_IN PRAISE OF AUTUMN._
I am one of those eccentric persons who consider autumn better than
summer for climbing. “One of those,” did I say? Perhaps it would be
nearer the mark to say that I have often been the sole representative
of the scrambling fraternity haunting mountain centres from choice
at that season. You suppose I have a reason for my partiality for
that time of year? Yes; in fact, I have several. First, I am a
coward, and to encounter a thunderstorm on a peak, and have my axe
go _ziz-ziz-ziz_, while my hair stands straight up on my head, would
terrify me into fits. Now, in autumn one seldom has thunderstorms.
Then I have an aversion to tourists. In autumn there are few tourists;
again, I hate to be roasted for thirteen or fourteen hours and to wade
through deep snow. In autumn the days are short, the air is fresh,
the snow is usually in first-rate order. Once more, I do not love
sleeping in huts which, being built for eight persons, have to supply
shelter--it is little more--for perhaps twenty-four. In autumn one has
the huts to oneself.
Now, have I not made out a pretty strong case? Can you wonder that I
have prowled round the Pennine Alps and the Oberland in September and
October rather than in July and August?
To prove that one can climb as well in autumn as in summer, I will give
a short account of some excursions made in past years at that season.
They will be, alas! unexciting reading, like most things “written for
a purpose.” Many climbers are fully aware of the truth of what I urge,
but numerous beginners in mountain-craft lose heart when a heavy fall
of snow occurs at the end of August or the beginning of September,
and, packing up their traps, leave the Alps in disgust. In addition
to the expeditions described below, I have been up the Dent Blanche,
Zinal-Rothhorn, Ober-Gabelhorn, Trifthorn from Triftjoch, Mont Collon,
Rimpfischhorn, Eiger, Wetterhorn, and other peaks, and (herein lies the
gist of the whole matter) found most of them in first-class order at
that season.
One evening in September, I found myself, with Ulrich Kaufmann and
“Caucasus” Jossi, the sole occupants of that very comfortable hut, the
Schwarzegg. For some time this hut has been in Jossi’s charge, and
consequently neatness reigns supreme. We were a cheery party. The sky
was cloudless, the moon would be full for our start, the great, solid
crags of the Schreckhorn, ruddy in the glow of sunset, hung invitingly
over us. We had slept out for the same peak a week earlier, but bad
weather had driven us down to the valley without our having taken one
step beyond the hut. Now all was changed, and we felt no doubt as to
the success of our coming excursion.
At 2 A.M., in moonlight clear as the light of the sun, we were off.
The Schreckhorn, it seems to me, has not received its due measure of
praise. It has much to recommend it. There is no moraine. An easy path
leads in ten minutes or so to the snow. Then a steady ascent, varied
by rocks, brings the traveller by breakfast-time to the base of the
upper glacier. It was at some distance below this place, in the snow
_couloir_, that Mr. Munz was killed by falling ice.[6] I could not at
all understand this accident, for on no part of our route was there
danger from this source.[7] But the guides explained that that season,
and for some years before, the top of the _couloir_ had been filled up
by a small hanging glacier. Peter Baumann, shrewd old man, had always
urged the knocking down of this glacier, which would have been a simple
piece of work. But the matter was allowed to slide, till one fine day
the whole mass of ice broke away and dashed down the slope. The death
of Herr Munz, who was struck by some of the falling fragments, was the
result.
The upper _couloirs_, by which the mountain is seamed, were ice, but my
guides, with their usual judgment, kept as clear as possible of them,
and we mounted by a rib of rocks. Twice we crossed the _couloir_, but
at that early hour there was no danger, and Kaufmann made great steps,
like miniature arm-chairs, so that we could get over very rapidly
coming back.
From the Saddle we saw, somewhat to our disgust, that there was a
considerable amount of snow on the _arête_. This made our progress
rather slow, so that it was not till 9.15 that we found ourselves
on the summit, a dome of snow. The view was exquisite; but that day
week, when, in equally beautiful weather, I found myself on the top
of the Lauteraarhorn, I had to confess that the view from that peak
is infinitely finer. In the first place, the Schreckhorn, seen from
so near, and from a peak less than 150 feet lower, is a grand object,
and its noble proportions and bare cliffs impressed me as few, if any,
mountains have done before, while I almost trembled to think that
but seven days earlier we had ventured up its precipitous sides, so
deceptive and complete is the idea conveyed of its excessive steepness.
Then, the Lauteraarhorn is much better placed with regard to that
most graceful of Oberland peaks, the Finsteraarhorn--the “dark dove
horn!” and from it, too, the beautiful curves of the Aar glacier,
winding away towards the Grimsel, are seen to perfection. But here am
I, describing the view from the Lauteraarhorn, while all the time I am
on the Schreckhorn. One glimpse they both give--that of the Lake of
Thun, with the white spire of the church of Spiez nestling among trees
close to the blue water’s edge, while behind roll range upon range of
purple hills, lost far away in a warm haze which mingles with the soft
tints of the cloudless sky. These Oberland views can indeed boast of
the ever-attractive charm of contrast; on the one side, ice, snow,
precipices of naked rock, utter sternness and absence of vegetation;
on the other, blue lakes, white villages, deep green meadows, abundant
evidences of human life and industry.
But I become insufferably tedious. Let me hasten away from
mountain-tops and descend to less romantic regions. We got down to
the saddle very pleasantly, and from there to the hut more or less
uncomfortably, exchanging nasty sharp, loose rocks for waist-deep
snow, with anything but complimentary remarks on both. We were safely
in the Schwarzegg by 2 P.M., and discussing an elaborate tea, the
guides’ chief idea of that beverage being to put in as little of the
chief ingredient, and as much sugar as supplies admitted of. Tea being
concluded, and supper in course of preparation, we looked out for our
porter, who had orders to bring up our stock of provisions for the
ascent of the Finsteraarhorn the next day. Presently we noticed two
figures crossing the ice, who, on approaching, turned out to be Herr
Theophile Boss and the porter. The former had made an attempt on the
Finsteraarhorn the previous week, and had been driven back by bad
weather, so I had asked him to join us on our ascent.
During our evening meal, Kaufmann staggered us by remarking in his
quiet way that we had better go to bed early, as he proposed calling
us at 11 P.M. We protested loudly, but he only added in his calm
tones, “Or perhaps half-past ten.” So, still grumbling, we hastily
crept to our straw, and I, for one, can answer for it that I did not
know much more till Jossi began to light the fire, when I turned over
and had another sleep. No doubt our reluctance to shorten our night’s
rest caused the preparations for departure to take longer than usual.
Anyhow, it was 12.40 before I found myself, in a very bad temper,
trying to keep awake at the door of the hut, while the final look round
for articles possibly forgotten was being given by the guides.
We anticipated a lot of step-cutting, so the porter came with us in
order to give the guides less to carry. As before, it was a cloudless,
moonlight night, and so far windless. We made rapid progress to the
Finsteraarjoch, reaching the foot of that vile place, the Agassiz-joch,
while it was still dark. Here we paused for food, and just as the grey
light of dawn was stealing over the sky, we began to go up, and up, and
up, till we felt like the poor wretches who climb the tall chimneys of
factories. At last we took to a rib of rock, very steep and planted in
ice, to say nothing of various embellishments of the same substance
at intervals along the surface. It was heart-breaking work. There
was the pass close at hand, and yet we never seemed to get any nearer
to it. But after what seemed ages, Jossi gave a sigh of satisfaction,
and quitting the rocks, began to traverse the snow. Soon we reached a
warm and sheltered spot, where we suggested a halt for luncheon in the
genial rays of the sun. But no; it was not the usual luncheon-place;
people always had lunch on the Saddle (five minutes farther), and
therefore we must have lunch on the Saddle. Theophile ventured to
protest, and was promptly sat upon; so to the Saddle we went. There we
had our appetites interfered with by various things. First, we were
disquieted by the aspect of the ridge, now first completely seen,
which had put on an entire and apparently not too closely fitting suit
of ice and powdery snow. Of rocks one hardly saw a trace. The guides
munched very fast, nodded their heads, addressed warm expressions
of disapprobation to the ridge, and seemed very jolly on the top of
everything. The wind blew, our teeth chattered, the eatables nearly
froze, and we, too, pretended we were having an awfully good time.
But the happiest moments come to an end, and so did our luncheon,
after which, blue of nose and hand, we struggled along in the face
of a driving mist. Well, it was not so bad as it looked. The guides
spared no trouble, and dug out the buried rocks like terriers after
a field-mouse. Progress was necessarily slow, and we did not seem to
make much way. At last the Hugi Saddle was reached, and the work became
easier. The snow was now firmer, we could kick out good steps without
difficulty. Finally the slope eased off, and in a few minutes we stood
by the stone man on the summit. The view was fine, the mist having
cleared off just as we reached the top. But it was already eleven
o’clock, so we did not stay long, but began the descent after about
ten minutes’ halt on the summit. The climb down to the Agassiz-joch
was long; it took us nearly four hours, including half-an-hour for
lunch, to get there. It was thus almost 4 P.M. when we embarked in
that charming slope. Tedious as had been our ascent of it, our descent
was much worse; and there are stones, and when stones make descents,
they do it pretty quickly. But we won’t talk of the stones; none of us
got our heads broken. Well, we came down that nice lively slope and
the icy rocks, and got into the _couloir_, and came down that; and at
last--being late in the year--it grew dusk. We were beginning to think
that we must be somewhere near the first of the _bergschrunds_ (I
cannot conscientiously say that they were more than a couple of inches
wide), when suddenly the porter exclaimed, “I can’t find the track!”
We could not make this out. The steps had been easily felt a moment
before. He fumbled about for a bit, but still without success; so
Theophile, who was just behind, went down a few steps and put out his
hand to feel for them. Instantly he drew it back, and said in rather
an awed voice, “There has been an avalanche.” Jossi at once untied
from the back, sprang down to the front, put himself in the porter’s
place, and led away in the dark in such splendid style, that in fifteen
minutes or less we were down on the plateau of the Finsteraarjoch.
Here the lantern came into use, and we carefully threaded our way
through the icefall of the glacier. Our tracks of the morning were of
the utmost value, and thanks to them we encountered no difficulties
whatever.
It was late when we reached the Schwarzegg hut, so we decided to sleep
there once more, and the sun was high in the heavens next morning
before we sat down to our coffee.
Here is another autumn experience, in which, as a nice, cheering
introduction to our day’s climbing, we got asphyxiated. “Were we
smothered, then? Were we suffocated?” asks the unthinking reader.
No, we were not “asphyxiated dead,” as an Irishman would say; we were
merely put to sleep at inconvenient periods during the day, after being
put to sleep with greater soundness than usual during the preceding
night.
But this fragmentary style and absence of all precise information
points to something like present asphyxiation; so I must beg leave
to say that though I date this from a health resort, I am not a
“head-patient,” as I once heard those persons classified who were in
a particular sanatorium for something or other that was not lungs. It
was an enlivening place, that particular health resort. If a youth
was ill-mannered, he could not be kicked, because “one can’t kick an
invalid, you know;” or else the excuse was, “Poor fellow! he doesn’t
mean it; he’s off his chump--_head-patient_, you know.” My impression
is, that that health resort was as fine a school for self-restraint
in the naturally self-restrained, and for downright uncompromising
selfishness in those who already were accustomed to look after No. 1,
as I know of.
Still I am a long way from our starting-point. Let me make an effort,
cross the Lauteraarjoch from Grindelwald, walk down the level glacier
beyond, and get to it--“it” being the sumptuous dwelling known as the
Dollfus Pavilion.
Why the good gentleman who built this hut should have constructed it
at a distance of three miles from water, was the problem which puzzled
our heads while we lay in the sun near the young forests growing up on
every side. It was lucky that some eyes, sharper than mine, saw these
specimens of Alpine timber, as otherwise we might have stretched our
weary limbs on the top of them. Later it transpired that an experiment
had been tried in forestry on these slopes, and the poor little twigs
had been carefully planted with the idea that, in time to come, they
might grow.
As evening drew on, we retired to the hut and made up a glowing fire,
destined a few hours later to reduce us to that comatose state I have
hinted at above. Perhaps the sluggish condition of mind and body which
we experienced next morning was also in part owing to three out of the
four members of the party having consumed six basins of very thick
soup apiece and twelve large potatoes. The soup, of course, could not
be wasted, though personally I would have rather lived on it for three
days than have had to swallow it all in one.
After waking with some trouble, and consuming the above-mentioned
soup, we tumbled out of the hut, floundered all in a heap down to the
glacier, and began to go along it in a dreamy stagger, varied by a
rude awakening, as, from time to time, one or another walked into a
crevasse, rubbed his eyes, got out again, and proceeded on his way.
Those great-great-great-great-etc.-grandfathers of ours were wise
people to keep off glaciers in their generation. Think what choice
language the modern mountaineer finds all ready to his tongue after he
has walked for three hours up or down (if there is an up or a down)
the Aar glacier, and then discovers that he is no farther. Imagine
for an instant what that glacier must have been when it came to the
piled-up moraine across the Haslithal near Meiringen. Next time you
find yourself pacing the Aar glacier (I have no doubt that you vowed on
the last occasion you never would again, but you surely will), think
of what it was in the olden time, even when it reached only to the
Grimsel, and be thankful that you climb in the nineteenth century.
At last, as we began to think that the Strahlegg Pass really was rather
nearer than it had been some hours earlier, we halted and attempted to
rouse each other. A warm wind swept up in our faces; our limbs were
like lead, our minds in a condition of placid imbecility. But when,
after some trouble, we dug a little cold water out of the glacier,
the effect was magical, and emboldened by the sense of our returning
faculties, we promptly decided to have breakfast under a great tower of
ice which had rolled down from a glacier clinging to the slope above.
We were now equal to all emergencies, and ready to cope with the
largest and most varied collection of loose stones I ever saw in
my life. The Saddle (which we struck just beyond the drop referred
to on page 5, vol. ii. of the second series of “Peaks, Passes, and
Glaciers”--at least I should imagine that this gap is the one therein
described) and the fine _arête_ beyond were a welcome change from the
“shocking state of disrepair” of the face. The entire ridge gives as
good a scramble as any one fond of rock-climbing can wish for. Nowhere
excessively difficult, it is always sensational, and the rocks are big
and firm. Most of the time the party is right on the crest, and can
glance straight down to the Lauteraar glacier on the one hand or to the
Strahlegg on the other. The Lauteraarhorn is seldom taken; probably
on account of the trouble of getting at it. People also seem to think
that if they have been up the Schreckhorn, they have seen everything
of interest in that direction. In this idea they are, in my opinion,
quite mistaken. I have already referred to the view of the Schreckhorn
and Finsteraarhorn as well as to that of the Lake of Thun to be
obtained from the Lauteraarhorn, and I think that it is very much finer
than anything one sees from the Wetterhorn, Jungfrau, or any other of
the Oberland peaks with which I am acquainted.
After an hour spent on the summit, we reluctantly began the descent,
and at 4 P.M. were on the Strahlegg, while at 5.30, just as the peaks
around began to glow with the rosy hues of sunset, we were nearly off
the Zasenberg. From here one enters on the preserves of the Interlaken
“tripper,” so I will abruptly close.
In the next chapter I will give the last of my experiences at my
favourite time of year, and talk to you about two old friends--not,
alas! with new faces.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] I am aware that the _Alpine Journal_ (vol. xiii. p. 113) states
that Herr Munz was killed by falling snow, not ice, which fell from the
rocks. I talked to the brothers Boss, and also to several of the guides
on the subject, and they all affirmed that it was ice from the little
hanging glacier. Which explanation of the disaster is correct, I am,
of course, unable to say. One of the guides, Meyer, succumbed to his
injuries the day after the accident.
[7] In September 1891, Ulrich Kaufmann was struck on the knee, and
bowled over, by a block of falling ice at this same spot.