SOME TERRIBLE EXPERIENCES
All must have noticed, summer after summer, in the daily papers, a
recital from time to time under some such heading as, "Perils of the
Alps," of a variety of disasters to Germans or Austrians on mountains
the names of which are unfamiliar to English people or even to English
climbers. Many young men, of little leisure and of slight means, develop
a passionate love for the peaks of their native land. The minor ranges
of Austria and Germany offer few difficulties to really first-class,
properly equipped parties, but nasty places can be found on most of
them, and the very fact that they do not boast of glaciers removes the
chief argument against solitary ascents.
The Rax, near Vienna, is a mountain which can be reached in a few hours
from that city, and while a good path has been laid out to the summit,
many other routes requiring climbing--by climbing I mean the use of the
hands--are available for the hardier class of tourists. One route in
particular, that from the Kaiserbrunn through the Wolfsthal, appears to
be really difficult, and is unfit for a man to ascend alone unless he is
a climber of great skill. A terrible experience fell to the lot of a
young Viennese compositor, employed on the _Neue Freie Presse_, and by
name Emil Habl. He set out by himself to make the expedition referred
to, and, having fallen and broken his leg, he managed, thanks to his
pluck and endurance, to escape with his life. "Despite injuries which
made it impossible for him to stand," says a writer in one of Messrs
Newnes' publications, from which I am courteously permitted to quote,
"he yet succeeded in conveying himself from the scene of his accident
into the valley in the neighbourhood of human dwellings. Three dreadful
days and three awful nights lasted that memorable descent--a descent
which can easily be made in two hours by any one able to walk. It may
almost certainly be said that the case is without a parallel in the
annals of Alpine accidents."
Herr Habl had ascended the Rax on previous occasions, and twice before
by the Wolfsthal. It is the custom on many of the easier Austrian
mountains to mark the way by painted strips on the rocks. These are
sometimes very useful, but occasionally they tempt the tourist into
tracks which may be beyond his powers, or lure him on till, at last,
losing sight of them, he is induced to strike out a route--and perhaps
an impracticable one--for himself. The Wolfsthal route up the Rax is
marked in green, but the paint had worn off in many places, and after a
time Herr Habl could no longer trace it. At last the way was barred by a
precipice, but while pausing in uncertainty beneath it, the climber
noticed two iron clamps fixed far apart on the face of the cliff, and
argued that they must at one time have supported ladders and formed,
perhaps, part of a hunter's path. He made an attempt to scramble up the
rock, in spite of the absence of the ladder, but when more than 30 feet
up saw that it was impossible to scale it. He therefore determined to
return, but a loose stone, giving way beneath him, he was precipitated
from his precarious hold, and fell with a crash straight to the bottom.
This happened at about 7.30 A.M., and for a long time he lay
unconscious. When he came to himself again he was suffering greatly.
"The first thing I noticed," he says, "was a terrible pain in my right
leg, my head, and left side; I was also bleeding profusely from several
wounds. At the same time, considering the fearful fall I had had, I felt
thankful I had not been killed outright. On trying to get up I
discovered, to my utter horror, that I had broken my right shin-bone. It
was quite impossible to rise. The break was about 6 inches below the
knee, and at the first glance I knew it to be a very bad fracture. It
was what the doctors call an 'open' fracture--that is, the bone
projected through the skin."
It was in vain that he shouted for help. Tourists seldom pass that way,
and it was useless to expect any one to hear him. To make matters worse,
the weather had changed, and rain now fell heavily. But Herr Habl did
not lose courage. He writes: "Unless I wanted miserably to die a
long-drawn-out, hideous death from hunger and thirst, I knew _I must
save myself_. I decided not to lose another moment in fruitless
brooding, and waiting, and shouting, but to act at once.
"I perceived that first of all I must set my broken leg and bandage it
in some rough fashion. In spite of the agony it caused me, I rolled over
and over the ground in different directions like a bale of goods--a few
yards here and a few yards there--until I had collected a sufficient
quantity of fallen branches, bits of fir and moss; this strange
collecting process took me some hours. The next thing was to tear off
the sleeves of my shirt and such other parts of my underwear as I could
spare. On my mountain excursions I always took with me a box containing
iodoform gauze and cambric; and now these things were more than welcome.
"At last, then, I was ready to begin the operation. But, good heavens,
what agony! My deadliest enemy I would not wish such excruciating pains
as I suffered when setting the poor splintered bone--which, be it
remembered, was not broken straight across. The dreadful splinters,
indeed, dug deep into my flesh. Not regarding the pain (although nearly
fainting therewith) I exerted my whole force, and at last succeeded in
getting the bone into what, as far as I could judge, was its right
position. Then I wound the iodoform gauze round it, and over that I put
the cambric, the bits of underclothing, and a layer of moss. Next in the
queer operation came my alpenstock and some boughs in place of splints;
and finally I tied the whole together with the string, my hat-line, and
neck-tie."
During the rest of the day the agonising descent continued, down rocks
which were difficult even for a sound man to ascend. As evening
approached Herr Habl bethought him of the need of food, but, alas! all
was gone from his knapsack, doubtless left at the spot where the
bandages had been put on. To regain this point was out of the question,
so berries and leaves were resorted to, to appease the craving of
hunger.
That night was passed in pain and weariness. The rain never ceased, the
poor wounded man was soaked to the skin. The next day, from dawn to dark
the fearful descent continued, and was followed by another night of
indescribable misery. The morning after Herr Habl could hardly drag
himself a yard, and the temptation to lie down and await the end was
very great. Still, for the sake of his parents at home, he continued his
efforts, though bleeding now from the contact of the sharp rocks over
which he pushed himself in a half-lying, half-sitting posture. By four
o'clock that afternoon it seemed as if human endurance could bear no
more, and for two hours he lay in an awful apathy he could not shake
off. Then, when all hope seemed over, help came, for he heard the sound
of human voices, and this so stirred him that once more he began to
crawl downward, though unable to obtain any reply to his cries for
assistance. Another night passed, and during it, for the first time, he
got some sleep. The next morning, he once more dragged his poor
lacerated body downwards and at last came in sight of some houses.
Calling feebly for help, he was delighted beyond measure to receive an
answer, and soon he was carried to Hôtel Kaiserbrunn, and the same
evening transported to the hospital at Vienna. He concludes his most
interesting account by remarking: "I do not think that my accident,
terrible as it is, has cured me of my love of mountaineering. But
certainly the remembrance of those three terrible days and nights will
deter me from again undertaking difficult climbs by myself."
[Illustration: A GLACIER LAKE. By Royston Le Blond.]
[Illustration: TAKING OFF THE ROPE AT THE END OF THE CLIMB.]
[Illustration: AMONGST THE SÈRACS.]
[Illustration: WATER AT LAST.
_To face p. 297._]
An adventure, having a happier termination, befell some friends of mine
in the Bregaglia group, owing to the marking of a route with paint.
The district was but little known to them, so they were glad to follow
where the marks led. One of the party, writing in _The Alpine Journal_,
says:
"The descent began by a grass ledge. After a few yards this was suddenly
closed by overhanging rocks. François, who was first, appeared to us to
plunge down a precipice. He answered our criticism by pointing to the
red triangles. They indicated the only means of advance. It was
requisite to go down a dozen feet of nearly vertical rock by the help of
two grass tufts, and then for several yards to walk across a horizontal
crack which gave foot-hold varying from 2 inches to nothing. Nominal
support--help in balance--could be gained at first by digging axes into
grass overhead; further on hand-hold was obtainable. François walked
across without a moment's hesitation, but we did not despise the rope.
This _mauvais pas_ would not, perhaps, trouble younger cragsmen. It came
upon us unprepared and when somewhat tired. But to indicate a route
including such an obstacle to unsuspecting tourists as a Station Path is
surely rash. A practical joke that may lead to fatal results should only
be resorted to under exceptional circumstances--as, for example, in the
case of an hotel bore. There can be little doubt that in this instance
the Milanese section entrusted their paint-pot to a conscious, if
unconscientious, humorist; for we found afterwards that he had continued
his triangles through the village, along the high road, and finished up
only on the ticket office."
The following terrible experience did not, it is true, happen to a party
of mountaineers, but as _The Alpine Journal_, from which I take my
account, has considered a notice of it appropriate to its pages, I
include it amongst my tales.
"A distinguished aeronaut, Captain Charbonnet, of Lyons, married a young
girl from Turin. On the evening of their wedding, in October, 1893, they
set out in Captain Charbonnet's balloon 'Stella,' and covered about 10
miles on their way towards Lyons.
"Next morning, accompanied by two young Italians named Durando and
Botto, one of whom had made many previous ascents with Captain
Charbonnet, they started again. Stormy weather seemed to be brewing, and
after rising to a height of 3000 mètres they were caught in a current.
At Saluggia they nearly touched ground, then leapt up again to 4000, and
presently to 6000 mètres. About 2.30 P.M. the balloon began to descend
rapidly, and they had some difficulty in stopping it at 3000 mètres.
[Illustration: The balloon "Stella" starting from Zermatt to make the
first passage of the Alps by balloon.
_To face page 293._]
[Illustration: A moment after the balloon started.]
"Here they were in dense clouds, and bitterly cold; quite ignorant,
moreover, of their position. Captain Charbonnet made his crew lie
down in the car, himself leaning out in order to try if he could catch a
glimpse of any point from which he could learn his bearings. The balloon
was drifting at a great rate, and nothing could be done to check it.
Presently there was a shock, and Captain Charbonnet was thrown to the
bottom of the car, by a heavy blow over his left eye.
"The balloon rebounded, and dashing across a gully struck the other side
of it, and it finally settled down on a steep rocky spur on the east
side of the Bessanese (3632 mètres = 11,917 feet), just above the small
glacier of Salau. It had struck the wall of the mountain which faces the
Rifugio Gastaldi, at a height of about 3000 mètres (9843 feet).
"The aeronauts reached the ground a good deal shaken and bruised, but
none of them, except the leader, suffering from any serious injuries....
Their sole provision was one bottle of wine; but they were fairly well
off for covering, and they cut up the balloon to supply deficiencies. In
the night a violent storm came on, to add to their misery. In spite of
his injuries, Captain Charbonnet kept up the spirits of his companions
as well as might be, but towards morning his powers failed, and when day
dawned his young wife, a girl of eighteen, had some difficulty in
bringing him round.
"They started to descend the snow-slope, Durando going first, and making
steps to the best of his power with his feet 'and with a long key which
he happened to have in his pocket.' Of course they had neither nails nor
poles; and, by a fatal imprudence, they did not tie themselves together,
though ropes must have been in plenty in the wreck of the balloon.
"Presently Charbonnet slipped. He was held up by his wife and Botto; but
a few minutes later he disappeared into a hidden crevasse. The others
could see him far below, but as he neither moved nor answered their
call, they rightly assumed that he was beyond the reach of any human
help, and proceeded downwards.
"With infinite difficulty, owing to their utter ignorance of the
country, and after another night spent in the open air, they found a
path which brought them to the hut under the Rocca Venoni. Thence a
shepherd guided them to the Cantina della Mussa, where they were at
first taken for deserters or spies; the lady, it should be said, had
been obliged to put on a suit of her husband's clothes, her own having
been torn to pieces.
"The sight of her hair and bracelets convinced the inhabitants of the
true state of the case; a telegram was sent to Turin, and a message to
Balme, and a search party came up from the latter place in the
afternoon. Captain Charbonnet's body was recovered the next day. It was
found at the bottom of a crevasse more than 60 feet deep, and completely
doubled up; but medical examination showed that his death was primarily
due to the injury received when the balloon first struck."
The first passage of the Alps by balloon was made in September 1903, by
Captain Spelterini, of Zürich, accompanied by Dr Hermann Seiler and
another friend. They started from Zermatt, crossed the Mischabel group,
passed over the valley of Saas, then rose above the Weissmies range, and
approached the Lago Maggiore so closely that they were able to converse
with the passengers of a steamer. They then rose again and spent the
night above the mountains not far from the Gotthard. The next day it
would have been possible to clear the Bernese Alps and descend somewhere
near Lucerne, but though Dr Seiler, who is a climber and was fully
equipped for a descent above the snow line, urged the attempt being made
to cross the chain, Captain Spelterini and his friend, unused to the
aspect of the higher peaks, considered it more prudent to descend, and
so the expedition came to an end after twenty hours aloft, during which
no discomfort from cold was experienced.
When an accident happens in the Alps involving loss of life, it is not
difficult to learn whatever facts may be known with regard to it, but
when climbers have a narrow escape from death the occurrence is often
hushed up and nothing said or written about the matter. And yet it is
just the narrow escapes that furnish the most interesting Alpine
narratives. Amongst them are few more exciting than a mishap on the
Matterhorn which happened in 1895, and is admirably described by an
onlooker, Mr Ernest Elliot Stock, in the pages of one of Messrs Newnes'
periodicals, from which I am courteously permitted to quote a portion of
the tale.
Mr Stock's party consisted of himself, his sister, Mr Grogan (the
well-known traveller who first crossed Africa from South to North), Mr
Broadbent, and the guides, P. A. and Alois Biner, Peter Perrin, and
Zurmatter. An American of no climbing experience, with Joseph Biner and
Felix Julen, was on the mountain at the same time, and both parties
having made the ascent by the ordinary route, were coming down the same
way, and had descended in safety to just below "Moseley's Platte" when
the incident which so nearly cost them their lives took place. They were
on a steep slope, and the American party was slightly in advance. Mr
Stock writes:
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE HÖRNLI RIDGE.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE FURGG GLACIER.]
[Illustration: JOSEPH BINER.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN HUT.
_To face p. 302_]
"We had been working slowly, and at a slight zig-zag, down this for some
150 feet, only one member of the party moving at a time, and keeping
carefully within the steps cut by the leader, when suddenly a flat
stone, some 6 inches across, became detached from a small pile either to
the side of or directly behind me--possibly loosened by our passage or
picked up by the rope as it tautened between myself and Peter Biner, who
came next. Peter's cry of warning was echoed by his brother at the tail
of the party, and I half turned to see it slipping past on the right.
"Reaching out with my axe I endeavoured to stop it, but its impetus had
become too great. Getting upon its edge it rolled and struck a small
rock; then jumped some 20 feet down the ice-slope, narrowly missing
Perrin and 'America,' and struck again upon a larger and flatter rock,
when, amidst a flight of smaller stones, it bounded outwards and
downwards, striking the leading guide, Joseph Biner, full and square on
the head. He fell as though he had been shot, dragging 'America' after
him amidst a perfect shower of snow and stones. Julen, who came third,
with the greatest presence of mind drove his ice-axe hard and deep into
the ice, took a turn round it with his left arm, and, though dragged
violently from his steps, to our intense relief held on.
"But we were in an awkward plight. Poor Joseph half lay, half hung,
without movement, at the end of some 30 feet of rope, bleeding copiously
from a deep gash in the head and another across the forehead caused by
his fall; 'America' clung to a small rock projecting from the snow,
beating a tattoo with his boots on the ice and wailing dismally; Julen
held the two by favour of his ice-axe and firmly planted feet only. For
a space no one moved, excepting to get such anchorage as was possible
upon the spur of the moment, each expecting a rope-jerk, the forerunner
of a swift and battered end in the ice-fall of the Furgg Glacier
thousands of feet below.
"The guides for a time seemed utterly stunned by the catastrophe, and to
all suggestions could only reply with muttered prayers and exclamations.
So exasperating did this become at last, with the thought of the man
below bleeding to death, if not dead already, that Mr Grogan, who had
vainly been endeavouring to bring the guides to a sense of the position,
quietly slipped the rope, and, amid a storm of protest from them,
traversed out some distance to avoid a patch of loose stones, and
descended inwards again, cutting his steps as he went, till he reached a
spot immediately below the wounded man. Poor Joseph hung with his head
buried in a patch of snow, and in an extremely awkward position to reach
from above. Mr Grogan, however, refused to be daunted by the
difficulties, and we were treated to a fine piece of ice-craft during
his descent."
After a little time Mr Grogan managed to cut a seat in the slope of ice
and placing the still breathing but insensible man in it, he bandaged
the wounds on his head, and before long had the satisfaction of seeing
him recover his senses. With great difficulty, as he was very weak and
shaken, poor Joseph was helped down the mountain, and at last every one
arrived safe and sound at the lower hut.
There is no doubt that Joseph owed his life to Mr Grogan's skill,
promptness, and courage. Had the travellers in the party following
"America's" been of the usual type of tourist, who is hauled up and let
down the Matterhorn, one dare not think what would probably have been
the result, for the description Mr Stock gives of the behaviour of his
guides seems in no way exaggerated. I edit this account in sight of the
very spot where the accident occurred, and I have made careful enquiries
here as to the accuracy of the story, and am assured that it is true in
every detail. It is a pleasure to feel that a fellow-countryman should
show so brilliant an example to those who were not willing and probably
would have hardly been able to rescue their comrade, although to attempt
such a task was one of the prior obligations of their profession.
To be bombarded by falling stones in the Alps is bad enough. To be
hurled from one's foot-hold by a flock of eagles seems to me even more
appalling. Though on one occasion, when on the slopes of a bleak and
rocky peak in Lapland, in company with my husband, a pair of eagles came
screaming so close to us that we drove them away by brandishing our
ice-axes and throwing stones at them, I did not till recently believe
that there could be positive danger to a climbing party from an
onslaught by these birds. It was only a few weeks ago that taking up one
of Messrs Newnes' publications I came upon an account of a tragedy in
the Maritime Alps caused by an attack from eagles. On applying to the
editor of the magazine in question, he kindly allowed me to make some
extracts from a striking article by Mons. Antoine Neyssel. This
gentleman with a friend, Mons. Joseph Monand, was making a series of
ascents in the Maritime Alps with Sospello as their headquarters. From
here they took a couple of guides and got all ready for a climb on the
following morning, 23rd July. During the evening the amazing news
reached them that a postman, while crossing a high pass, had been
attacked and nearly killed by eagles. They at once went into the cottage
where the poor man lay unconscious on two chairs, a pool of blood
beneath him and his clothes torn to ribbons. A few days later he died
from the terrible injuries he had received.
Though much shocked at the sad event, the climbers believed that their
party of four would be quite safe, for each man had an ice-axe and some
carried rifles. So the next morning they set out, and, ascending higher
and higher, reached the glacier and put on the rope. They had forgotten
all about the ferocious birds when suddenly, as they traversed the upper
edge of a crevasse near the summit of their peak, the leading guide
stopped with an exclamation of horror. Close to them the ground was
strewn with feathers and marked with blood, doubtless the spot where the
postman was attacked. They passed on, however, and remembering that they
were a party of four, felt reassured. But soon after weird cries came to
their ears from below, followed by the whirr and beating of great wings.
Looking cautiously over the abyss, they saw a fight of eagles in
progress; feathers flew in the air and strange sounds came out of the
seething mass. It seemed to rise towards them, and in their insecure
position on the edge of a crevasse, they were badly placed to resist an
attack. The foot-hold was of frozen and slippery snow. Suddenly the
eagles burst up and around them. The guides immediately cut the rope and
each person did what he could to save himself. "Wherever possible," says
Mons. Neyssel, "we simply raced over the frozen snow like maniacs. In
another moment they dashed upon us like an avalanche. I heard a shot--I
suppose Monand fired, but I did not: I do not know why. The attack was
quite too dreadful for words. Speaking for myself, I remember that the
eagles struck me with stunning force with their wings, their hooked
beaks, and strong talons. Every part of my body seemed to be assailed
simultaneously. It was a fierce struggle for life or death. Strangely
enough, I remember nothing of what happened to my companions. I neither
saw nor heard anything of them after the first great rush of the eagles.
It is a miracle I was not hurled to death into the crevasse.
"Do not ask me how long this weird battle lasted. It may have been five
or six minutes, or a quarter of an hour. I do not know. I grew feebler,
and felt almost inclined to give up the struggle, when the blood began
to trickle down my face and nearly blinded me. I knew that every moment
might be my last, and that I might be hurled into the crevasse.
Strangely enough, the prospect did not appal me. From this time onward I
defended myself almost mechanically, inclined every moment to give up
and lie down.
"I gave no thought to the guides and my poor friend Monand. If I am
judged harshly for this, I regret it; but I could not help it. All at
once I heard loud, excited voices, but thought that these were merely
fantastic creations of my own brain. In a moment or two, however, I
could distinguish a number of men laying about them fiercely with
sticks, and beating off the eagles."
The villagers, having watched the ascent through a telescope had come to
the rescue and had saved the lives of the writer and his two guides. His
poor friend, however, was dashed into the crevasse, at the bottom of
which his body was found five days later.