A MELANCHOLY QUEST
The accident in the Caucasus in 1888, by which Messrs Donkin and Fox and
their two Swiss guides lost their lives, was one of the saddest that has
ever happened in the annals of mountaineering. I will not dwell on it,
but will rather pass on to the search expedition, a short account of
whose operations will serve to illustrate how a thorough knowledge of
mountaineering may be utilised in finding a conjectured spot in an
unmapped region in the snow world.
The year after the accident--for the season when it occurred was too
advanced for a thorough search to be then undertaken--a party of four
Englishmen, Messrs Douglas Freshfield, Clinton Dent, Hermann Woolley,
and Captain Powell, with Maurer of the Bernese Oberland as leading
guide, set out from England to try and ascertain how the accident
happened, and, if possible, recover the remains. They succeeded, in the
course of a profoundly interesting journey, in finding the last camp of
their friends, and from Mr Clinton Dent's fine description in _The
Alpine Journal_ I make, with his kind consent, the following extracts.
They show how well the old school of climbers learnt all the routine of
their art, and how superior is the trained mountaineer of any
nationality to the inexperienced dweller amongst mountains, who is
utterly unable to advance a single step upon them.
Having journeyed to the district and got over all the easier ground at
first met with, the party was now fairly embarked in the region of ice
and snow.
"The day was well advanced," writes Mr Dent, "and it is only on rare
occasions in the Central Caucasus that the valleys and sky are free from
cloud at such an hour. But not a vestige of mist was to be seen. The
conditions were not merely of good omen, but were also in the hightest
degree fortunate, for the object of our search seemed very minute in the
presence of such gigantic surroundings. The air was clear and soft, and
the snow in perfect order for walking. We worked our way due west, and
gradually, as we turned the buttress of rock, a steep and broad
ice-gully came into view, leading up to the pass. This consisted of a
broad snow-topped depression, from 1500 to 1800 feet above the
snow-field. On the right or east of the pass the ridge ran sharply up to
the pinnacle already mentioned, while on the left the ridge, broken up
on its crest by great towers of rock, stretched away to the summit of
Dych Tau, the peak of which from our point of view was not visible. A
careful inspection of the rocks with the telescope revealed nothing. A
possible place for a bivouac might have been found at any point on the
rocks below the pass, but no particularly likely spot was evident. It
was conceivable too, of course, that the travellers had discovered a
more suitable place on the Ullu Auz side, close to the summit of the
pass. In any case our plan of action was clear, and we set forth without
delay to ascend the wall. Two long ribs of rock lying on the right of
the ice-gully offered the best means of access. Both looked feasible,
but it was only after a moment's hesitation that the left-hand one was
selected, as it seemed more broken, was broader, and ran up higher. If
the right-hand rib had been chosen, we might conceivably have missed the
object of our search altogether. We made our way up the rocks without
any great difficulty. Half-melted masses of snow constantly hissed down
the ice-gully as we ascended, and the great chasm that extends along the
base of the cliff was choked for the most part with avalanche snow. The
rocks were steep, but so broken as to offer good hand-and foot-hold.
Still, the mind was sufficiently occupied in attending to the details of
climbing to prevent the thoughts from wandering. Insensibly, we began
to think little save of the view that would be revealed from the top of
the pass. From time to time an opportunity would be found of gazing to
the right or left, but progress was tolerably continuous. Maurer, who
was leading, looked upwards now and again, as he worked out the best
line of ascent, but the rocks were so steep that he could only see a
very few feet. Just about mid-day, as he stopped for a moment to look
upwards, I saw his expression suddenly change. 'Herr Gott!' he gasped
out, 'der Schlafplatz!'[5] I think I shall never forget the thrill the
words sent through me. We sprang up, scrambling over the few feet that
still intervened, and in a moment were grouped on a little ledge just
outside the bivouac. There was little enough to be seen at the first
glance save a low horse-shoe shaped wall of stones, measuring some 6
feet by 8, and carefully built against an overhanging rock. The
enclosure was full of drifted snow, raised up into a hump at the back,
where it covered a large rücksack. On a ledge formed by one of the
stones, a little tin snow spectacle-box caught the eye as it reflected
the rays of the sun. For a few moments all was excitement as the
presence of one object after another was revealed. 'See here,' cried
Maurer, as he scooped away the snow with his hands, 'the sleeping-bags!'
'And here a rücksack,' said another. 'Look, they made a fire there,'
called out a third, 'and here is the cooking kettle and the revolver.'
Then came somewhat of a reaction, and for a few minutes we could but
gaze silently at the place that told so clear a tale, and endeavour to
realise to the full the evidence that had come upon us with such
overwhelming suddenness.
* * * * *
"It is most probable that the accident occurred on the south side of the
cliffs forming the eastern ridge of Dych Tau. The party must have been
roped at the moment, and it is very reasonable to suppose that they were
engaged in traversing one of the many ice and snow covered slopes that
exist on this side. What the exact nature of the accident was matters
little; but it may be remembered that the snow on such slopes and ledges
often binds very lightly, and that there are no mountains, perhaps,
where these places are more numerous or more treacherous than in the
Caucasus. It was possibly one of those rare instances in which the rope
was a source of danger and not of security to the party as a whole. Yet
the rule is clear, and it amounts to this: if a place is too dangerous
to cross with a party roped, lest the slip of one drag down all, then it
is too dangerous to cross at all. So steep are the cliffs that a fall
must have meant instantaneous death. As an example, a torn sleeping-bag
which was thrown over the bivouac wall fell to the very bottom of the
slope, and we saw it just above the _bergschrund_ as we descended. It
was necessary to take down some of the articles discovered, for we might
otherwise have found difficulty in convincing the natives of the success
of the expedition, and this was an important point. The height of the
pass is 14,350 feet, and of the bivouac about 14,000 feet. We left the
bivouac at 3.30 P.M., the day being still perfectly cloudless. The
ice-fall offered some little difficulty, one or two of the bridges by
which we had crossed in the morning having broken down. Still we were
able to keep to almost the same line as that adopted in ascending.
* * * * *
"No one familiar with the Caucasus would be willing to believe that any
native could have reached the bivouac. The people are still very
timorous on ice, and are wholly incapable of facing an ice-fall, much
less of making any way through one. No native could have been got to the
place even if in the train of competent mountaineers; alone, he would
not have set foot on the glacier at all.
"A day or two later we made our way down to the collection of villages
known as Balkar, a good three and a half hours' walk from Karaoul. The
place is not well spoken of, but we were hospitably received and
entertained. In this, as in many other villages subsequently, the story
of our search excited much interest. On every occasion the proceedings
were almost exactly identical. As usual in the Caucasus, the natives all
crowded into our apartment soon after arrival. Powell would then select
some Russian-speaking man in authority, and announce through him that
the results of our expedition would be made known to all who cared to
hear them. The whole story was then told, and admirably Powell used to
narrate it, winding up by pointing out how the people of the district
were now exonerated from any suspicion that may have lain on them. Such
suspicion, he used to add, had never been entertained by any English
people. The account was always listened to in breathless silence. At the
conclusion it was repeated by the chief to the natives in their own
language. Then the rücksack was brought in and the articles found shown.
These were always instantly accepted as absolute proof; the rusty
revolver especially excited attention. Expressions of sorrow and brief
interjections were always heard on all sides. Then the chief spoke to
some such effect as follows: 'We are indeed rejoiced that you have found
these traces. It relieves our people from an irksome and unjust
suspicion. It is well that Englishmen came to our country for this
search, for we believe that no others could have accomplished what you
have done. We are all very grateful to you. Englishmen are always most
welcome in our country. We are glad to receive them. Our houses are
theirs, and the best we can do shall always be done for your
countrymen.' In several places--at Chegem, for instance--words were
added to this effect: 'We remember well Donkin and Fox; they were brave
and good men, and we loved them. It is very sad to us to think that they
are lost.'"
A more detailed account of this melancholy quest will be found in Messrs
Douglas Freshfield's and Vittorio Sella's work, _The Exploration of the
Caucasus_. It is from this, the most beautifully illustrated of any book
on mountaineering, that, with Mr Freshfield's kind permission and that
of Mr Willink, I take the picture of the sleeping-place. The finished
drawing was made by Mr Willink from a sketch by Captain Powell.