companion
and the special characteristics of his profession. In proof of the
above, I may remark that a little dinner in a hut is often a meal by
no means to be despised, the ingenuity displayed in cooking with next
to no appliances being really wonderful. As to the packing of one’s
garments, I have been more than once informed that the way in which I
fold dresses leaves much to be desired, while an incident connected
with this subject, which took place some years ago, is still vividly
impressed on my mind. When paying my bill at a certain hotel, an item
of 150 francs for a broken piano-string had aroused my indignation. In
the first place, the string had been broken by the frost; secondly, 150
francs was a preposterous charge. I promptly left the hotel in disgust,
and accomplished my departure in a very short space of time, thanks
to my guide, who valiantly helped by packing dresses and hats, boots
and shoes, with unhesitating rapidity, and, what is more, they were as
wearable when they emerged from my trunk as when they went into it.
I was much amused, during an ascent some years ago, to see my porter
produce a needle and thread and solemnly commence to repair a rent in
my climbing skirt. I cannot say that the work was very fine, but it
held together as long as ever that garment lasted.
There are several incidents which I should like to mention in
connection with that strength of muscle with which nature and training
have supplied some guides to a very remarkable extent.
Perhaps one of the most notable instances of great strength being
put forth at exactly the right instant was the following, which was
described to me by Miss Lucy Walker as having happened to her brother,
Mr. Horace Walker.
The latter, accompanied by Peter Anderegg, was ascending a steep wall
of ice. The guide went first, cutting steps. The way was barred by a
big piece of rock, apparently firmly frozen into the ice-slope. While
Mr. Walker stood just below the boulder, Anderegg worked to the side
round it. Beaching its upper level, he placed one foot on the great
mass, which, to his horror, at once began to move. To cry out and warn
his companion below would have been to expend far too much time; there
was but one way of saving Mr. Walker’s life, and that he promptly
took. In an instant he had stepped back on to his last foothold, and
with a terrific jerk had swung Mr. Walker out of his steps and along
the slope. Immediately after, the huge stone thundered down the slope,
across the place occupied till a moment before by Mr. Walker. This, I
think, is the most wonderful thing of the kind I ever heard of.
Another very striking instance of strength promptly put forth took
place on Piz Palü, a mountain in the Bernina group, during an ascent
by Mrs. Wainwright, Dr. Wainwright, and the guides Christian and Hans
Grass. I extract the following from Dr. Ludwig’s capital little book,
“Pontresina and its Neighbourhood.”
“In 1879 an accident happened on Piz Palü, which had a similar cause,
and nearly had a similar fatal ending, with the accident on the Lyskamm
two years before. The middle and the western summits are joined
together by a narrow ridge; on the side of the Pers Glacier (the north)
the frozen snow (_firn_) forms, in parts, an overhanging cornice. Mr.
W. and his sister-in-law, Mrs. W., with the two veteran guides, Hans
and Christian Grass, had ascended the highest summit, and were on their
return; Christian Grass leading, then Mr. W., Mrs. W., and last, Hans
Grass. There was a thick fog. The first three of the party stepped on
to the cornice; it gave way suddenly, and all four would have been
dashed down the face of the ice-wall, which there falls sheer some two
thousand feet, had not Hans Grass had the presence of mind and the
bodily activity and strength to spring at once to the opposite side of
the ridge and plant his feet firmly in the snow. Fortunately Mr. W.
had not lost his axe; he gave it to Christian Grass, who in this awful
situation untied himself from the rope, and cut his way up on to the
ridge, where his brother and he, joining forces, were able to bring Mr.
and Mrs. W. into safety.”
What a fearful moment of suspense it must have been when Mr. W.
dropped his axe to the guide below, who, if he had failed to catch it,
would have lost the last chance of saving the party.
An accident very much resembling that on Piz Palü occurred on August
18, 1880, on the Ober-Gabelhorn, near Zermatt. In this case, as on the
Palü, no lives were lost, thanks to the prompt action of one of the
guides, Ulrich Almer. I extract the following account of the event from
Ulrich’s book:--
“We attacked the mountain direct from the Trift Alp, and had scaled the
steep rocks and reached the eastern _arête_, along which, at a distance
of about twelve yards from the edge, we were proceeding, when a huge
cornice fell, carrying with it the leading guide, Brantschen, and
the two voyagers. Almer, who alone remained on _terra firma_, showed
extraordinary strength and presence of mind. Instantly on hearing the
crack of the cornice, he leaped a yard backwards, plunged his axe
into the snow, and planting himself as firmly as possible, was thus
enabled to arrest the fall of the entire party down a precipice of some
2000 feet. Joseph Brantschen, who fell farthest down the precipice,
dislocated his right shoulder, and this mischance involved a long,
and to him most painful descent, and the return to Zermatt took us
eight hours, the injured man being obliged to stop every two or three
minutes from pain and exhaustion. It should be mentioned that the mass
of cornice which fell measured (as far as we can judge) about forty
yards long by thirteen yards broad.
“Mr. C. E. Mathews, president, and other members of the Alpine Club,
went carefully into the details of the accident, and gave their verdict
that, according to all the hitherto accepted theories of cornices,
we were allowing an ample margin, and that no blame attached to the
leading guide, Brantschen.... There can be no doubt whatever that
it is owing solely to Ulrich Almer’s strength, presence of mind,
and lightning-like rapidity of action that this accident on the
Gabelhorn did not terminate with the same fatal results as the Lyskamm
catastrophe.
(_Signed_)
H. H. MAJENDIE, A.C.
RICHARD L. HARRISON.”
As a practical proof of their gratitude to Almer, I understand that
these gentlemen gave him a cow.