SOME NARROW ESCAPES AND FATAL ACCIDENTS
Probably not half the narrow escapes experienced by climbers are ever
described, even in the pages of the various publications of English and
foreign Alpine Clubs, though when an accident by the breaking of a
snow-cornice is just avoided, the incident is so terribly impressive
that several accounts have found their way into print. Scarcely anything
more startling than a certain occurrence on a ridge of the Mönch, which
happened to the late Mr Moore and his two guides, Melchior and Jacob
Anderegg, has ever been related. The party had succeeded in making the
ascent of the Mönch from the Wengern Alp, it being only the third
occasion when this long and difficult climb was accomplished, each of
their predecessors spending _three days and three nights_ on the
expedition.
[Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG, OF MEIRINGEN.]
[Illustration: A SON AND A GRANDCHILD OF MELCHIOR ANDEREGG, 1903.
_To face_ p. 124.]
Having gained the summit, the party proceeded to go down by the usual
route towards the Trugberg. This follows a very narrow _arête_. "On the
left hand," says Mr Moore in _The Alpine Journal_, "is an absolute
precipice; on the right a slope, which might be called precipitous,
falls to the Aletsch Glacier. The quantity of snow on the ridge was
enormous, and the sun had begun to tell upon it. We knew too much to
attempt to approach the upper edge, and kept at a distance of some 12
feet below it on the Aletsch side; lower down we dared not go, owing to
the steepness of the slope and the danger of starting an avalanche. With
Melchior in front it is unnecessary to say that we moved with the
greatest caution. No man is more alive than he to the danger arising
from a snow-cornice. He sounded with his axe at every step, and we went
steadily along, anxious, but with every reason to believe that we were
giving the cornice a wide berth. Suddenly came a startling cry from
Melchior. At the same instant I felt myself stagger, and, instinctively
swinging ever so slightly to the right, found myself the next moment
sitting astride on the ridge. With a thundering roar the cornice on our
left for a distance of some 200 yards went crashing down to the depths
below, sending up clouds of snow-dust which completely concealed my
companions from me. It was only by the absence of all strain on the rope
that I knew--though at the moment I scarcely realised the fact--that
they were, like myself, safe. As the dust cleared off, Melchior, also
sitting astride of the ridge, turned towards me, his face white as the
snow which covered us. That it was no personal fear which had blanched
our leader's sunburnt cheeks his first words, when he could find
utterance, showed. 'God be thanked!' said he; 'I never thought to see
either of you there.' We had, in fact, escaped destruction by a
hand's-breadth. As I believe, our right feet had been on the ridge, our
left on the cornice; we had thus just sufficient firm standing-ground to
enable us to make that instinctive movement to the right which had
landed us _á cheval_, for Jacob had fallen in the same position as
Melchior and myself. Few words were said; but words poorly express the
emotions at such a moment. Melchior's axe had been carried down with the
cornice as it fell, but had fortunately lodged on the face of the
precipice 50 feet below. It was too precious to leave behind, so we let
him down by the rope, and descending in a cat-like way peculiar to
first-class guides when not hampered by _Herrshaft_, he regained it
without difficulty.
"Our further descent was uneventful."
One of the greatest dangers of mountaineering is from falling stones,
yet the number of fatal accidents from this cause is as few as the
narrow escapes are many. As exciting an experience as can well be
imagined took place on the Aiguille du Midi at Chamonix in 1871. The
party consisted of Messrs Horace Walker and G. E. Foster. The latter
wrote a graphic account in _The Alpine Journal_, and kindly allows me
to make the following extracts. The guides were Jacob Anderegg and Hans
Baumann, and the climbers wished to ascend from the Montanvert and be
the first to go down the steep face of the mountain on the Chamonix
side.
After some difficulty in finding the route, for both the guides were
unacquainted with the district, and Mr Walker alone knew in a vague sort
of way that the peak was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Géant
ice-fall, they eventually stood on the top. It had taken them ten hours,
and they sat for some time on the more sheltered Chamonix side, debating
by what route they should descend. The slopes below were very steep, so
they decided to retrace their steps to the foot of the rocks, and then,
turning over on to the Chamonix side of the mountain, make their way as
best they could down ice-filled gullies and precipitous rocks. All at
first went well, and soon they commenced to cross the face of the cliff
to gain a rocky buttress that offered a likely route some hundred feet
below the top of the wall. "Jacob was leading," writes Mr Foster,
"Walker next, I followed, and Baumann brought up the rear. Only one was
moving at a time, and every one had the rope as taut as possible between
himself and his neighbour. Jacob was crossing a narrow gully, when
suddenly, without any warning, as though he had trod on the keystone of
the wall, the whole face for some 30 or 40 feet above him peeled off,
and with a crash like thunder, hundreds of tons of rocks precipitated
themselves on him. In an instant he was torn from his hold, and hurled
down the precipice with them. Fortunately, Walker was able to hold on,
though the strain on him was something awful. As the uproar ceased, and
silence even more impressive succeeded, we looked in one another's faces
with blank dismay. From our position it was impossible to see what had
become of Jacob, and only the tight rope told us that his body at least,
living or dead, was still fastened to us. In a voice singularly unlike
his own, Walker at length cried out, 'Jacob,' and our hearts sank within
us as it passed without response. 'Jacob! Ach Jacob!' Walker repeated;
and I trust none of my readers may ever know the relief we felt when the
reply came back, 'Ich lebe noch.'[6]
"From where I was I could not see him, but Walker craned over a rock,
and then turned round. 'I see him. He is awfully hurt, and bleeding
frightfully.' I then contrived to shift my position, and saw that he was
indeed hurt. His face was black with blood and dirt, the skin torn from
his bleeding hands, while his clothes in ribands threatened worse
injuries still unseen. After a moment, he managed to recover his
footing, and then untied the rope with trembling fingers, and crawled
along the face of the cliff to the other side of the gully, where some
snow offered means to stanch his wounds.
"As soon as he was safe, Baumann called on us to stand still, and
clambered carefully over the spot where the rocks had given way, our
only road lying there. I followed, and then Walker, knotting up the rope
to which Jacob had hung, crossed last. With Jacob below us, care was
necessary in climbing so as to send no more loose fragments on his head,
but we at last reached the spot where he was standing. Thanks to the
snow, the bleeding had already stopped to a great extent, and with the
aid of some sticking-plaster Walker had with him, and some torn strips
from a pocket-handkerchief, we bound up his wounds as well as we could.
He had had a marvellous escape; no fragment had struck him fully, the
rock that had grazed his face having missed knocking out his brains from
his presence of mind in throwing back his head. Fortunately, no bones
were broken, though he was badly bruised all over, and after a quarter
of an hour's rest and a good pull at the brandy-flask, he said he was
ready to start again.
"On taking hold of the rope to tie him on again, we were awestruck to
find all its strands but one had been severed, so that his whole weight
had hung literally on a thread. Strange as it may appear, the rock that
had done this had probably saved his life by jerking him out of the line
of fire. Still, all honour to Messrs Buckingham for their good
workmanship, to which, and Walker's holding powers, we owe our escape
from a miserable ending of our day's work. As it was, poor Walker's ribs
had suffered sadly, and with two wounded men we recommenced our descent.
"Naturally, our trust in the rocks was gone, and we took as soon as
possible to the steep snow of the couloir. This, however, lay so thin on
the ice, that we found we had only exchanged one danger for another.
Baumann led and we followed, driving in our axe-heads at every step, but
were soon forced to descend into a narrow gully, cut by avalanches,
where the snow was deep enough to give better footing. The sides of this
were above our heads, and the bottom not more than a foot wide, so that
the danger from avalanches was very great, but for a time we descended
safely. Then a startled shout from Walker warned me that something was
wrong, and driving my axe desperately into the side, I found myself up
to the neck in a snow avalanche. For a moment I thought all was up, but
held on to the best of my powers. Then finding the stream did not stop,
I looked back, and found Walker and Jacob had contrived to get out of
the gully. With a shout to Baumann, I gave a desperate struggle, and
followed their example, and instantly saw the snow I had held up surge
over Baumann's head. For a moment he held on, then climbed out on my
side. We waited till the avalanche had passed, two of us on one side of
the gully and two on the other, and then Walker and Jacob jumped into it
with a groan, as it shook their bruised bones, and climbed up to our
side, and with an occasional look for Baumann's hat, which the avalanche
had carried off with it, pursued our way.
"So long and steep was the couloir, so thin and treacherous the snow
layer on the ice, that a good hour elapsed before we reached the bottom,
where a formidable _bergschrund_ cut off access to the glacier. Only at
one point could we find a bridge, and that was where our old enemy, the
avalanche gully, terminated, choking the crevasse with its snows, and
spreading in a fan-like mass below. With some hesitation, as our
recollection of it was not pleasant, and it was here all hard ice,
Baumann cut his way down into it. We were scarcely all fairly in it,
when we heard a tremendous crash above. Clearly, another avalanche was
descending, this time composed of rocks. As it was 2000 feet above us,
and would take some time to clear the distance, a short race for life
ensued. Baumann cut steps with amazing rapidity. Fortunately, some half
dozen only were necessary. With one eye on him and one keeping a sharp
look-out for the advent of the unwelcome stranger, we hastened down,
crossed the bridge, scampered down a slope, and merely stooping down to
pick up Baumann's hat, which turned up here, got out of the way just in
time, as an enormous mass of snow and rocks dashed over where we had
stood not a minute before."
This was the last adventure the party had that day from avalanches, but
their troubles were as yet by no means over. Some formidable glacier
work had to be accomplished before all was plain sailing. "Though we
were now tolerably reckless, the difficulties in our way nearly beat
us," Mr Foster goes on to say. "Three times we tried, and thrice in
vain, though knife edges of the most revolting description were passed,
and crevasses of fabulous width and depth jumped or got over as seemed
best. Again and again we were forced to return. At length, when we were
almost in despair, a way was found, and at 6.30, drenched by the storm
which by this time had burst upon us, we reached the little hotel at the
Pierrepointue."
There are no climbing dangers which skill and care can more surely avert
than those which are ever present on a crevassed, but snow-covered
glacier.
[Illustration: CREVASSES AND SÉRACS ON THE LOWER PART OF A GLACIER.]
[Illustration: A SNOW BRIDGE OVER A CREVASSE.]
[Illustration: ON THE BORDER OF A CREVASSE ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.]
[Illustration: SOFT SNOW IN THE AFTERNOON ON A GLACIER.
By Signor R. Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer.
_To face_ p. 133.]
Should a party fail to arrest the fall of one of its members, and have
difficulty in pulling him above ground, however, the position may
become most serious. If another party is within hail, matters are
generally simple enough, yet even for four or five people it is not
always the easiest thing in the world to haul up a companion who has
disappeared into the bowels of the earth, especially if the folly of
walking unroped has been indulged in.
A good description of what might have been a serious business but for
the skill and resource of a member of the party is given in the course
of a description of some climbs in the Rocky Mountains. The writer, Mr
Harold B. Dixon, says in _The Alpine Journal_: "A snow-covered crevasse
crossed our route at right angles. The party in front, who were without
ropes, saw the crevasse, and proceeded to leap it. All crossed in safety
but the last man, who broke through the snow and disappeared. Through
the hole the wide mouth of the crevasse was revealed, showing the danger
of trusting to the frail bridge. It was obviously dangerous to recross
without a rope, so his companions signalled to us for help, but for some
time we failed to observe their signals.
"Though stunned by the fall our friend was not materially damaged, but
he was in a sufficiently awkward fix. Jammed between the narrowing walls
of ice, he was unable to move a limb except his right arm. The crevasse
did not drop perpendicularly, but the ice-wall bulged out from the side
we stood on, and then curved over out of sight; we could not see down
more than 18 feet. We stood in a little semicircle at the hole, and one
short sentence was spoken: 'Some one must go down.' We looked at each
other. Sahrbach and Baker are large and heavy men: it was obvious they
must 'pass.' I am of lighter build; I proclaimed my 11 stone and
readiness to go. But Collie went better. 'I am 9 stone 6,' was his
deliberate statement. There was no means of seeing if this was a bluff,
so we threw up our hands--the trick was his. Tying a stirrup loop for
one foot and a noose round his waist, Collie attached himself to one
rope, which was then joined to a second. Meanwhile the Americans were
brought across the crevasse by the aid of another rope, and axes were
fixed deep in the snow in suitable positions to fasten the rope to. Then
we let Collie down as far as he would go. An anxious moment followed. 'I
can't reach him,' came Collie's voice from below. Then, after a few
minutes, 'Send down a slip knot on the other rope.' We made the knot and
lowered the rope. How Collie managed it I don't know, for he could not
reach his man, but he threw the loop round the prisoner's right arm, and
then called on us to pull. At the second haul we felt something give,
and our friend was pulled into an upright position, when Collie could
just reach him with his left hand, and with this he tied a knot above
the elbow of his right arm. By this knot we hauled him out of the narrow
crevasse and on to the bulge of ice without difficulty. But as we pulled
the rope cut into the snow, and we could not raise our burden within 6
feet of the surface. Then, while the rope was held taut, one of us
worked the handle of an axe along under the rope by sitting on the snow
and pushing it forward with his feet. In this way the rope was loosened,
and we could haul up another 3 feet, and then Sahrbach, leaning over,
reached his collar, and our half-frozen friend was deposited on the snow
with an assortment of flasks, while we fished out Collie from his
uncomfortable position. They were both very wet and cold, but no bones
were broken."
Here we see that even with a large party of competent people, it was no
easy matter to rescue a comrade from his icy prison. The details are
well given, and may be useful to any one so unfortunate as to require by
personal experience a knowledge of what should be done under similar
circumstances.
The danger of crossing snow-covered glaciers when the party does not
number more than two was brought home to those who heard of it by one of
the most tragical events which has ever been recorded in the annals of
mountaineering. A German, Dr Schäffer, had been celebrating his golden
wedding at a small place on the Brenner on 22nd August 1900. He engaged
a guide, by name Johann Offerer, and, sleeping at a hut, started early
next morning. They reached the Wildlahner Glacier in an hour and a half
from their sleeping quarters, and after traversing it for some distance
came to a large crevasse. This the guide crossed safely on a snow
bridge, but the tourist, a much heavier man, broke through, and pulled
his companion down with him. They fell about 100 feet, with the result
that the guide had a broken thigh and arm, while Dr Schäffer only
bruised his knee. He put his coat round Offerer and left food beside
him, and then tried to get out of the crevasse. After hours of toil and
pain he managed to reach a ledge not very far below the mouth of the
crevasse, but further he could not get. At last he gave up all hope, and
sat down to die, first, however, writing a full account of the accident,
and leaving a sum of money for the widow of his guide. It is to this
pathetic last effort of his life that we owe our knowledge of what
happened. The only other instance at all like it is the terrible
accident on Mont Blanc in 1870, when eleven persons perished in a
snow-storm, one of their number, Mr Bean, leaving details in his diary
of the events immediately preceding the catastrophe.
[Illustration: THE BETÉMPS HUT.]
[Illustration: SKI-ING.]
[Illustration: HOW A BEGINNER USUALLY ENDS A RUN.]
[Illustration: A GREAT CREVASSE IN THE UPPER SNOW FIELDS.
_To face_ p. 137.]
It was only on 5th September, after a long search, that the remains of
the two unfortunate men were discovered.
The following is of special interest, because, of late years, the
Norwegian sport of ski-ing has become exceedingly popular in Alpine
winter resorts. It is impossible, however, owing to the great length of
the ski, to go in difficult places on them, and therefore mountaineers
have only used them when intending to ascend to points accessible
entirely over snow-slopes, not much broken up by crevasses. The first
fatal accident to a climbing party on ski took place in 1902, and may
serve as a warning to those intending to traverse glaciers in winter on
skis, or indeed even without them. I take my account from a translation
from the Italian, which appeared in _The Alpine Journal_. The comments
by the editor should be laid to heart.
"A party of five gentlemen and four Zermatt guides left Zermatt on 24th
February for the Bétemp Hut, with the intention of ascending the
Signalkuppe and the Zumstein, _via_ the Grenz Glacier and the Capanna
Margherita.
"The 25th was spent in ski practice in the neighbourhood of the hut. On
the 26th the whole party, with the exception of one guide who had
brought a defective pair of skis, left the hut at 3.30 A.M. in weather
marked by no adverse conditions of any kind. The Grenz Glacier was
reached somewhat west of the point marked 3344 mètres on the Siegfried
map. The party unroped, proceeded upwards on their skis towards the
point marked 3496 mètres, the surface of the glacier, covered with deep
snow, showing no crevasses nor the indications of any. About midway
between 3300 mètres and the point 3344 mètres the caravan found itself
on a gentle slope, when a muffled crack was heard, and Herr Koenig, Herr
Flender, and one of the guides, Hermann Perren, were seen to sink almost
simultaneously into a concealed crevasse about 6 feet in width, which
ran in a direction parallel with the glacier, carrying with them a mass
of snow about 65 feet in length and over 14 feet in thickness.
Obviously, no amount of probing would have indicated the presence of the
crevasse, and thus by an unfortunate coincidence the three men were
standing at the same time over the hidden abyss without knowing it. One
of the other guides was instantly lowered into the crevasse by the only
available rope (the other being on Herr Flender's back), which proved to
be just too short to reach Hermann Perren, who had fallen about 90 feet,
and was standing upright against the side of the crevasse, held fast in
a mass of snow which had left his head and one arm free. Two of the
party hurried down to fetch another rope from the Bétemps Hut. In the
meanwhile Perren had managed, after a struggle of two and a half hours,
almost to set himself free, and was eventually drawn out safely,
practically uninjured, save a slightly frost-bitten hand. The dead body
of Herr Flender, found with his neck broken, partially covered with some
2 feet of hard snow, was then extricated, but in spite of persistent
efforts the body of Herr Koenig was not recovered until the next day,
when he was found lying face downwards under a mass of compact snow over
10 feet thick. Death in his case was instantaneous, caused by
suffocation, the body bearing no signs whatever of external injury. Herr
Koenig was laid to rest in the English cemetery at Zermatt, while the
body of Herr Flender was conveyed by his relatives to its last
resting-place at Düsseldorf. This is, we think, the first fatal accident
which has occurred to a party of climbers on skis bound on a serious
climbing expedition. The party on this occasion cannot with justice be
accused of recklessness, for the apparent neglect of the usual
precaution of putting on the rope on a snow-covered glacier will not be
misunderstood by those accustomed to the use of skis, who will readily
understand that the rope is practically impossible, and even dangerous,
for a party on skis.
"A remarkable feature of the accident was the thickness of the mass of
snow which gave way under the three men, and demonstrates the extreme
insecurity of winter snow on a crevassed glacier. It is possible that
the three men were perhaps too close to each other at the time of the
accident.
"It is evident that winter climbers who wish to use skis must carry
their lives in their own hands, and perhaps the safer plan for future
expeditions of this kind will be to make the ascent roped in the usual
way on snow _racquettes_ carrying the skis on the back. On the descent
the risk of breaking through the snow covering during the rapid progress
on skis would of course be very much less than on the ascent."
One of the most fruitful causes of accidents on mountains is the
underrating of difficulties by ignorant persons who, having been hauled
up and let down precipices by a couple of sturdy guides in fine weather,
proceed to inform their friends and acquaintances that "Nowadays the
Matterhorn is mere child's play, don't cher know."
A sorry tale is told by the famous climber, Mr Cecil Slingsby, who,
himself accustomed to undertake the hardest climbs without guides, would
be the first to discourage imitation in any unfit to follow in his
steps.
Writing of Skagastöldstind, in Norway, of which he made the first
ascent, and which is still considered the most difficult of the
fashionable climbs in that country, he says in _The Alpine Journal_:
"In 1880 a young tourist, son of a rich banker, whom I will call Nils,
desirous of emulating our exploits, attempted the mountain, and with the
assistance of two good climbers, who shoved and hauled him up the rocks,
succeeded in reaching the summit. Unfortunately, he afterwards wrote a
pamphlet of sixty-six pages about the mountain, in which he underrated
its difficulties. This pamphlet, I unhesitatingly assert, has been the
main cause of a terrible tragedy which took place on Skagastöldstind. It
was in this manner. At one of the series of huts built by the tourist
club a young man, named Tönsberg, who had been partially deranged, was
staying with his wife, and was deriving much benefit from the mountain
air. Here he read this pamphlet, and inferred that though
Skagastöldstind was undoubtedly a very fine mountain, yet the
difficulties of its ascent had been much exaggerated, and that any one
might make it. Upon this he set off with a lad seventeen years of age,
at 9.30 P.M., in vile weather; walked through the night (in the middle
of summer it is never dark), and reached a saetor (or châlet) at 3 A.M.;
here they found Peter, one of Nils' guides, who refused to have anything
more to do with the mountain. At last, by means of bribes, and by
promising to turn back at once if the mountain should prove
impracticable, Peter was persuaded to go forward; and at 6 o'clock they
sallied out into the wet. Wind and snow soon assailed them, but
Tönsberg would persist in his rash work. At 11 they reached the actual
base of the peak, 4100 feet below the top. The lad was frost-bitten and
could go no further; neither could Peter. They tried to tie the man with
ropes, but he was too strong for them, and used his alpenstock against
them, and it was no good. Soon afterwards he left them in the mist, and
in twenty strides was out of sight. A month or five weeks after this his
remains were found in a deep chasm between a glacier and the rocks,
amidst crags at least 2000 feet higher up on the mountain. I may add
that the valley Midt Maradal, out of which Skagastöldstind rises, is so
difficult to approach, that though it contains rich pasturage at its
lower end--a mine of wealth in Norway--its owner, a man of forty-five
years, who has overlooked it hundreds of times and lives within three
miles of it as the crow flies, had never been in it when I saw him last,
and has asked me several times to guide him into it."
Referring to an expedition from Mouvoison, which began, as do most
climbs, over grass slopes, Mr Clinton Dent remarks in _Above the Snow
Line_:
"One ascent over a grass slope is very much like another, and
description in detail would be as wearisome as the slopes themselves
often prove. Yet it is worthy of notice that there is an art to be
acquired even in climbing grass slopes. We had more than one
opportunity on the present occasion of seeing that persons look
supremely ridiculous if they stumble about, and we noticed also that,
like a bowler when he has delivered a long hop to the off for the third
time in one over, the stumbler invariably inspects the nails in his
boots, a proceeding which deceives no one. It is quite easy to judge of
a man's real mountaineering capacity by the way in which he attacks a
steep grass slope. The unskilful person, who fancies himself perfectly
at home among the intricacies of an ice-fall, will often candidly admit
that he never can walk with well-balanced equilibrium on grass, a form
of vegetable which it might be thought in many instances of
self-sufficient mountaineers, would naturally suit them. There is often
real danger in such places, and not infrequently the wise man will
demand the use of the rope, especially when there are any tired members
among the party. There is no better way of learning how to preserve a
proper balance on a slope than by practising on declivities of moderate
steepness, and it is astonishing to find how often those who think they
have little to learn, or, still worse, that there is nothing to learn,
will find themselves in difficulties on a mountain-side, and forced to
realise that they have got themselves into a rather humiliating
position. We may have seen, before now, all of us, distinguished
cragsmen to whom an ascent of the Weisshorn or Matterhorn was but a mere
stroll, utterly pounded in botanical expeditions after Edelweiss, and
compelled to regain a position of security by very ungraceful sprawls,
or, worse still, have to resort to the unpardonable alternative of
asking for assistance."
The following accounts of adventures on grass slopes, taken from _The
Alpine Journal_, may serve to bear out the truth of Mr Dent's remarks:
"On Monday, 31st August, Mr J. F. C. Devas, aged 26, accompanied by a
friend, Mr A. G. Ferard, proceeded after lunch to take a stroll from the
Riffel-Haus towards the Gorner Glacier by the Théodule path. Before
reaching the glacier they returned, Mr Ferard by the ordinary route. Mr
Devas, leaving the path to the left, attempted a short cut by climbing
some wet and slippery rocks leading to a grass slope above. He reached a
difficult place, immediately below the slope, beyond which he was unable
to go. Mr Ferard made his way as speedily as possible to the grass slope
and to within a few yards of his friend. While Mr Ferard was
endeavouring to render assistance, Mr Devas, in trying to pull himself
up, lost his footing and slid down about 70 feet to a ledge covered with
turf, which it might have been hoped would have arrested his fall.
Unfortunately, the impetus was sufficient to carry him over the ledge to
a further distance of about 70 feet below. His friend hastened to the
Riffel-Haus for assistance, and a number of guides and porters,
accompanied by Mr Ferard and a French gentleman, hurried to the scene of
the accident. Mr Devas, who had sustained a severe fracture of the
skull, was brought back to the Riffel-Haus about 5 P.M., where he
received the most unremitting care from M. Seiler's staff of servants.
He was unconscious from the moment of the accident till he died at noon
of the following day."
Another writer gives an account of an adventure on a grass slope which,
happily, had a less serious ending. He also attempted to make a short
cut.
"I entangled myself in an adventure which, as nearly as possible, ended
in a catastrophe. Not caring to turn back, I followed a track past the
châlets of Cavrera, in hope of being able to find a direct ascent over
the steep lower ground that enclosed the head of the valley. It seemed
as I advanced that among the ledges of rock and grass at the left-hand
corner there would be access to the path above. A dubious and attenuated
track which led me up in this direction after giving evidence of design
in a few steps notched in the great gneiss slabs, vanished, leaving me
to choose between the slabs which sloped up in front and a line of
juniper bushes on the left of them. As the slabs at this spot could be
walked upon, and higher up seemed to ease off again, I kept to the rocks
without investigating the juniper belt. But walking exchanged itself for
climbing, and I continued to ascend under the impression that I should
shortly gain the inclination above. I came to a spot where I had to
raise myself on to a small rounded knob of rock with a slight effort,
there being no hand-hold above. From this vantage-ground I was able to
repeat the process, still buoyed up with the belief that the easy part
would be reached above, and to hoist myself on to the only remaining
hold in the neighbourhood--a strong tuft of grass in a sort of half
corner in the slabs--which supported one foot well, but one foot only. I
now found I could go no further. The strata inclined downwards, so that
the smooth and crackless slabs overlay one another like the slates on a
house-roof, and there was no more hold for hand or foot apparent, while
the slabs were far too steep for unsupported progression. The next
discovery was a much more alarming one; I looked below, wondered why on
earth I had come up such a place, and saw at a glance that I could not
get down again. If I fell, moreover, it would not be by the line of my
ascent, but down steeper rocks and to a lower depth. Generally in a
dilemma in climbing there is a sort of instinctive feeling that an
escape will be made at last, but now, for the first time, I was seized
with a sentiment akin to despair. One chance only remained, and that was
to take off my boots and stockings and try the slabs above.
"The stories of extraordinary predicaments in the Alps one is apt to
receive with some incredulity. I never altogether accepted the tale of
the chamois-hunter's gashing his feet, and, needless to say, it did not
occur to me to imitate him in this particular. For the rest, I can only
promise the literal narration of circumstances _as they presented
themselves to me at the time_. It is, indeed, sufficiently sensational
without exaggeration. Well, it appeared at first impossible to take my
boots off; I was facing the rocks with one toe on the turf, and the
necessary manipulation could not be accomplished. What was to be done?
This was, perhaps, the worst moment of the whole, as far as sensation
went. However, by turning round, and planting my heel on the tuft and my
back on the rock, I found myself in a secure and tolerably comfortable
position. I now set to work and slung my boots separately round my neck
as I took them off, pocketing the socks. All was done with deliberation;
the laces were as usual untied with the button-hook in my cherished
knife, and the latter was carefully returned to my pocket with the
thought that if it went down it should be in my company. Meantime the
necessary rigidity of position had to be preserved; there was only room
in the turf for one heel, and for the point of my ice-axe, for which
there was no other possible resting-place. Its preservation, indeed,
that day was wonderful; at one time I felt a momentary temptation to
throw it down in order to better the hold with the hand, but this would
not bear a second thought.
"I now lost no time in placing myself on the slabs. I found that I dare
not move on them in an upright position, and had to seek support with
both hands. My condition was not an enviable one, and in no direction
could an effort to proceed be made without danger. The situation was as
follows: If I could manage to advance in front, I should, eventually,
reach the more easily inclined slabs, on which I could walk; but then it
was some way. If I could cross the much shorter interval (some 15 feet)
to the right, I should reach a grass band below the rocks at the side;
but then there intervened a broad, black, glistening streak, where
waters oozed down and where to tread was fatal. Suddenly, without any
warning, I found myself going down. I remember no slip, but rather that
it was as if all hold gave way at once under the too potent force of
gravity. Anyhow I was sliding down the rocks, and that helplessly I
made, I believe, little or no attempt to obtain fresh hold; I simply
remained rigid in the position in which I was, waiting for the fatal
momentum to come which should dash me below. The instants passed, and at
each I expected the momentum to begin. I felt quite a surprise when,
instead, the sliding mass slowly pulled up and came to a stoppage. The
scales of fate had been most delicately balanced, and a hair's weight in
the right one decided that this paper should be written. Had I
floundered, like a non-swimmer out of his depth, I must have gone down;
but the first moments of despondency past the opening for action had
once for all brought with it that species of mechanical coolness which
is the happy concomitant of so many forms of habitual physical
occupation.
[Illustration: The balloon "Stella" getting ready to start from Zermatt
for the first balloon passage of the Alps, September, 1903.
(_P. 301._)]
[Illustration: A bivouac in the Alps in the olden days. By the late Mr.
W. F. Donkin.]
[Illustration: Boulder practice on an off day.
_To face_ p 148.]
[Illustration: The last rocks on the descent.]
"If it be asked, what were my thoughts when I was going down, I can only
reply that they chiefly amounted to a sort of dull feeling that I was
actually in for a fall, being concentrated on waiting for its inevitable
commencement; and that there was no such terror or disagreeable
realisation of the situation as people are apt to assign to such
moments. Such realisations exist most deeply in the imaginations of the
non-combatants outside the fray. During the whole affair my attention
was mainly directed to the physical combating with difficulties, and the
passing reflections were partly indifferent, partly frivolous. A sort
of acceptance of the position, indeed, possessed me, which almost
amounted to a melancholy complacency, and, at most, perhaps, the
customary 'When I get out of this' was changed as fast as it rose up in
my imagination into a sadder 'If ever.' It was the feeling of the
gamester or the soldier surprised at last by adverse odds, intent on his
craft as at other times, but with a new and melancholy consciousness.
"My first thought when I came to a standstill--I cannot have gone more
than a couple of feet at most--was what I could do even then, with no
more hold than before? But I placed myself again in my old position on
the tuft; and reflecting that if I had been intended to go down I should
have gone then, and almost feeling as if, having escaped that extremity
of risk, I had a sort of security for the rest, I resolved without
further hesitation to make a determined effort. I once more raised
myself on my feet and decided to make a push across the slabs to the
grass belt at all hazards; possibly, in case of slipping on the way, I
might be able to make a desperate sort of rush for it. I now found two
unevennesses in succession, which would allow the side of the foot to
rest in them with some chance of staying, while I moved my body along,
there being at no time hold for the hand. The second of these slight
hollows was fortunately in the dread bank of moisture itself. Below,
the rocks shelved away to a steep fall; in front, the grass tufts smiled
on me nearer and nearer. While I was feeling along the slabs with the
hand that held my ice-axe, the latter by chance fixed itself in a cavity
that would otherwise have escaped my notice. It was just about the size
and depth of a half-crown, and could not have been caught by the
fingers, but the rigid iron stuck in it. This was perhaps the first bit
of direct hold I had. A yard further on was another of the same size.
But now I had passed the wet rock and was nearing the grass, and
carefully launching my ice-axe, so as not to disturb my balance, I
hooked it in the grass, and in another moment had reached its hospitable
tufts. Creeping up the side, I at last found _terra firma_."