SOME AVALANCHE ADVENTURES
We should never have got into such a position, but when definite orders
are not carried out the General must not be blamed. The adventure might
easily have cost all three of us our lives.
This is how we came to be imperilling our necks on an incoherent
snow-ridge 13,000 feet above the sea. It was the end of September, and
my two guides and I were waiting at Zermatt to try the Dent Blanche, a
proceeding which, later on, was amply justified by success. Much fresh
snow had recently fallen, and the slopes of the mountains were running
down towards the valleys faster than the most active chamois could have
galloped up them. Idleness is an abomination to the keen climber, and
doubly so if he be an enthusiastic photographer, and the sun shone each
day from a cloudless sky. Something had to be done, but what could we
choose? All the safe second-class ascents up which one might wade
through fresh snow without risk, we had accomplished over and over
again. Something new to us was what we wanted, and what eventually we
found in the stately Hohberghorn. Now this peak is seldom ascended. It
is overtopped by two big neighbours, and until these have been done, no
one is likely to climb the less imposing peak. Furthermore, the
Hohberghorn is a grind, and though we got enough excitement and to spare
out of it, yet in our case the circumstances were peculiar. The view was
certain to be grand, and, _faute de mieux_, we decided to start for it.
On this occasion, in addition to my guide of many years' standing, the
famous Joseph Imboden of St Nicholas, I had a second man, who had a
great local reputation in his native valley at the other end of
Switzerland (and deservedly so, as far as his actual climbing ability
was concerned), but who had never been on a rope with Imboden before.
This was the cause of the appalling risk we ran during our expedition.
We arrived in good time at the hut, and found another party, who
proposed going up the Dom, the highest mountain entirely in Switzerland
(14,900 feet) next day. Our way lay together for a couple of hours over
the great glacier, and we proceeded the following morning in magnificent
weather towards our respective peaks.
It was heavy work ploughing our way through the soft new snow, and we
could not advance except very slowly. As a result, it was already
mid-day when we gained the ridge of the Hohberghorn, not far below the
summit. The sun streamed pitilessly down, the snow cracked and slipped
at every step. To understand what followed, our position must now be
made clear. Imboden, who led, was on the very crest of the ridge. Next
to him on the rope, at a distance of about 20 feet, was my place, also
on the ridge. At an equal distance behind me was the second guide. He
was a trifle below the ridge, on the side to our left. We stood still
for a moment, and then Imboden distinctly but very quietly remarked to
the other man, "Be on your guard. At any moment now we may expect an
avalanche." I never to this day can understand how he failed to grasp
what this meant. It should have been obvious that it was a warning to
look out, and at the first sign of approaching danger to step down on to
the other side of the ridge. Had not this been a perfectly simple thing
to do, we should not have continued the ascent, but the second guide
failed us hopelessly when the critical moment came. Imboden, to avoid a
small cornice or overhanging eave of snow to our right, now took a few
steps along and below the ridge to the left, while the man behind me
came in the tracks to the crest, and I followed the leader. From this
position the last man could in an instant have been down the slope to
his right, and have held us with the greatest ease.
We advanced a yard or two further, and then the entire surface upon
which we stood commenced to move! A moment more and we were struggling
for our lives, dashing our axes through the rushing snow, and
endeavouring to arrest our wild career, which, unless checked at once,
would cause us to be precipitated down the entire face of the mountain,
to the glacier below. Then it was that the firm bed of snow beneath the
newer layer stood us in good stead. Our axes held, and, breathless,
bruised and startled, we found ourselves clinging to the slope, while
the avalanche, momentarily increasing in volume, thundered down towards
the snow-fields below, where at length, heaped high against the
mountain-side, it came to rest.
We now took stock of the position. We were practically unhurt, but so
confused and rapid had been the slip that the rope was entangled round
us in a manner wonderful to behold. There was nothing to prevent us
reaching the summit, for every atom of fresh snow had been swept away
from the slope, so we continued our climb, and soon were able to rest on
the top. To this day, Imboden and I always look back to our adventure
on the Hohberghorn as the greatest peril either of us has ever faced.
More than one instance has been recorded where, owing to the prompt
action of the last man on the rope, fatal accidents on snow-ridges have
been avoided. The two most famous occasions in Alpine annals[2] were
when Hans Grass saved his party on Piz Palü, and when Ulrich Almer
performed his marvellous feat on the Gabelhorn. It is true that in both
these cases the risk was due to the breaking away of a snow-cornice, but
the remedy was exactly the same as it ought to have been when our
avalanche was started.
I have only to add that we found the other party at the hut, much
exhausted by their unsuccessful attempt on the Dom, and very anxious on
our account, as they both heard and saw the avalanche which had so
nearly ended our mountaineering career.
The famous climber, Mr Tuckett, has very kindly allowed me to quote from
_Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers_, the following description of a narrow
escape from an avalanche while descending the Aletschhorn:
"We had accomplished in safety a distance of scarcely more than 150
yards when, as I was looking at the Jungfrau, my attention was
attracted by a sudden exclamation from Victor, who appeared to stagger
and all but lose his balance. At first, the idea of some sort of seizure
or an attack of giddiness presented itself, but, without stopping to
enquire, I at once turned round, drove my good 8-foot ash-pole as deeply
as possible through the surface layer of fresh snow into the firmer
stratum beneath, tightened the rope to give Victor support, and shouted
to Peter to do the same. All this was the work of an instant, and a
glance at once showed me what had happened. Victor was safe for the
moment, but a layer or _couche_ of snow, 10 inches to a foot in
thickness, had given way exactly beneath his feet, and first gently, and
then fleet as an arrow, went gliding down, with that unpleasant sound
somewhat resembling the escape of steam, which is so trying to the
nerves of the bravest man, when he knows its full and true significance.
At first a mass 80 to 100 yards in breadth and 10 or 15 in length alone
gave way, but the contagion spread, and ere another minute had elapsed
the slopes right and left of us for an extent of at least half a mile,
were in movement, and, like a frozen Niagara, went crashing down the
ice-precipices and _séracs_ that still lay between us and the Aletsch
glacier, 1800 to 2000 feet below. The spectacle was indescribably
sublime, and the suspense for a moment rather awful, as we were
clinging to an incline at least as steep as that on the Grindelwald side
of the Strahleck--to name a familiar example--and it was questionable
whether escape would be possible, if the layer of snow on the portion of
the slope we had just been traversing should give way before we could
retrace our steps.
"Not a moment was to be lost; no word was spoken after the first
exclamation, and hastily uttered, 'Au col! et vite!' and then in dead
silence, with _bâtons_ held aloft like harpoons, ready to be plunged
into the lower and older layers of snow, we stole quietly but rapidly up
towards the now friendly-looking _corniche_, and in a few minutes stood
once more in safety on the ridge, with feelings of gratitude for our
great deliverance, which, though they did not find utterance in words,
were, I believe, none the less sincerely felt by all of us. 'Il n'a
manqué que peu à un grand malheur,' quietly remarked Victor, who looked
exhausted, as well he might be after what he had gone through; but a
_goutte_ of cognac all round soon set us right again, and shouting to
Bennen, who was still in sight, though dwindled in size to a mere point,
we were soon beside him, running down the _névé_ of our old friend, the
Aren Glacier. The snow was now soft and the heat tremendous, and both
Bennen and Bohren showed signs of fatigue; but a rapid pace was still
maintained in spite of the frequent crevasses. Some were cleared in a
series of flying leaps, whilst into others which the snow concealed, one
and another would occasionally sink, amid shouts of laughter from his
companions, who, in their turn, underwent a similar fate. To the
carefully secured rope, which, with the alpenstock and ice axe, are the
mountaineer's best friends, we owed it that these sudden immersions were
a mere matter of joke; but even the sense of security which it confers
does not altogether prevent a 'creepy' sensation from being experienced,
as the legs dangle in vacancy, and the sharp metallic ring of the icy
fragments is heard as they clatter down into the dark blue depths
below."
The higher and more snow-laden the mountain chain, the more risk is
there from avalanches. It seems practically certain that Mr Mummery met
his death in the Himalayas from an avalanche, and that Messrs Donkin and
Fox and their two Swiss guides perished in the Caucasus from a like
cause. Sir W. Martin Conway, in his book on the Himalayas, makes several
allusions to avalanches, and on at least one occasion, some members of
his party had a narrow escape. He relates the adventure as follows:
[Illustration: A cutting through an immense avalanche which fell some
months previously.]
[Illustration: The remains of a large avalanche.]
[Illustration: An avalanche of stones.]
[Illustration: A mountain chapel near Zermatt where special prayers are
offered for defence against avalanche.
_To face_ p. 59.]
"Zurbriggen and I had no more than set foot upon the grass, when we
beheld a huge avalanche-cloud descending over the whole width of the
ice-fall, utterly enveloping both it and a small rock-rib and couloir
beside it. Bruce and the Gurkhas were below the rib, and could only see
up the couloir. They thought the avalanche was a small one confined to
it, and so they turned back and ran towards the foot of the ice-fall.
This was no improvement in position, and there was nothing for them to
do then but to run straight away from it, and get as far out to the flat
glacier as they could. The fall started from the very top of the Lower
Burchi peak, and tumbled on to the plateau above the ice-fall; it flowed
over this, and came down the ice-fall itself. We saw the cloud before we
heard the noise, and then it only reached us as a distant rumble. We had
no means of guessing the amount of solid snow and ice that there might
be in the heart of the cloud. The rumble increased in loudness, and was
soon a thunder that swallowed up our puny shouts, so that Bruce could
not hear our warning. Had he heard he could easily have reached the
sheltered position we gained before the cloud came on him. Zurbriggen
and I cast ourselves upon our faces, but only the edge of the cloud and
an ordinary strong wind reached us. Our companions were entirely
enveloped in it. They afterwards described to us how they raced away
like wild men, jumping crevasses which they could not have cleared in
cold blood. When the snow just enveloped them, the wind raised by it
cast them headlong on the ice. This, however, was the worst that
happened. The snow peppered them all over, and soaked them to the skin,
but the solid part of the avalanche was happily arrested in the midst of
the ice-fall, and never came in sight. When the fog cleared they were
all so out of breath that for some minutes they could only stand and
regard one another in panting silence. They presently rejoined us, and
we halted for a time on the pleasant grass."
In the olden days, before the great Alpine lines had tunnelled beneath
the mountains and made a journey from one side of the range to the other
in midwinter as safe and as comfortable as a run from London to
Brighton, passengers obliged to cross the Alps in winter or spring were
exposed to very real peril from avalanches. Messrs Newnes have
courteously allowed me to make a short extract from an article which
appeared in one of their publications, and in which is described the
adventures of two English ladies who were obliged to return home
suddenly from Innsbruck on account of the illness of a near relative.
Their shortest route was by _diligence_ to Constance, over the Arlberg
Pass, and although it was considered extremely dangerous at that time of
year--the beginning of May 1880--they resolved to make the attempt. Much
anxiety with regard to avalanches was felt in neighbouring villages, as
the sun had lately been very hot, and the snow had become rotten and
undermined. Owing to heavy falls during the previous winter, the
accumulation of snow was enormous, and thus the two travellers set out
under the worst possible auspices. The conductor of the _diligence_
warned them of the danger, and told them on no account to open a window
or to make any movement which could shake the coach. He got in with them
and sat opposite, looking very worried and anxious. They reached the
critical part of their journey, and, to quote Mrs Brewer's words:
"Suddenly a low, booming sound, like that of a cannon on a battlefield
or a tremendous peal of thunder, broke on our ears, swelling into a
deafening crash; and in a moment we were buried in a vast mass of snow.
One of the immense piles from the mountain above had crashed down upon
us, carrying everything with it. At the same moment we felt a violent
jerk of the coach, and heard a kind of sound which expressed terror;
but, happily, our vehicle did not turn over, as it seemed likely to do
for a minute or so. There we sat--for how long I know not--scarcely
able to breathe, the snow pressing heavily against the windows, and
utterly blocking out light and air, so that breathing was a painful
effort. And now came a curious sensation. It was an utter suspension of
thought, and of every mental and physical faculty.
"True, in a sort of unconscious way I became aware that the guard was
sobbing out a prayer for his wife and children; but it had not the
slightest effect on me.
"We might have been buried days and nights for all I knew, for I kept no
count of time. In reality, I believe it was but a couple of hours
between the fall of the avalanche and the first moment of hope, which
came in the form of men striking with pickaxes. The sound seemed to come
from a long distance--almost, as it were, from another world.
"The guard, roused by the noise, said earnestly: 'Ach Gott! I thank
Thee.' And then, speaking to us, he said: 'Ladies, help is near!'
"Gradually the sound of the digging and the voices of the men grew
nearer, till at length one window was open--the one overlooking the
valley; and the life-giving air stole softly in upon us. Even now,
however, we were told not to move; not that we had any inclination to do
so, for we were in a dazed, half-conscious condition. When at length we
used our eyes, it was to note that the valley did not seem so deep, and
that the villages with their church spires had disappeared; the meaning
of it was not far to seek.
"We were both good German scholars, and knew several of the dialects, so
that we were able to learn a good deal of what had happened by listening
to the men's talk. The school inspector in his terror had lost all
self-control, and forgetful of the warnings given him, threw himself off
the seat and leaped into space, thereby endangering the safety of all.
He mercifully fell into one of the clumps of trees some distance down
the slope, and so escaped without very much damage to himself, except
shock to the system and bruises. The poor horses, however, fared
infinitely worse. The weight of the snow lifted the rings from the hooks
on the carriage, and at the same time carried the poor brutes down with
it into the valley--never again to do a day's work.
"The difficulties still before us were very serious. We could neither go
backward nor forward, and there was danger of more avalanches falling.
The next posting village was still far ahead, and there was no chance of
our advancing a step until the brave body of men could cut a way through
or make a clearance, and even then time would be required to bring back
horses."
The ladies were at last extricated from their still dangerous position,
and amid a scene of the greatest excitement, arrived at a little
Tyrolese village. The people could not do enough to welcome them, and
every kindness was shown to them. Thus ended a wonderfully narrow escape
for all who were concerned in the adventure.
[Illustration: A mountain path.]
[Illustration: A village completely buried beneath an avalanche.]
[Illustration: Peasants of the mountains.]
[Illustration: Terraces cut on the hill sides and planted with trees to
prevent the fall of avalanches.
_To face_ p. 65.]