This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License online at www.gutenberg.org/license
[Illustration: THEY SAW MASSES OF ROCKS, BOULDERS, AND STONES, DART ROUND THE CORNER.
]
THEY SAW MASSES OF ROCKS, BOULDERS, AND STONES, DART ROUND THE CORNER.
Toil and pleasure, in their natures opposite, are yet linked together in a kind
of necessary connection.—Livy.
In the year 1860, shortly before leaving England for a long continental tour, the late Mr. William Longman requested me to make for him some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At this time I had only a literary acquaintance with mountaineering, and had even not seen—much less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon my list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné. The sketches that were required of it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did so, with my friend Macdonald—and we conquered. This was the origin of my scrambles amongst the Alps.
The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was
a very delightful scramble. The mountain air did not act as an
emetic; the sky did not look black, instead of blue; nor did I feel
tempted to throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge
my experience, and went to the Matterhorn. I was urged towards
Mont Pelvoux by those mysterious impulses which cause men to
peer into the unknown. Not only was this mountain reputed to be
the highest in France, and on that account was worthy of attention,
but it was the dominating point of a most picturesque district of the
greatest interest, which, to this day, remains almost unexplored!
The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its grandeur. It was considered
to be the most thoroughly inaccessible of all mountains,
even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated to
make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year
prove it to be really inaccessible.
The chief part of this volume is occupied by the history of these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are described have all some connection, more or less remote, with that mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is, excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or descents have been disposed of in a single line. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment has spared the reader from much useless repetition.
In endeavouring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, prominence has been given to our mistakes and failures; and to some it may seem that our practice must have been bad if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles must be unsound if the practice was good. The principles which are brought under the notice of the reader are, however, deduced from long experience, which experience had not been gained at the time that the blunders were perpetrated; and, if it had been acquired at an earlier date, there would have been fewer failures to record.
My scrambles amongst the Alps were a sort of apprenticeship in the art of mountaineering, and they were, for the most part, carried out in the company of men who were masters of their craft. In any art the learner, who wishes to do good work, does well to associate himself with master workmen, and I attribute much of the success which is recorded in this volume to my having been frequently under the guidance of the best mountaineers of the time. The hints and observations which are dispersed throughout the volume are not the result of personal experience only, they have been frequently derived from professional mountaineers, who have studied the art from their youth upwards.
Without being unduly discursive in the narrative, it has not been possible to include in the text all the observations which are desirable for the general reader, and a certain amount of elementary knowledge has been pre-supposed, which perhaps some do not possess; and the opportunity is now taken of making a few remarks which may serve to elucidate those which follow.
When a man who is not a born mountaineer gets upon the
side of a mountain, he speedily finds out that walking is an art;
and very soon wishes that he could be a quadruped or a centipede,
or anything except a biped; but, as there is a difficulty in satisfying
these very natural desires, he ultimately procures an alpenstock
and turns himself into a tripod. This simple implement is
invaluable to the mountaineer, and when he is parted
from it involuntarily (and who has not been?) he is inclined
to say, just as one may remark of other friends, You
were only a stick—a poor stick—but you were a true
friend, and I should like to be in your company again.
Respecting the size of the alpenstock, let it be remarked that it may be nearly useless if it be too long or too short. It should always be shorter than the person who carries it, but it may be any length you like between three-fifths of your height and your extreme altitude. It should be made of ash, of the very best quality; and should support your weight upon its centre when it is suspended at its two ends. Unless shod with an iron point it can scarcely be termed an alpenstock, and the nature of the point is of some importance. The kind I prefer is shown in the annexed illustration. It has a long tang running into the wood, is supported by a rivetted collar, and its termination is extremely sharp. With a point of this description steps can be made in ice almost as readily as with an axe.
A volume might be written upon the use of the alpenstock.
Its principal use is as a third leg, to extend one’s base line; and
when the beginner gets this well into his head he finds the
After the alpenstock, or axe-alpenstock, it is of most importance
for the mountaineer to supply himself with plenty of good
rope. Enough has been said on this subject in
different parts of the narrative, as well as in
regard to tents. Few other articles are necessary,
though many others are desirable, to carry
about, and amongst the most important may be
reckoned some simple means of boiling water
and cooking. At considerable altitudes above
the tree-line, it is frequently impossible to carry
up wood enough for a camp-fire, and nothing but
spirits of wine can be employed. The well-known and convenient
so-called Russian furnace
is the most compact form of spirit
lamp that I know, and wonders can be effected with one that is only
batterie de cuisine.
Before passing on to speak of clothing, a word
upon snow-blindness will not be out of place. Very
fine language is sometimes used to express the fact
that persons suffer from their eyes becoming inflamed;
and there is one well-known traveller, at
least, who, when referring to snow-blindness, speaks
habitually of the distressing effects which are produced
by the reverberation of the snow.
Snow-blindness
is a malady which touches all mountain-travellers
sooner or later, for it is found impossible
in practice always to protect the eyes with the
goggles which are shown overleaf. In critical
situations almost every one removes them. The
beginner should, however, note that at great altitudes
it is not safe to leave the eyes unprotected
even on rocks, when the sun is shining brightly;
and upon snow or ice it is indispensable to shade
them in some manner, unless you wish to be
placed hors de combat on the next day. Should
you unfortunately find yourself in this predicament
through the intensity of the light, there is no help
but in sulphate of zinc and patience. Of the
former material a half-ounce will be sufficient for
Alpine Journal the following note by Gustav de
Veh, a retired Russian officer, upon the prevention of snow-blindness. We were on
the march home along the mountain plains, when, dazzled by the intense sun-rays
reflected by the endless snow-fields we were marching along, my eyelids lost all
power to open; I felt my elbow touched, and, looking through my fingers, I beheld
one of our friendly highlanders preparing a kind of black paste by mixing gunpowder
with snow. The General told me to let him do what he wanted. The Circassian
applied the black stuff under my eyes, on my cheeks, and to the sides of my nose.
To my astonishment I could then open my eyes, and felt no more difficulty to see
plainly and clearly everything. I have tried that experiment many times since, and
it never failed to relieve me, although I used common Indian-ink and black water-colour,
instead of the above-mentioned paste.
The whole face suffers
under the alternation of heat,
cold, and glare, and few
mountain-travellers remain
long without having their
visages blistered and cracked
in all directions. Now, in
respect to this matter, prevention is better than cure; and, though
these inconveniences cannot be entirely escaped, they may, by
taking trouble, be deferred for a long time. As a travelling cap
for mountain expeditions, there is scarcely anything better than
the kind of helmet used by Arctic travellers, and with the eyes
well shaded by its projecting peak and covered with the ordinary
goggles one ought not, and will not, suffer much from snow-blindness.
I have found, however, that it does not sufficiently
shade the face, and that it shuts out sound too much when the
side-flaps are down; and I consequently adopt a woollen headpiece,
which almost entirely covers or shades the face and extends
well downwards on to the shoulders. One hears sufficiently
For the most severe weather even this is not sufficient, and a mask must be added to protect the remainder of the face. You then present the appearance of the lower woodcut, and are completely disguised. Your most intimate friends—even your own mother—will disown you, and you are a fit subject for endless ridicule.
The alternations of heat and cold are rapid and severe in all high mountain ranges, and it is folly to go about too lightly clad. Woollen gloves ought always to be in the mountaineer’s pocket, for in a single hour, or less, he may experience a fall in temperature of sixty to eighty degrees. But in respect to the nature of the clothing there is little to be said beyond that it should be composed of flannels and woollens.
Upon the important subject of boots much might be written. My friends are generally surprised to find that I use elastic-side boots whilst mountaineering, and condemn them under the false impression that they will not give support to the ankles, and will be pulled off when one is traversing deep snow. I have invariably used elastic-side boots on my mountain expeditions in the Alps and elsewhere, and have found that they give sufficient support to the ankles and never draw off. My Alpine boots have always been made by Norman—a maker who knows what the requirements are, and one who will give a good boot if allowed good time.
It is fully as important to have proper nails in the boots as it
If the beginner supplies himself with the articles which have
been named, he will be in possession of all the gear which is
necessary for ordinary mountain excursions, and if he uses his
plant properly he will avoid many of the disagreeables which are
looked upon by some as almost unavoidable accompaniments of
the sport of mountaineering. I have not throughout the volume
ignored the dangers which are real and unavoidable, and say
distinctly that too great watchfulness cannot be exercised at great
altitudes. But I say now, as I have frequently said before, that
the great majority of accidents which occur to mountaineers,
especially to mountaineering amateurs in the Alps, are not the
result of unavoidable dangers; and that they are for the most
part the product of ignorance and neglect. I consider that falling
rocks are the greatest danger which a mountaineer is likely to
encounter, and in concluding these prefatory remarks I especially
warn the novice against the things which tumble about the ears
of unwary travellers.
1860
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
BEACHY HEAD—DEVIL OF NOTRE DAME—VISP THAL—SCRAMBLING ALONE—THE WEISSHORN—ST. BERNARD—RASCALLY GUIDE—A VILLAGE CONCERT—STORM ON THE COL DE LAUTARET
1861
CHAPTER II.
THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
THE VALLEYS OF DAUPHINÉ—THE PEAKS OF DAUPHINÉ—MISTAKES IN THEIR IDENTIFICATION—EARLY ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND MONT PELVOUX—INTRODUCTION TO MONSIEUR REYNAUD—GRENOBLE—MEETING WITH MACDONALD—NATIONAL SENTIMENTS—WE ENGAGE A GUIDE—START FOR PELVOUX—PASS THE CAVERN OF THE VAUDOIS—MASSACRE OF THE VAUDOIS—FIRST NIGHT OUT—WE ARE REPULSED—ARRIVAL OF MACDONALD—THIRD NIGHT OUT—TORRENTS ON FIRE—FALLING ROCKS—ASCENT OF THE PELVOUX—THE PYRAMID—VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT—WE DISCOVER THE POINTE DES ECRINS—SURPRISED BY NIGHT—ON FLEAS—EN ROUTE FOR MONTE VISO—DESERTERS—CAMP ON AN ANT-HILL—ST. VERAN—PRIMITIVE MANNERS—NATURAL PILLARS—ARRIVE AT BRIANÇON
CHAPTER III.
MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN.
THE WEISSHORN AND THE MATTERHORN—INTRODUCTION TO JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL—SUPERSTITIONS
OF THE NATIVES IN REGARD TO THE MATTERHORN—RIDGES OF
THE MATTERHORN—EARLIEST ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MOUNTAIN—ATTEMPT BY
THE MESSRS. PARKER—ATTEMPT BY MESSRS. HAWKINS AND TYNDALL—ARRIVE AT
GREAT STAIRCASE
—THE
COL DU LION—WE DECIDE TO CAMP THERE—GREAT EXCITEMENT
FROM FALLING STONES—LIGHT AND SHADE—THE CHIMNEY
—DEFEATED—A COOL
PROCEEDING
1862
CHAPTER IV.
RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
MR. KENNEDY’S WINTER ATTEMPT—BENNEN REFUSES TO START AGAIN—THE THÉODULE
PASS—MEYNET, THE HUNCHBACK OF BREIL—ON TENTS FOR MOUNTAINEERING—MACDONALD
AND I START FOR THE MATTERHORN—NARROW ESCAPE OF
KRONIG—VIOLENT WIND TURNS US BACK—ENGAGE CARREL AND PESSION AND
START AGAIN—THE GREAT TOWER
—PESSION BECOMES ILL AND WE ARE OBLIGED
TO RETURN—BAD WEATHER—SCRAMBLE ALONE ON THE MATTERHORN—PIONEERS
OF VEGETATION—VIEW FROM THE TENT—A SOLITARY BIVOUAC—MONTE VISO
SEEN BY MOONLIGHT AT NINETY-EIGHT MILES’ DISTANCE—ON AIDS TO CLIMBERS—CLIMBING
CLAW—FIND A NEW PLACE FOR THE TENT—I ATTAIN A GREATER
ALTITUDE ALONE THAN HAD BEEN REACHED BEFORE, AND NEARLY COME TO
GRIEF—MY FOURTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN—DEFEATED AGAIN
BY WEATHER—THE CARRELS GO MARMOT-HUNTING, AND WE START FOR A FIFTH
ATTEMPT—DEFEATED BY NATURAL DIFFICULTIES—TYNDALL ARRIVES AND CARRIES
OFF THE CARRELS—A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN—TYNDALL IS REPULSED—CONFLAGRATION
IN DAUPHINÉ
1863
CHAPTER V.
THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRAND TOURNALIN.
THE DOUANE—BUT WHAT IS THIS?
—DIFFICULTIES WITH MY LADDER—EXPLANATION
OF TYNDALL’S REPULSE—ROMAN (?) AQUEDUCT IN THE VAL TOURNANCHE—ASCEND
THE CIMES BLANCHES—WE DECEIVE A GOAT—WE INVENT A NEW PASS TO ZERMATT
(BREUILJOCH)—AQUEOUS AND GLACIER EROSION—GLACIER VERSUS ROCKS—SEILER’S
DISINTERESTEDNESS—THE MATTERHORN CLIFFS—EXTRAORDINARY ACCIDENT
TO A CHAMOIS—COL DE VALPELLINE—THE MASTER OF PRERAYEN—ATTEMPT
TO ASCEND DENT D’ERIN (D’HÉRENS)—THE VA CORNÈRE PASS—FIRST ASCENT OF
THE GRAND TOURNALIN—SPLENDID VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT—ON PANORAMIC
VIEWS—GOUFFRE DES BUSSERAILLES—AN ENTERPRISING INNKEEPER
CHAPTER VI.
OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
EXTREMES MEET—THUNDER AND LIGHTNING—ECHOES OF THUNDER—GREAT ROCKFALLS DURING THE NIGHT—DEFEATED BY THE WEATHER—MYSTERIOUS MISTS
1864
CHAPTER VII.
FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DES AIGS. D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE, AND THE BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE.
RETURN AGAIN TO DAUPHINÉ—MICHEL CROZ—COL DE VALLOIRES—THE AIGUILLES D’ARVE—WE MAKE A PASS BETWEEN THEM—COL DE MARTIGNARE—ASCENT OF THE AIG. DE LA SAUSSE—THE MEIJE—FIRST PASSAGE OF THE BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE—MELCHIOR ANDEREGG—LA GRAVE—THE BRÈCHE IS WON—THE VALLON DES ETANÇONS
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ECRINS.
LA BÉRARDE—PIC THE PORTER—BIVOUAC ON THE GLACIER DE LA BONNE PIERRE—DISSOLVING VIEWS—DRYNESS OF THE AIR—TOPOGRAPHY OF CENTRAL DAUPHINÉ ALPS—FIRST ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE ECRINS—A MIGHTY AVALANCHE—OUR ASCENT OF THE FINAL PEAK—ON SPLINTERS FROM SUMMITS—LE JEU NE VAUT PAS LA CHANDELLE—SHATTERED RIDGE—ALMER’S LEAP—SURPRISED BY NIGHT—A WARNING
CHAPTER IX.
FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE.
CHALETS OF ENTRAIGUES—ARRIVAL OF REYNAUD—ON SNOW COULOIRS—SUMMIT OF THE COL—EXCITING DESCENT—REYNAUD COMES OVER THE SCHRUND—THE LAST OF DAUPHINÉ
CHAPTER X.
THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND FIRST ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT, AIGUILLE DE TRÉLATÊTE, AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE.
MAPS OF MONT BLANC—MR. ADAMS-REILLY—OUR COMPACT—THE PEAKS OF THE MONT
BLANC RANGE—ACROSS THE COL DE TRIOLET—A MINIATURE ASCENT—REILLY
CHAPTER XI.
THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE MOMING PASS—ZINAL TO ZERMATT.
SWISS MENDICANTS—NIGHT ON THE ARPITETTA ALP—A PERILOUS PATH—ICE-AVALANCHE—SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS—CROZ DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF—THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT
1865
CHAPTER XII.
THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER.
ON CHOICE OF ROUTES—REGRETS—ZINAL—ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER—EFFECTS OF SUN AND FROST—GREAT RIDGES SUFFER MOST—POINTS OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ATMOSPHERIC AND GLACIER EROSION—ABRICOLLA
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE.
LESLIE STEPHEN—KENNEDY’S ASCENT—ON BERGSCHRUNDS—UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS—A RACE FOR LIFE—BENIGHTED—A SURPRISE
CHAPTER XIV.
LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN—THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRANDES JORASSES.
A LATE START AND THE RESULT—BEWILDERED—RETURN TO ABRICOLLA—CROSS COL
D’HÉRENS TO ZERMATT—ASCEND THE THÉODULHORN—NEW IDEAS REGARDING THE
MATTERHORN—DECEPTIVENESS OF THE EAST FACE—STRATIFICATION—DIP OF THE
BEDS—TRY ANOTHER ROUTE—SAUVE QUI PEUT
—BEATEN AGAIN—ASCENT OF
THE GRANDES JORASSES—NARROW ESCAPE FROM AN AVALANCHE
CHAPTER XV.
THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DOLENT.
CONFUSION OF IDEAS—A MIDNIGHT START—SUMMIT OF THE PASS—EXTRAORDINARY ICE-WALL—MANNER OF ITS DESCENT—ON ICE-AXES AND THEIR USE—ON ICE-SLOPES AND THEIR SAFETY—CRAMPONS—ARRIVAL AT CHAMOUNIX
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE.
CROZ LEAVES US—CHRISTIAN ALMER—SUNSET ON THE MER DE GLACE—ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE—ADVICE TO MOUNTAIN WALKERS—VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT—STORMS COME ON—A WORTHY PORTER—THE NOBLE ATTITUDE OF CHAMOUNIX
CHAPTER XVII.
THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TALÈFRE.
THE COL DU GÉANT—THE GLACIER DE TALÈFRE—EASY WAY FROM CHAMOUNIX TO COURMAYEUR—GLISSADING—PASSES OVER THE MAIN CHAIN OF MONT BLANC
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN.
FACILITY WITH WHICH THE RUINETTE CAN BE ASCENDED—NOBLE PANORAMA—ON CONCEALED CREVASSES—GUIDES’ OBJECTION TO USE OF THE ROPE—ON THE USE AND ABUSE OF THE ROPE—ALMER DECLINES THE MATTERHORN—ENGAGE THE CARRELS—THEIR DEFECTION—THE ITALIANS STEAL A MARCH—ARRIVAL OF LORD FRANCIS DOUGLAS—MEETING WITH CROZ, HUDSON, AND HADOW
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.
CHARLES HUDSON—CAMP ON THE EAST FACE—CROZ REPORTS FAVOURABLY—ASCENT OF THE EASTERN FACE—CROSS TO THE NORTHERN SIDE—ARRIVAL AT SUMMIT—DISCOMFITURE OF THE ITALIANS—ASTONISHMENT AT BREIL—MARVELLOUS PANORAMA
CHAPTER XX.
THE DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.
ORDER OF THE DESCENT—A FRIGHTFUL AVALANCHE—HADOW SLIPS—DEATH OF CROZ, HADOW, HUDSON, AND LORD F. DOUGLAS—TERROR OF THE TAUGWALDERS—THE BROKEN ROPE—AN APPARITION—AN INFAMOUS PROPOSITION—SURPRISED BY NIGHT—SEARCH FOR AND RECOVERY OF THE BODIES—OFFICIAL EXAMINATION—THE END
APPENDIX.
The Drawings were made on the Wood by
H. J. Boot, Gustave Doré, C. Johnson, J. Mahoney, J. W. North, P. Skelton, W. G. Smith,
C. J. Staniland, and J. Wolf; and were Engraved by J. W. and Edward Whymper.
FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
IN THE TEXT.
MAPS.
To be placed at the end of the Volume.
1. The Matterhorn and its Glaciers (in colours).
2. The Valley of Zermatt; and the Central Pennine Alps.
The body of the work has been printed by Messrs. William Clowes and Sons; and the separate
Plates have been printed by the Author.
THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN
[Illustration: BEACHY HEAD.]
On the 23d of July 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps.
As we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view,
and recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence
of ignorance, my brotherTravels in Alaska.
In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of
[Illustration: THE DEVIL OF NOTRE DAME.]
I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the Alps on either side; far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of tourists. The view from the slopes of the Weissmies, on the eastern side of the valley, 5000 or 6000 feet above the village of Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is seen at one glance; 11,000 feet of dense forests, green alps, rocky pinnacles, and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.
I next descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and
went up the Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days.
Numerous traces of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years
before still remained; particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants
had been terrified beyond measure at the destruction of
their churches and houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a
large part of the population was obliged to live under canvas for
several months. It is remarkable that there was hardly a life lost
At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather
was bad, and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending
a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile
endeavours to seize the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds
peered out from above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined
not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, and to cross the
Gorner glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the
polished rocks and snowbeds which skirt the base of the Théodule
glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from
it, at that time much swollen by the late rains, the first difficulty
was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred
feet high. It seemed that it would be easy enough to cross the
glacier if the cliff could be descended; but higher up, and lower
down, the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable
for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly
perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little
difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another.
At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of
about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock. Nothing,
except the glacier, could be seen below. It was an awkward place,
but I passed it at length by lying across the slab, putting the
shoulders stiffly against one side, and the feet against the other,
and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then
the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly
crack was seen, into which the point of the baton could be stuck,
and I dropped down to the next piece. It took a long time coming
down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory
to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty
presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the
cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty,
it kept away from the little bay, on the edge of which I stood.
We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher
All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower down; but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at last further progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice; without one I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump.
Night was approaching, and the solemn stillness of the High
Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling
rocks. If the jump should be successful,—well; if not, I
fell into that horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that
gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump.
Again I asked myself, Can it be done?
It must be. So, finding
my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketch-book to the ice, and
first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might,
took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly
on my knees.
The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel,Never
mind a guide, but come along down, I’ll show you the way;
so
off I went through the forest, going straight towards them. The
path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tripped
up by pine-roots, tumbled over rhododendron bushes, fell over
rocks. The night was pitch dark, and after a time the lights of
Zermatt became obscure, or went out altogether. By a series of
slides, or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent
through the forest was at length accomplished; but torrents of
formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive
at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly; by
an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight,
covered with dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I
had quitted in the morning.
Others besides tourists get into difficulties. A day or two afterwards, when on the way to my old station, near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide; while the peasants stood by, with folded hands, their reverence for the church almost overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.
I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to
mount the slopes of the Dom,
Arriving once more in the is true they have exercised so much hospitality,
that at times they have not possessed
the means to furnish the fuel for heating
their chapel in the winter.Matériaux
pour l’étude des Glaciers, vols. vi. and vii.
Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val
Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night
had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long
and loud upon the door of the curé’s house before it was opened.
An old woman, with querulous voice, and with a large goître,
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF BIONA.]
My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at
the head of this valley, to Breil,outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and
leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened
me; but he had, properly, a very small opinion of his employer,
and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had
passed the summit, he said he would not go any further and would
return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to
everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go
back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes,
which still intervened between us and the head of the
valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently
there were some cliffs down which we had to scramble. He called
to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned
to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come
down; but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round,
clambered deliberately up the cliff, and vanished. I supposed it
was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half-an-hour,
but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing,
for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay
between chasing him and going on to Breil, risking the loss of my
knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breil the same
evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely
innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and
eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already
occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good
friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance
considerable sums.
My sketches from Breil were made under difficulties, for my
materials had been carried off. Nothing better than fine sugar-paper
could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more
were made, and the
passPeaks, Passes, and Glaciers, and in
Chapters V. and
XVIII. of this volume.
[Illustration: CROSSING MONT CENIS.]
The following night was spent at Courmayeur, and the day after
I crossed the Col Ferret to Orsières, and on the next the Tête
Noire to Chamounix. The Emperor Napoleon arrived on the same
day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but,
by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit
the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the Imperial party
[Illustration: GARIBALDI!
]
GARIBALDI!
From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired, and about to go to bed, when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The others kept their places, and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat enchanted; and, long after I retired, the sound of their melody could be heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the inn.
The next morning I passed the little lakes, which are the
sources of the Po, on my way into France. The weather was
stormy, and misinterpreting the patois of some natives—who in
reality pointed out the right way—I missed the track, and found
myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A gap that was occasionally
seen, in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to
the east, tempted me up; and, after a battle with a snow-slope of
excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was extraordinary,
and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was
I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the
Guil to Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at
the junction of the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in
full view of Mont Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret
where a Frenchman was breakfasting, who, a few days before, had
made an unsuccessful attempt to ascend that mountain with three
Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of Chamounix;
The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the
courier on the following day to Grenoble; but all places had been
secured several days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the
next day for a seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad;
and on the summit of the Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek
shelter in the wretched little hospice. It was filled with workmen
who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapours
which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the weather was
preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside, it was
disagreeable, but grand; inside, it was disagreeable and mean.en route for Rome.—Joanne’s Itinéraire du Dauphiné.P.M., having accomplished the entire
distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours of actual walking.
This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of 1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the passion for mountain-scrambling, the development of which is described in the following chapters.
[Illustration: A BIT OF THE VILLAGE OF ZERMATT.]
[Illustration: BRIANÇON.]
Thus fortune on our first endeavour smiles.
The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighbouring summits
are the culminating points,
This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has charms of its own; its cliffs, its torrents, and its gorges are unsurpassed; its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur, and even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its mountain forms.
The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each
other in singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some
the rays of the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow.Hautes-Alpes, p. 599.
The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not, apparently, arranged on any definite plan. They are not disposed, as is frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel with, the highest summits; but they wander hither and thither, take one direction for a few miles, then double back, and then perhaps resume their original course. Thus, long perspectives are rarely to be seen, and it is difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of the peaks.
The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form.
The highest of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe
The district is still very imperfectly known; there are probably
many valleys, and there are certainly many summits which have
never been trodden by the feet of tourists or travellers; but in 1861
it was even less known. Until quite recently there was, practically,
no map of it;Guide to the Western Alps, and to
Joanne’s Itinéraire du Dauphiné, must be excepted. These maps are, however, on
too small a scale for travelling purposes.
The mountainous regions of Dauphiné, moreover, are not supplied, like Switzerland, Tyrol, or even the Italian valleys, with accommodation for travellers. The inns, when they exist, are often filthy beyond description; rest is seldom obtained in their beds, or decent food found in their kitchens, and there are no local guides worth having. The tourist is thrown very much on his own resources, and it is not therefore surprising that these districts are less visited and less known than the rest of the Alps.
Most of the statements current in 1861 respecting these mountains
had been derived from two authors
The following works also treat more or less of the districts referred to in this
chapter:—
Good pictures of Dauphiné scenery are to be found in Faits pour servir à l’Histoire des Montagnes de l’Oisans,
by Elie de Beaumont,
in the Annales des Mines.
Norway and its Glaciers; followed by Excursions in the High Alps of Dauphiné.
By J. D. Forbes.
Outline Sketches in the High Alps of Dauphiné, by T. G. Bonney.Histoire des Hautes-Alpes, by J. C. F. Ladoucette.
Itinéraire du Dauphiné, by Adolphe Joanne (2nd part).
Tour du Monde, 1860, edited by Ed. Charton.
The Israel of the Alps, by Alexis Muston.
A Memoir of Felix Neff, by W. S. Gilly.
Voyages Pittoresques dans
l’ancienne France, by Ch. Nodier, J. Taylor, and A. de Cailleux, and in Lord Monson’s
Views in the Departments of the Isère and the High Alps.
In 1848, M. Puiseux made the ascent from the same direction,
but his Val Louisan guide stopped short of the summit, and allowed
this courageous astronomer to proceed by himself.
In the middle of August 1860, Messrs. Bonney, Hawkshaw,
and Mathews, with Michel Croz of Chamounix, tried to ascend the
Pelvoux, likewise from the same direction. These gentlemen spent
M. Jean Reynaud, of whom mention has been made in the preceding
chapter, accompanied the party of Mr. Mathews, and he
was of opinion that the attempt had been made too late in the
season. He said that the weather was usually good enough for
high mountain ascents only during the last few days of July, and
the first ones of August,
At the beginning of July 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from
Havre, blankets (which were taxed as prohibited fabrics
), rope,
and other things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the
tour of France; but, four weeks later, at Nîmes, found myself
completely collapsed by the heat, then 94° Faht. in the shade, and
took a night train at once to Grenoble.
Grenoble is a town upon which a volume might be written.
Its situation is probably the finest of any in France, and the views
from its high forts are superb. I lost my way in the streets of
this picturesque and noisome town, and having but a half-hour
left in which to get a dinner and take a place in the diligence, was
not well pleased to hear that an Englishman wished to see me.
It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided to me that
he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in the
course of ten days. On hearing of my intentions, he agreed to
join us at La Bessée on the 3rd of August. In a few moments
en route for Bourg d’Oysans,
in a miserable vehicle which took nearly eight hours to accomplish
less than 30 miles.
At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and
started for Briançon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but
melted away when touched by the sun, and disappeared by jerks
(in the manner of views when focussed in a magic lantern), revealing
the wonderfully bent and folded strata in the limestone
cliffs behind the town. Then I entered the Combe de Malval, and
heard the Romanche eating its way through that wonderful gorge,
and passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier came into
view, tailing over the mountain-side on the right. From this place
until the summit of the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in
the mountains showed a glittering glacier or a soaring peak; the
finest view was at La Grave, where the Meije rises by a series of
tremendous precipices 8000 feet above the road.
All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La Bessée—the
highest point, as well as that upon which the engineers erected
their cairn. Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The
natives knew only that the engineers had ascended one peak, and
had seen from that one a still higher point, which they called the
[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX FROM ABOVE LA BESSÉE.]
Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald
and the want of a bâton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the
postmaster, who possessed a bâton of local celebrity. Down we
went to the bureau; but it was closed: we halloed through the
slits, but no answer. At last the postmaster was discovered endeavouring
(with very fair success) to make himself intoxicated.
He was just able to ejaculate, France! ’tis the first nation in the
world!
which is a phrase used by a Frenchman at times when
We won’t go home till morning
—national
glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and home
in those of the other. The bâton was produced; it was a branch
of a young oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several
directions. Sir,
said the postmaster, as he presented it, France!
’tis the first—the first nation in the world, by its
—he stuck.
Bâtons?
I suggested. Yes, yes, sir; by its bâtons, by its—its,
and here he could not get on at all. As I looked at this
young limb, I thought of my own; but Reynaud, who knew
everything about everybody in the village, said there was not a
better one, so off we went with it, leaving the official staggering
in the road and muttering, France! ’tis the first nation in the
world!
The 3rd of August came, and Macdonald did not appear, so we
started for the Val Louise; our party consisting of Reynaud, myself,
and a porter, Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed little nails,
the shoemaker of the place. An hour and a half’s smart walking
took us to La Ville de Val Louise, our hearts gladdened by the
glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining out without a cloud around
them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor of La Ville.
His aspect was original, and his manners were gracious, but the
odour which proceeded from him was dreadful.
Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to my annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit consent to a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great nuisance from the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle; one man tried to carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung from one of our bâtons, and was carried by two of us, which gave our party the appearance of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of levers.
At La Ville
the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val
d’Entraigues on the left and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) on
the right; our route was up the latter, and we moved steadily forwards
to the village of La Pisse, where Pierre Sémiond lived, who
[Illustration: THE GRAND PELVOUX DE VAL LOUISE.]
The Pelvoux could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high
intervening ridge; we were now moving along the foot of this
to get to the châlets of Alefred, or, as they are sometimes called,
Aléfroide, where the mountain actually commences. From these
châlets the subordinate, but more proximate, peaks appear considerably
higher than the loftier ones behind, and sometimes completely
conceal them. But the whole height of the peak, which in these
valleys goes under the name of the Grand Pelvoux,
is seen
at one glance from its summit to its base, six or seven thousand
feet of nearly perpendicular cliffs.
The châlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts
Our route now turned sharply to the left, and all were glad that the day was drawing to a close, so that we had the shadows from the mountains. A more frightful and desolate valley it is scarcely possible to imagine; it contains miles of boulders, débris, stones, sand, and mud; few trees, and they placed so high as to be almost out of sight; not a soul inhabits it; no birds are in the air, no fish in its waters; the mountain is too steep for the chamois, its slopes too inhospitable for the marmot, the whole too repulsive for the eagle. Not a living thing did we see in this sterile and savage valley during four days, except some few poor goats which had been driven there against their will.
It was a scene in keeping with the diabolical deed perpetrated
here about four hundred years ago—the murder of the Vaudois of
Val Louise, in the cavern which was now in sight, though high
above us. Their story is very sad. Peaceful and industrious, for
more than three centuries they had inhabited these retired valleys
in tranquil obscurity. The Archbishops of Embrun endeavoured,
though with little success, to get them within the pale of their
church. Their efforts were aided by others, who commenced by
imprisonments and torture,We find amongst the current accounts of the Bailiff
of Embrun this singular article—
—Muston, vol. i. p. 38.Item, for persecuting the Vaudois, eight sols
and thirty deniers of gold.
In the year 1488, Albert Cattanée, Archdeacon of Cremona and
History of the Evangelical Churches of Piedmont, 1658; Cromwell’s
Acts, 1658; and Burton’s Diary, 1828.Tour du Monde, 1860. He says:—They attain the highest possible development of
their intelligence in their infancy, and—abundantly provided with majestic goîtres,
which are lengthened and swollen by age—are in this respect like to the ourangoutangs,
who have nothing more to acquire after the age of three years. At the age
of five years the little crétins have already the placid and mature expression which
they ought to keep all their lives.... They wear trousers, and coats with tails,
and a large black hat.
We rested a little at a small spring, and then hastened onwards till we nearly arrived at the foot of the Sapenière glacier, when Sémiond said we must turn to the right, up the slopes. This we did, and clambered for half-an-hour through scattered firs and fallen boulders. Then evening began to close in rapidly, and it was time to look for a resting-place. There was no difficulty in getting one, for all around there was a chaotic assemblage of rocks. We selected the under side of a boulder which was more than fifty feet long by twenty high, cleared out the rubbish, and then collected wood for a fire.
I have a pleasant recollection of that camp-fire. The wine-cask
had got through all its troubles; it was tapped, and the
Frenchmen seemed to derive some consolation from its execrable
contents. Reynaud chanted scraps of French songs, and each
contributed his share of joke, story, or verse. The weather was
perfect, and our prospects for the morrow were good. My companions’
joy culminated when a packet of red
We roused at three, and made a start at half-past four.
Giraud had been engaged as far as this rock only, but as he
wished to go on, we allowed him to accompany us. We mounted
the slopes and quickly got above the trees, then had a couple
of hours’ clambering over bits of precipitous rock and banks of
débris, and, at a quarter to seven, got to a narrow glacier—Clos
de l’Homme—which streamed out of the plateau on the summit,
Old Sémiond of course came after us when we got across. We
then zigzagged up some snow-slopes, and shortly afterwards commenced
to ascend the interminable array of buttresses which are
the great peculiarity of the Pelvoux.The nucleus of the
—massif
is a line protogine, divided by nearly vertical
cracks.Dollfus-Ausset.They were frequently rotten, and would have been difficult for a
single man to pass. The uppermost men were continually abused
for dislodging rocks and for harpooning those below with their
bâtons. However, without these incidents the climbing would
have been dull—they helped to break the monotony.
We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and
always seemed to be coming to something, although we never got
to it. The outline sketch will help to explain the situation. We
stood at the foot of a great buttress—perhaps about 200 feet high—and
looked up. It did not go to a point as in the diagram,
because we could not see the top; although we felt convinced
it was the edge of the plateau we so much desired to attain.
Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but, lo! another set
was seen,—and another,—and yet more—till at last we reached
the top, and found it was only a buttress, and that
we must descend 40 or 50 feet before we could
commence to mount again. When this
operation had been performed a few
dozen times, it began to be wearisome,
especially as we were in
the dark as to our whereabouts.
Sémiond, however,
encouraged us,
and said he knew we
were on the right route,—so away we went once more.
[Illustration: BUTTRESSES OF MONT PELVOUX.]
It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit
of the Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined
together and held a council. Sémiond, old friend, do you know
where we are now?
Oh yes, perfectly, to a yard and a half.
Well, then, how much are we below this plateau?
He affirmed
we were not half-an-hour from the edge of the snow. Very good;
let us proceed.
Half-an-hour passed, and then another, but we
were still in the same state,—pinnacles, buttresses, and gullies were
in profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we called him
again—for he had been staring about latterly, as if in doubt—and
repeated the question. How far below are we now?
Well, he
thought it might be half-an-hour more. But you said that just
now; are you sure we are going right?
Yes, he believed we
were. Believed! that would not do. Are you sure we are going
right for the Pic des Arcines?
Pic des Arcines!
he ejaculated
in astonishment, as if he had heard the words for the first
time. Pic des Arcines; no! but for the pyramid, the celebrated
pyramid he had helped the great Capitaine Durand,
&c.
Here was a fix;—we had been talking about it to him for a
What did he
suggest?
He shrugged his shoulders. Well,
we said, after
explaining our minds pretty freely to Sémiond, the sooner
we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your
pyramid.
We halted for an hour, and then commenced the descent. It
took us nearly seven hours to come down to our rock; but I paid
no heed to the distance, and do not remember anything about it.
When we got down we made a discovery which affected us as much
as the footprint in the sand did Robinson Crusoe: a blue silk veil
lay by our fireside. There was but one explanation,—Macdonald
had arrived; but where was he? We soon packed our baggage,
and tramped in the dusk, through the stony desert, to Alefred,
where we arrived about half-past nine. Where is the Englishman?
was the first question. He was gone to sleep at La
Ville.
We passed that night in a hay-loft, and in the morning, after settling with Sémiond, posted down to catch Macdonald. We had already determined on the plan of operation, which was to get him to join us, return, and be independent of all guides, simply taking the best man we could get as a porter. I set my heart on Giraud,—a good fellow, with no pretence, although in every respect up to the work. We were disappointed; he was obliged to go to Briançon.
The walk soon became exciting. The natives inquired the
result of our expedition, and common civility obliged us to stop.
But I was afraid of losing my man, for it was said he would wait
only till ten o’clock, and that time was near at hand. At last I
dashed over the bridge,—time from Alefred an hour and a quarter.
A cantonnier stopped me, saying that the Englishman had just
started for La Bessée. I rushed after him, turned angle after
angle of the road, but could not see him; at last, as I came round
a corner, he was also just turning another, going very fast. I
en route for another. I have said we determined to take
no guide; but, on passing La Pisse, old Sémiond turned out and
offered his services. He went well, in spite of his years and disregard
of truth. Why not take him?
said my friend. So we
offered him a fifth of his previous pay, and in a few seconds he
closed with the offer. This time he came in an inferior position,—we
were to lead, he to follow. Our second follower was a youth
of twenty-seven years, who was not all that could be desired. He
drank Reynaud’s wine, smoked our cigars, and quietly secreted
the provisions when we were nearly starving. Discovery of his
proceedings did not at all disconcert him, and he finished up by
getting several items added to our bill at La Ville, which, not a
little to his disgust, we disallowed.
This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and, before we could settle down, we were obliged to turn out a large mass which was in the way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length; slowly and gently at first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air, striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as it entered the gloomy valley below, and long after it was out of sight, we heard it bounding downwards, and then settle with a subdued crash on the glacier beneath. As we turned back from this curious sight, Reynaud asked if we had ever seen a torrent on fire, and told us that in the spring the Durance, swollen by the melting of the snow, sometimes brings down so many rocks that, where it passes through a narrow gorge at La Bessée, no water whatever is seen, but only boulders rolling over and over, grinding each other into powder, and striking so many sparks that the stream looks as if it were on fire.
We had another merry evening with nothing to mar it; the
The ranges stood
Against the whiteness at their back.
Snow-Bound.
Macdonald related his experiences over the café noir. He had travelled day and night for several days in order to join us, but had failed to find our first bivouac, and had camped a few hundred yards from us under another rock, higher up the mountain. The next morning he discerned us going along a ridge at a great height above him, and as it was useless to endeavour to overtake us, he lay down and watched with a heavy heart until we had turned the corner of a buttress, and vanished out of sight.
Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound asleep
comrades broke the solemn stillness of the night. It was a silence
to be felt. Nothing? Hark! what is that dull booming sound
above us? Is that nothing? There it is again, plainer—on it
comes, nearer, clearer; ’tis a crag escaped from the heights above!
What a fearful crash! We jump to our feet. Down it comes with
awful fury; what power can withstand its violence? Dancing,
leaping, flying; dashing against others; roaring as it descends.
Ah, it has passed! No; there it is again, and we hold our breath,
as, with resistless force and explosions like artillery, it darts past,
with an avalanche of shattered fragments trailing in its rear! ’Tis
We retired at last, but I was too excited to sleep. At a quarter-past
four every man once more shouldered his pack and started.
This time we agreed to keep more to the right, to see if it were not
possible to get to the plateau without losing any time by crossing
the glacier. To describe our route would be to repeat what has been
said before. We mounted steadily for an hour and a half, sometimes
walking, though more frequently climbing, and then found, after all,
that it was necessary to cross the glacier. The part on which we
struck came down a very steep slope, and was much crevassed.
The word crevassed hardly expresses its appearance—it was a mass
of formidable séracs. We found, however, more difficulty in getting
on than across it; and, thanks to the rope, it was passed in safety.
Then the interminable buttresses began again. Hour after hour we
proceeded upwards, frequently at fault, and obliged to descend. The
ridge behind us had sunk long ago, and we looked over it, and all
others, till our eyes rested on the majestic Viso. Hour after hour
passed, and monotony was the order of the day. When twelve
o’clock came we lunched, and contemplated the scene with satisfaction;
all the summits in sight, with the single exception of the
Viso, had given in, and we looked over an immense expanse—a
perfect sea of peaks and snow-fields. Still the pinnacles rose above
us, and opinions were freely uttered that we should see no summit
of Pelvoux that day. Old Sémiond had become a perfect bore to
all; whenever one rested for a moment to look about, he would
say, with a complacent chuckle, Don’t be afraid, follow me.
We
came at last to a very bad piece, rotten and steep, and no hold.
Here Reynaud and Macdonald confessed to being tired, and talked
of going to sleep. A way was discovered out of the difficulty;
then some one called out, Look at the Viso!
and we saw that we
The pyramid!
I see the pyramid!
Where, Sémiond, where?
There; on
the top of that peak.
There, sure enough, was the cairn he had helped to erect more
than thirty years before. Where was the Pic des Arcines which we
were to see? It was nowhere visible—there was only a great
expanse of snow, bordered by three lower peaks. Somewhat sadly
we moved towards the pyramid, sighing that there was no other to
conquer; but hardly had we gone two hundred paces, before there
rose a superb white cone on the left, which had been hidden before
by a slope of snow. We shouted, The Pic des Arcines!
and
All right then—face
about,
and we immediately turned at right angles for the cone,
the porter making faint struggles for his beloved pyramid. Our
progress was stopped, in the sixth of a mile, by the edge of the
ridge connecting the two peaks, and we perceived that it curled
over in a lovely volute. We involuntarily retreated. Sémiond,
who was last in the line, took the opportunity to untie himself, and
refused to come on; said we were running dangerous risks, and
talked vaguely of crevasses. We tied him up again, and proceeded.
The snow was very soft; we were always knee-deep, and sometimes
floundered in up to the waist; but a simultaneous jerk before and
behind always released one. By this time we had arrived at the
foot of the final peak. The left-hand ridge seemed easier than that
upon which we stood, so we curved round to get to it. Some rocks
peeped out 150 feet below the summit, and up these we crawled,
leaving our porter behind, as he said he was afraid. I could not
resist the temptation, as we went off, to turn round and beckon him
onwards, saying, Don’t be afraid—follow me,
but he did not
answer to the appeal, and never went to the top. The rocks led to
a short ridge of ice—our plateau on one side, and a nearly vertical
precipice on the other. Macdonald cut up it, and at a quarter
to two we stood shaking hands on the loftiest summit of the
conquered Pelvoux.
The day still continued everything that could be desired, and,
far and near, countless peaks burst into sight, without a cloud to
hide them. The mighty Mont Blanc, full seventy miles away, first
caught our eyes, and then, still farther off, the Monte Rosa group;
while, rolling away to the east, one unknown range after another
succeeded in unveiled splendour; fainter and fainter in tone, but
still perfectly defined, till at last the eye was unable to distinguish
sky from mountain, and they died away in the far-off horizon.
This mountain was distant a couple of miles or so, and was
separated from us by a tremendous abyss, the bottom of which we
could not see. On the other side rose this mighty wall-sided peak,
too steep for snow, black as night, with sharp ridges and pointed
summit. We were in complete ignorance of its whereabouts, for
none of us had been on the other side. We imagined that La
Bérarde was in the abyss at our feet, although it was in reality
beyond the other mountain. This mountain is the culminating point of the group, and is named on the
French map, Pointe des Ecrins. It is seen from the Val Christophe, and from that
direction its ridges completely conceal Mont Pelvoux. On the other side—that
is, from the direction of La Bessée or the Val Louise—the reverse is the case: the
Pelvoux completely conceals it.
Unaware that this name was going to be applied to it, we gave the name Pic des
Arcines or des Ecrins to our summit, in accordance with the traditions of the natives.
We left the summit at last, and descended to the rocks and to
our porter, where I boiled some water, obtained by melting snow.
After we had fed, and smoked our cigars (lighted without difficulty
from a common match), we found it was ten minutes past three,
and high time to be off. We dashed, waded, and tumbled for
twenty-five minutes through the snow, and then began the long
descent of the rocks. It was nearly four o’clock, and, as it would
be dark at eight, it was evident that there was no time to be lost,
and we pushed on to the utmost. Nothing remarkable occurred
going down. We kept rather closer to the glacier, and crossed at
the same point as in the morning. Getting off it was like getting
on it—rather awkward. Old Sémiond had got over—so had
Reynaud; Macdonald came next, but, as he made a long stretch
to get on to a higher mass, he slipped, and would have been in the
bowels of a crevasse in a moment had he not been tied.
It was nearly dark by the time we had crossed, yet I still hoped that we should be able to pass the night at our rock. Macdonald was not so sanguine, and he was right; for at last we found ourselves quite at fault, and wandered helplessly up and down for an hour, while Reynaud and the porter indulged in a little mutual abuse. The dreary fact, that, as we could not get down, we must stay where we were, was now quite apparent.
We were at least 10,500 feet high, and if it commenced to rain
or snow, as the gathering clouds and rising wind seemed to threaten,
we might be in a sore plight. We were hungry, having eaten
little since 3 A.M., and a torrent we heard close at hand, but could
not discover, aggravated our thirst. Sémiond endeavoured to get
some water from it. Although he succeeded in doing so, he was
wholly unable to return, and we had to solace him by shouting at
intervals through the night.
A more detestable locality for a night out of doors it is difficult
to imagine. There was not shelter of any kind; it was perfectly
exposed to the chilly wind which began to rise, and it was too
steep to promenade. Loose rubbly stones covered the ground, and
Oh, malheur, malheur!
Oh misérables!
Thunder commenced to growl, and lightning to play among the peaks above, and the wind, which had brought the temperature down to nearly freezing-point, began to chill us to the bones. We examined our resources. They were six and a half cigars, two boxes of vesuvians, one-third of a pint of brandy-and-water, and half-a-pint of spirits of wine: rather scant fare for three fellows who had to get through seven hours before daylight. The spirit-lamp was lighted, and the remaining spirits of wine, the brandy and some snow, were heated by it. It was a strong liquor, and we wished for more of it. When it was consumed, Macdonald endeavoured to dry his socks by the lamp, and then the three lay down under my plaid to pretend to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were aggravated by toothache; Macdonald somehow managed to close his eyes.
The longest night must end, and ours did at last. We got down to our rock in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised at our absence. He said he had made a gigantic fire to light us down, and shouted with all his might; we neither saw the fire nor heard his shouts. He said we looked a ghastly crew, and no wonder; it was our fourth night out.
We feasted at our cave, and performed some very necessary
ablutions. The persons of the natives are infested by certain
agile creatures—rapid of motion, numerous, and voracious. It is
dangerous to approach too near, and one has to study the wind,
It is said that once, when these tormentors were filled with an
unanimous desire, an unsuspecting traveller was dragged bodily
from his bed! This needs confirmation. One word more, and I
have done with this vile subject. We returned from our ablutions,
and found the Frenchmen engaged in conversation. Ah!
said
old Sémiond, as to fleas, I don’t pretend to be different to anyone
else,—
This time he certainly spoke the truth.
I have them.
We got down to La Ville in good time, and luxuriated there for several days; played many games of bowls with the natives, and were invariably beaten by them. At last it was necessary to part, and I walked to Abries, by way of Mont Dauphin and the gorge of the Guil towards Monte Viso, while Macdonald went to Briançon.
I have not attempted to conceal that the ascent of Mont Pelvoux is of a rather monotonous character; the view from its summit can, however, be confidently recommended. A glance at a map will show that, with the single exception of the Viso, whose position is unrivalled, it is better situated than any other mountain of considerable height for viewing the whole of the Western Alps.
Our discovery that the peak which is to be called the Pointe des Ecrins was a separate and distinct mountain from Mont Pelvoux—and not its highest point—gave us satisfaction, although it was also rather of the nature of a disappointment.
On our return to La Bessée we wrongly identified it with the
peak which is seen from thence to the left of the Pelvoux. The
two mountains bear a considerable resemblance to each other, so
the mistake is not, perhaps, unpardonable. Although the latter
It has been observed by others that it is improbable the French surveyors should have remained for several days upon the Pic de la Pyramide without visiting the other and loftier summit. If they did, it is strange that they did not leave some memorial of their visit. The natives who accompanied them asserted that they did not pass from one to the other; we therefore claimed to have made the ascent of the loftiest point for the first time. The claim, however, cannot be sustained, on account of the ascent of M. Puiseux. It is a matter of little moment; the excursion had for us all the interest of a first ascent; and I look back upon this, my first serious mountain scramble, with more satisfaction, and with as much pleasure as upon any that is recorded in this volume.
A few days later, I left Abries to seek a quiet bundle of hay at
Le Chalp—a village some miles nearer to the Viso. On approaching
the place, the odour of sanctity became distinctly perceptible;
and on turning a corner the cause was manifested—there was
the priest of the place, surrounded by some of his flock. I advanced
humbly, hat in hand, but almost before a word could be said, he
broke out with, Who are you?
What are you?
What do
you want?
I endeavoured to explain. You are a deserter; I
know you are a deserter; go away, you can’t stay here; go to Le
Monta, down there; I won’t have you here,
and he literally drove
me away. The explanation of his strange behaviour was, that
Piedmontese soldiers who were tired of the service had not
unfrequently crossed the Col de la Traversette into the valley,
and trouble had arisen from harbouring them. However, I did not
know this at the time, and was not a little indignant that I, who
was marching to the attack, should be taken for a deserter.
So I walked away, and shortly afterwards, as it was getting
[Illustration: THE BLANKET BAG.]
The night was fine, and as I settled down in more comfortable
quarters, a brilliant meteor sailed across full 60° of the cloudless
The next morning, after walking up the valley to examine the
Viso, I returned to Abries, and engaged a man from a neighbouring
hamlet, an inveterate smoker, and thirsty in proportion, whose
pipe never left his mouth except to allow him to drink. We
returned up the valley together, and slept in a hut of a shepherd,
whose yearly wage was almost as small as that of the herdsman
spoken of in Hyperion by Longfellow; and the next morning, in
his company, proceeded to the summit of the pass which I had
crossed in 1860. We were baffled in our attempt to get closer
to the mountain. A deep notchsouthern side, and the ascent,
which was formerly considered a thing totally impossible, has
become one of the most common and favourite excursions of the
district.
The night of the 14th of August found me at St. Veran, a
village made famous by Neff, but in no other respect remarkable,
saving that it is one of the highest in Europe. The poor inn gave
the impression of great poverty. There was no meat, no bread,
[Illustration: NATURAL PILLAR NEAR MOLINES.]
In this neighbourhood, and indeed all round about the Viso, the
chamois still remain in considerable numbers. They said at St.
Veran that six had been seen from the village on the day I was
there, and the innkeeper declared that he had seen fifty together
in the previous week! I myself saw in this and in the previous
season several small companies round about the Viso. It is perhaps
as favourable a district as any in the Alps for a sportsman who
The next day I descended the valley to Ville Vieille, and passed near the village of Molines, but on the opposite side of the valley, a remarkable natural pillar, in form not unlike a champagne bottle, about sixty feet high, which had been produced by the action of the weather, and, in all probability, chiefly by rain. These natural pillars are among the most remarkable examples of the potent effects produced by the long-continued action of quiet-working forces. They are found in several other places in the Alps, as well as elsewhere.
The village of Ville Vieille boasts of an inn with the sign of the Elephant; which, in the opinion of local amateurs, is a proof that Hannibal passed through the gorge of the Guil. I remember the place, because its bread, being only a month old, was unusually soft, and, for the first time during ten days, it was possible to eat some, without first of all chopping it into small pieces and soaking it in hot water, which produced a slimy paste on the outside, but left a hard untouched kernel.
The same day I crossed the Col Isoard to Briançon. It was the
15th of August, and all the world was en fête; sounds of revelry
proceeded from the houses of Servières as I passed over the bridge
upon which the pyrrhic dance is annually performed,Hautes-Alpes, p. 596.
What power must have been required to shatter and to sweep away the
missing parts of this pyramid; for we do not see it surrounded by heaps of fragments;
one only sees other peaks—themselves rooted to the ground—whose sides,
equally rent, indicate an immense mass of débris, of which we do not see any trace
in the neighbourhood. Doubtless this is that débris which, in the form of pebbles,
boulders, and sand, covers our valleys and our plains.
De Saussure.
Two summits amongst those in the Alps which yet remained virgin had especially excited my admiration. One of these had been attacked numberless times by the best mountaineers without success; the other, surrounded by traditional inaccessibility, was almost untouched. These mountains were the Weisshorn and the Matterhorn.
After visiting the great tunnel of the Alps in 1861, I wandered for ten days in the neighbouring valleys, intending, presently, to attempt the ascent of these two peaks. Rumours were floating about that the former had been conquered, and that the latter was shortly to be attacked, and they were confirmed on arrival at Chatillon, at the entrance of the Val Tournanche. My interest in the Weisshorn consequently abated, but it was raised to the highest pitch on hearing that Professor Tyndall was at Breil, and intending to try to crown his first victory by another and still greater one.
Up to this time my experience with guides had not been
fortunate, and I was inclined, improperly, to rate them at a low
value. They represented to me pointers out of paths, and large
consumers of meat and drink, but little more; and, with the recollection
of Mont Pelvoux, I should have greatly preferred the
physique was a combination of
Chang and Anak; and although in acquiring him I did not obtain
exactly what was wanted, his late employers did exactly what they
wanted, for I obtained the responsibility, without knowledge, of
paying his back fare, which must have been a relief at once to
their minds and to their purses.
When walking up towards Breil,Why so?
Oh, it was absolutely impossible to
get along without another man. As he said this, an evil countenance
came forth out of the darkness and proclaimed itself the
comrade. I demurred, the negotiations broke off, and we went up
to Breil. This place will be frequently mentioned in subsequent
chapters, and was in full view of the extraordinary peak, the ascent
of which we were about to attempt.
It is unnecessary to enter into a minute description of the
Matterhorn, after all that has been written about that famous
mountain. Those by whom this book is likely to be read will
know that that peak is nearly 15,000 feet high, and that it rises
abruptly, by a series of cliffs which may properly be termed
precicordon drawn around it, up to which one might go,
but no farther. Within that invisible line gins and effreets were
supposed to exist—the Wandering Jew and the spirits of the
damned. The superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys
(many of whom still firmly believe it to be not only the highest
mountain in the Alps, but in the world) spoke of a ruined city on
its summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you laughed, they
gravely shook their heads; told you to look yourself to see the
castles and the walls, and warned one against a rash approach, lest
the infuriate demons from their impregnable heights might hurl
down vengeance for one’s derision. Such were the traditions of the
natives. Stronger minds felt the influence of the wonderful form,
and men who ordinarily spoke or wrote like rational beings, when
they came under its power seemed to quit their senses, and ranted,
and rhapsodised, losing for a time all common forms of speech.
Even the sober De Saussure was moved to enthusiasm when he
saw the mountain, and—inspired by the spectacle—he anticipated
the speculations of modern geologists, in the striking sentences
which are placed at the head of this chapter.
The Matterhorn looks equally imposing from whatever side it is seen; it never seems commonplace; and in this respect, and in regard to the impression it makes upon spectators, it stands almost alone amongst mountains. It has no rivals in the Alps, and but few in the world.
The seven or eight thousand feet which compose the actual
peak have several well-marked ridges and numerous others.séracs over greater cliffs,
whose débris, subsequently consolidated, becomes glacier again;
there are ridges split by the frost, and washed by the rain and
melted snow into towers and spires: while, everywhere, there are
ceaseless sounds of action, telling that the causes are still in operation
which have been at work since the world began; reducing the
mighty mass to atoms, and effecting its degradation.
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS. (10,899 FEET)]
Most tourists obtain their first view of the mountain either
from the valley of Zermatt or from that of Tournanche. From the
former direction the base of the mountain is seen at its narrowest,
and its ridges and faces seem to be of prodigious steepness. The
tourist toils up the valley, looking frequently for the great sight
which is to reward his pains, without seeing it (for the mountain
is first perceived in that direction about a mile to the north of
Zermatt), when, all at once, as he turns a rocky corner of the path,
it comes into view; not, however, where it is expected; the face
has to be raised up to look at it; it seems overhead. Although this is
the impression, the fact is that the summit of the Matterhorn from
this point makes an angle with the eye of less than 16º, while the
Dom, from the same place, makes a larger angle, but is passed by
unobserved. So little can dependence be placed on unaided vision.
that direction. There remained only the side of Val Tournanche;
and it will be found that nearly all the earliest attempts to ascend
the mountain were made upon the southern side.
The first efforts to ascend the Matterhorn of which I have heard,
were made by the guides, or rather by the chasseurs, of Val Tournanche.Chimney
(cheminée),
a height of about 12,650 feet. Those who were concerned in these
expeditions were Jean-Antoine Carrel, Jean Jacques Carrel, Victor
Carrel, the Abbé Gorret, and Gabrielle Maquignaz. I have been
unable to obtain any further details respecting them.
The next attempt was a remarkable one; and of it, too, there
is no published account. It was made by the Messrs. Alfred,
Charles, and Sandbach Parker, of Liverpool, in July 1860. These
gentlemen, without guides, endeavoured to storm the citadel by
attacking its eastern face
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS.]
The third attempt upon the mountain was made towards the
end of August 1860, by Mr. Vaughan Hawkins,Vacation Tourists;Macmillan, 1861.
Mr. Hawkins had inspected the mountain in 1859, with the
guide J. J. Bennen, and he had formed the opinion that the south-west
ridge
[Illustration: J. J. BENNEN (1862).]
Bennen was a guide who was beginning to be talked about.
During the chief part of his brief career he was in the service
of Wellig, the landlord of the inn on the Æggischhorn, and was
hired out by him to tourists. Although his experience was
limited, he had acquired a good reputation; and his book of
certificates, which is lying before me,
Mr. Hawkins’ party, led by Bennen, climbed the rocks
abutting against the Couloir du Lion, on its south side, and
attained the Col du Lion, although not without difficulty. They
then followed the south-west ridge, passed the place at which the
Mr. Hawkins did not, as far as I know, make another attempt;
and the next was made by the Messrs. Parker, in July 1861.
They again started from Zermatt; followed the route they had
struck out on the previous year, and got a little higher than
before; but they were defeated by want of time, shortly afterwards
left Zermatt on account of bad weather, and did not again renew
their attempts. Mr. Parker says—In neither case did we go as
high as we could. At the point where we turned we saw our way
for a few hundred feet farther; but, beyond that, the difficulties
seemed to increase.
I am informed that both attempts should be
considered as excursions undertaken with the view of ascertaining
whether there was any encouragement to make a more deliberate
attack on the north-east side.
My guide and I arrived at Breil on the 28th of August 1861,
and we found that Professor Tyndall had been there a day or two
before, but had done nothing. I had seen the mountain from
nearly every direction, and it seemed, even to a novice like myself,
far too much for a single day. I intended to sleep out upon it, as
Two
hundred francs.
What, whether we ascend or not?
Yes—nothing
less.
The end of the matter was, that all the men who
were more or less capable showed a strong disinclination, or positively
refused, to go (their disinclination being very much in proportion
to their capacity), or else asked a prohibitive price. This,
it may be said once for all, was the reason why so many futile
attempts were made upon the Matterhorn. One first-rate guide
after another was brought up to the mountain, and patted on the
back, but all declined the business. The men who went had no
heart in the matter, and took the first opportunity to turn back.
We resolved to go alone, and anticipating a cold bivouac, begged
the loan of a couple of blankets from the innkeeper. He refused
them; giving the curious reason, that we had bought a bottle of
brandy at Val Tournanche, and had not bought any from him! No
brandy, no blankets, appeared to be his rule. We did not require
them that night, as it was passed in the highest cow-shed in the
valley, which is about an hour nearer to the mountain than is the
hotel. The cowherds, worthy fellows, seldom troubled by tourists,
hailed our company with delight, and did their best to make us
comfortable; brought out their little stores of simple food, and, as
we sat with them round the great copper pot which hung over the
fire, bade us in husky voice, but with honest intent, to beware of
the perils of the haunted cliffs. When night was coming on, we
saw, stealing up the hill-side, the forms of Jean-Antoine Carrel and
Oh ho!
I said, you have repented?
Not at
all; you deceive yourself.
Why then have you come here?
Because we ourselves are going on the mountain to-morrow.
Oh, then it is
not necessary to have more than three.Not for
I admired their pluck, and had a strong inclination to engage
the pair; but, finally, decided against it. The comrade turned out
to be the J. J. Carrel who had been with Mr. Hawkins, and was
nearly related to the other man.
us.
[Illustration: JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL (1869).]
Both were bold mountaineers; but Jean-Antoine was incomparably the better man of the two, and he is the finest rock-climber I have ever seen. He was the only man who persistently refused to accept defeat, and who continued to believe, in spite of all discouragements, that the great mountain was not inaccessible, and that it could be ascended from the side of his native valley.
The night wore away without any excitement, except from the
fleas, a party of whom executed a spirited fandango on my cheek,
to the sound of music produced on the drum of my ear, by one of
their fellows beating with a wisp of hay. The two Carrels crept
The Great Staircase.
Then the cliffs of the
Tête du Lion, which rise above the Couloir, had to be skirted. This
part varies considerably in different seasons, and in 1861 we found
it difficult; for the fine steady weather of that year had reduced the
snow-beds abutting against it to a lower level than usual, and the
rocks which were left exposed at the junction of the snow with
the cliffs, had few ledges or cracks to which we could hold. But by
half-past ten o’clock we stood on the Col, and looked down upon
the magnificent basin out of which the Z’Mutt glacier flows. We
decided to pass the night upon the Col, for we were charmed with
the capabilities of the place, although it was one where liberties
could not be taken. On one side a sheer wall overhung the
Tiefenmatten glacier. On the other, steep, glassy slopes of hard
snow descended to the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by water and by
falling stones. On the north there was the great peak of the
Matterhorn,
how fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
[Illustration: THE COL DU LION: LOOKING TOWARDS THE TÊTE DU LION.]
But no harm could come from that side. Neither could it from
the other. Nor was it likely that it would from the Tête du Lion,
for some jutting ledges conveniently overhung our proposed resting-place.
We waited for a while, basked in the sunshine, and watched
The music of whose liquid lip
To have an almost human tone.
It was bitterly cold. Water froze hard in a bottle under my head.
Not surprising, as we were actually on snow, and in a position
where the slightest wind was at once felt. For a time we dozed,
but about midnight there came from high aloft a tremendous
O my God, we are
lost!
We heard it coming, mass after mass pouring over the
precipices, bounding and rebounding from cliff to cliff, and the
great rocks in advance smiting one another. They seemed to be
close, although they were probably distant, but some small fragments,
which dropped upon us at the same time from the ledges
just above, added to the alarm, and my demoralised companion
passed the remainder of the night in a state of shudder, ejaculating
terrible,
and other adjectives.
We put ourselves in motion at daybreak, and commenced the ascent of the south-west ridge. There was no more sauntering with hands in the pockets; each step had to be earned by downright climbing. But it was the most pleasant kind of climbing. The rocks were fast and unencumbered with débris; the cracks were good, although not numerous, and there was nothing to fear except from one’s-self. So we thought, at least, and shouted to awake echoes from the cliffs. Ah! there is no response. Not yet; wait a while, everything here is upon a superlative scale; count a dozen, and then the echoes will return from the walls of the Dent d’Hérens, miles away, in waves of pure and undefiled sound; soft, musical, and sweet. Halt a moment to regard the view! We overlook the Tête du Lion, and nothing except the Dent d’Hérens, whose summit is still a thousand feet above us, stands in the way. The ranges of the Graian Alps—an ocean of mountains—are seen, at a glance, governed by their three great peaks, the Grivola, Grand Paradis, and Tour de St. Pierre. How soft, and yet how sharp, they look in the early morning! The mid-day mists have not begun to rise; nothing is obscured; even the pointed Viso, all but a hundred miles away, is perfectly defined.
Turn to the east, and watch the sun’s slanting rays coming
across the Monte Rosa snow-fields. Look at the shadowed parts,
and see how even they—radiant with reflected light—are more
Hardly an hour had passed since we left the Col before we
arrived at the Chimney.
It proved to be the counterpart of the
place to which reference has been made at p. 3; a smooth, straight
slab of rock was fixed, at a considerable angle, between two others
equally smooth.he mentioned his opinion of me. I requested
him to go to Breil, and to say that he had left his monsieur
on the mountain, and he turned to go; whereupon I had to eat
humble pie and ask him to come back; for, although it was not very
difficult to go up, and not at all dangerous with a man standing
below, it was quite another thing to come down, as the lower edge
overhung in a provoking manner.
The day was perfect; the sun was pouring down grateful
The Carrels did not show themselves, but we were told that
they had not got to any great height,comrade,
who for convenience had taken off his shoes and tied them round
his waist, had managed to let one of them slip, and had come down
with a piece of cord fastened round his naked foot. Notwithstanding
this, they had boldly glissaded down the Couloir du
Lion, J. J. Carrel having his shoeless foot tied up in a pocket
handkerchief.
The Matterhorn was not assailed again in 1861. I left Breil
with the conviction that it was little use for a single tourist to
organise an attack upon it, so great was its influence on the morals
of the guides, and persuaded that it was desirable at least two
should go, to back each other when required: and departed with
my guide
’Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try, try again.
The year 1862 was still young, and the Matterhorn, clad in its
wintry garb, bore but little resemblance to the Matterhorn of the
summer, when a new force came to do battle with the mountain,
from another direction. Mr. T. S. Kennedy of Leeds conceived the
extraordinary idea that the peak might prove less impracticable in
January than in June, and arrived at Zermatt in the former month
to put his conception to the test. With stout Peter Perrn and
sturdy Peter Taugwalder he slept in the little chapel at the
Schwarzensee, and on the next morning, like the Messrs. Parker,
followed the ridge between the peak called Hörnli and the great
mountain. But they found that snow in winter obeyed the ordinary
laws, and that the wind and frost were not less unkind than
in summer. The wind whirled up the snow and spiculæ of ice
into our faces like needles, and flat pieces of ice a foot in diameter,
carried up from the glacier below, went flying past. Still no one
seemed to like to be the first to give in, till a gust fiercer than usual
forced us to shelter for a time behind a rock. Immediately it was
tacitly understood that our expedition must now end; but we
Alpine Journal, 1863, p. 82.
Shortly after this Professor Tyndall gave, in his little tract
Mountaineering in 1861, an account of the reason why he had
left Breil, in August 1861, without doing anything.Herr, I have
examined the mountain carefully, and find it more difficult and
dangerous than I had imagined. There is no place upon it where
we could well pass the night. We might do so on yonder Col upon
the snow, but there we should be almost frozen to death, and
totally unfit for the work of the next day. On the rocks there is
no ledge or cranny which could give us proper harbourage; and
starting from Breuil it is certainly impossible to reach the summit
in a single day.
I was entirely taken aback,
says Tyndall,
by this report. I felt like a man whose grip had given way, and
who was dropping through the air.... Bennen was evidently
dead against any attempt upon the mountain.
We can, at all
events, reach the lower of the two summits,
I remarked. Even
that is difficult,
he replied; but when you have reached it, what
then? The peak has neither name nor fame.
Mountaineering in 1861, pp. 86-7. Tyndall and Bennen were mistaken in
supposing that the mountain has two summits; it has only one. They seem to have
been deceived by the appearance of that part of the south-west ridge which is called
the shoulder
(l’épaule), as seen from Breil. Viewed from that place, its southern
end has certainly, through foreshortening, the semblance of a peak; but when one
regards it from the Col Théodule, or from any place in the same direction, the
delusion is at once apparent.
I was more surprised than discouraged by this report by
Bennen. One half of his assertions I knew to be wrong. The Col
to which he referred was the Col du Lion, upon which we had
passed a night less than a week after he had spoken so authoritatively;
and I had seen a place not far below the Chimney,
—a
place about 500 feet above the Col—where it seemed possible
to construct a sleeping-place. Bennen’s opinions seem to have
undergone a complete change. In 1860 he is described as having
been enthusiastic to make an attempt, and in 1861 he was dead
against one. Nothing dismayed by this, my friend Mr. Reginald
Macdonald, our companion on the Pelvoux—to whom so much of
our success had been due, agreed to join me in a renewed assault
from the south; and, although we failed to secure Melchior Anderegg
and some other notable guides, we obtained two men of repute,
namely, Johann zum Taugwald and Johann Kronig, of Zermatt.
We met at that place early in July, but stormy weather prevented
us even from passing to the other side of the chain for some time.
We crossed the Col Théodule on the 5th, in thoroughly unsettled
weather—rain was falling in the valleys, and snow upon the
mountains. Shortly before we gained the summit we were made
extremely uncomfortable by hearing mysterious, rushing sounds,
which sometimes seemed as if a sudden gust of wind was sweeping
along the snow, and, at others, almost like the swishing of a long
whip: yet the snow exhibited no signs of motion, and the air was
perfectly calm. The dense, black storm-clouds made us momentarily
expect that our bodies might be used as lightning-conductors, and
we were well satisfied to get under shelter of the inn at Breil,
without having submitted to any such experience.Travels
in the Alps of Savoy, second ed., p. 323. Mr. R. Spence Watson experienced the
same upon the upper part of the Aletsch glacier in July 1863, and he spoke of the
sounds as singing or hissing. See the Athenæum, Sept. 12, 1863. The respective
parties seem to have been highly electrified on each occasion. Forbes says that his
fingers yielded a fizzing sound;
and Watson says that his hair stood on end in
an uncomfortable but very amusing manner,
and that the veil on the wide-awake
of one of the party stood upright in the air!
We had need of a porter, and, by the advice of our landlord, descended to the chalets of Breil in search of one Luc Meynet. We found his house a mean abode, encumbered with cheese-making apparatus, and tenanted only by some bright-eyed children; but as they said that uncle Luc would soon be home, we waited at the door of the little chalet and watched for him. At last a speck was seen coming round the corner of the patch of firs below Breil, and then the children clapped their hands, dropped their toys, and ran eagerly forward to meet him. We saw an ungainly, wobbling figure stoop down and catch up the little ones, kiss them on each cheek, and put them into the empty panniers on each side of the mule, and then heard it come on carolling, as if this was not a world of woe: and yet the face of little Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breil, bore traces of trouble and sorrow, and there was more than a touch of sadness in his voice when he said that he must look after his brother’s children. All his difficulties were, however, at length overcome, and he agreed to join us to carry the tent.
In the past winter I had turned my attention to tents, and
that which we had brought with us was the result of experiments
to devise one which should be sufficiently portable to be taken
over the most difficult ground, and which should combine lightness
with stability. Its base was just under six feet square, and a cross-section
perpendicular to its length was an equilateral triangle, the
sides of which were six feet long. It was intended to accommodate
four persons. It was supported by four ash-poles, six feet and a
half long, and one inch and a quarter thick, tapering to the top to
an inch and an eighth; these were shod with iron points. The
order of proceeding in the construction of the tent was as follows:—Holes
were drilled through the poles about five inches from their
tops, for the insertion of two wrought-iron bolts, three inches long
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S MOUNTAIN TENT.]
This tent is intended, and adapted, for camping out at high altitudes,
or in cold climates. It is not pretended that it is perfectly
waterproof, but it can be made so by the addition of mackintosh to
the roof; and this increases the weight by only two and a half pounds.
It is then fit for general use.
Sunday, the 6th of July, was showery, and snow fell on the Matterhorn, but we started on the following morning with our three men, and pursued my route of the previous year. I was requested to direct the way, as none save myself had been on the mountain before. I did not distinguish myself upon this occasion, and led my companions nearly to the top of the small peak before the mistake was discovered. The party becoming rebellious, a little exploration was made towards our right, and we found that we were upon the top of the cliff overlooking the Col du Lion. The upper part of the small peak is of a very different character to the lower part; the rocks are not so firm, and they are usually covered, or intermixed, with snow, and glazed with ice: the angle too is more severe. While descending a small snow-slope, to get on to the right track, Kronig slipped on a streak of ice, and went down at a fearful pace. Fortunately he kept on his legs, and, by a great effort, succeeded in stopping just before he arrived at some rocks that jutted through the snow, which would infallibly have knocked him over. When we rejoined him a few minutes later, we found that he was incapable of standing, much less of moving, with a face corpse-like in hue, and trembling violently. He remained in this condition for more than an hour, and the day was consequently far advanced before we arrived at our camping-place on the Col. Profiting by the experience of last year, we did not pitch the tent actually on the snow, but collected a quantity of débris from the neighbouring ledges, and after constructing a rough platform of the larger pieces, levelled the whole with the dirt and mud.
Meynet had proved invaluable as a tent-bearer; for—although
his legs were more picturesque than symmetrical, and although he
seemed to be built on principle with no two parts alike—his very
deformities proved of service; and we quickly found he had spirit
of no common order, and that few peasants are more agreeable
companions, or better climbers, than little Luc Meynet, the
hunchback of Breil. He now showed himself not less serviceable
as a scavenger, and humbly asked for gristly pieces of meat,
A strong wind sprang up from the east during the night, and
in the morning it was blowing almost a hurricane. The tent
behaved nobly, and we remained under its shelter for several hours
after the sun had risen, uncertain what it was best to do. A lull
tempted us to move, but we had scarcely ascended a hundred feet
before the storm burst upon us with increased fury. Advance or
return was alike impossible; the ridge was denuded of its débris;
and we clutched our hardest when we saw stones as big as a man’s
fist blown away horizontally into space. We dared not attempt
to stand upright, and remained stationary, on all fours, glued, as it
were, to the rocks. It was intensely cold, for the blast had swept
along the main chain of the Pennine Alps, and across the great
snow-fields around Monte Rosa. Our warmth and courage rapidly
evaporated, and at the next lull we retreated to the tent; having
to halt several times even in that short distance. Taugwald and
Kronig then declared that they had had enough, and refused to
have anything more to do with the mountain. Meynet also
informed us that he would be required down below for important
cheese-making operations on the following day. It was therefore
needful to return to Breil, and we arrived there at 2.30 P.M.,
extremely chagrined at our complete defeat.
Jean-Antoine Carrel, attracted by rumours, had come up to the
inn during our absence, and after some negotiations agreed to
accompany us, with one of his friends named Pession, on the first
fine day. We thought ourselves fortunate; for Carrel clearly
considered the mountain a kind of preserve, and regarded our late
attempt as an act of poaching. The wind blew itself out during
the night, and we started again, with these two men and a porter,
A.M. on the 9th, with unexceptionable weather. Carrel pleased
us by suggesting that we should camp even higher than before; and
we accordingly proceeded, without resting at the Col, until we
overtopped the Tête du Lion. Near the foot of the Chimney,
a
little below the crest of the ridge, and on its eastern side, we found
a protected place; and by building up from ledge to ledge (under
the direction of our leader, who was a mason by profession), we at
length constructed a platform of sufficient size and of considerable
solidity. Its height was about 12,550 feet above the sea; and it
exists, I believe, at the present time.A.M., and at 5.15 started upwards once more,
with fine weather and the thermometer at 28°. Carrel scrambled
up the Chimney, and Macdonald and I after him. Pession’s turn
came, but when he arrived at the top he looked very ill, declared
himself to be thoroughly incapable, and said that he must go back.
We waited some time, but he did not get better, neither could we
learn the nature of his illness. Carrel flatly refused to go on with
us alone. We were helpless. Macdonald, ever the coolest of the
cool, suggested that we should try what we could do without them;
but our better judgment prevailed, and, finally, we returned together
to Breil. On the next day my friend started for London.
Three times I had essayed the ascent of this mountain, and on
each occasion had failed ignominiously. I had not advanced a
yard beyond my predecessors. Up to the height of nearly 13,000
feet there were no extraordinary difficulties; the way so far might
even become a matter of amusement.
Only 1800 feet remained;
but they were as yet untrodden, and might present the most
forfour persons. Want
of men made the difficulty, not the mountain.
The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the
chance of picking up a man, and remained there during a week of
storms.
My tent had been left rolled up at the second platform, and
whilst waiting for the men it occurred to me that it might have
been blown away during the late stormy weather; so I started off
on the 18th to see if this were so or not. The way was by this
time familiar, and I mounted rapidly, astonishing the friendly
herdsmen—who nodded recognition as I flitted past them and the
cows—for I was alone, because no man was available. But more
deliberation was necessary when the pastures were passed, and
climbing began, for it was needful to mark each step, in case of mist,
or surprise by night. It is one of the few things which can be said
in favour of mountaineering alone (a practice which has little besides
to commend it), that it awakens a man’s faculties, and makes
him observe. When one has no arms to help, and no head to guide
him except his own, he must needs take note even of small things,
Those which I collected were as follow:—
Mr. William Mathews and Mr. Charles Packe, who have botanised respectively
for many years in the Alps and Pyrenees, have favoured me with the names of the
highest plants that they have obtained upon their excursions. Their lists, although
not extensive, are interesting as showing the extreme limits attained by some of the
hardiest of Alpine plants. Those mentioned by Mr. Mathews are—
Mr. Packe obtained, on or close to the summit of the Pic de Mulhahacen, Sierra
Nevada, of Granada (11,600 to 11,700 feet),
Information on the botany of the Val Tournanche is contained in the little pamphlet
by the late Canon G. Carrel, entitled Linaria alpina, and was beaten by
Thlaspi rotundifolium, which latter plant was the highest I was
able to secure, although it too was overtopped by a little white
flower which I knew not, and was unable to reach.Myosotis alpestris, Gm.; Veronica
alpina, L.; Linaria alpina, M.; Gentiana Bavarica, L.; Thlaspi rotundifolium,
Gaud.; Silene acaulis, L. (?); Potentilla sp.; Saxifraga sp.; Saxifraga muscoides,
Wulf. I am indebted for these names to Mr. William Carruthers of the British
Museum. These plants ranged from about 10,500 to a little below 13,000 feet, and
are the highest which I have seen anywhere in the Alps. Several times this number
of species might be collected, I have no doubt, within these limits. I was not
endeavouring to make a flora of the Matterhorn, but to obtain those plants which
attained the greatest height. Very few lichens are seen on the higher parts of this
mountain; their rarity is due, doubtless, to the constant disintegration of the rocks,
and the consequent exposure of fresh surfaces. Silene acaulis was the highest plant
found by De Saussure on his travels in the Alps. He mentions (§ 2018) that he
found a tuft near the place where I slept on my return (from the ascent of Mont
Blanc), about 1780 toises (11,388 feet) above the level of the sea.
Campanula
renisia (on the Grivola, 12,047 feet); Saxifraga bryoides and Androsace glacialis
(on the summits of Mont Emilius, 11,677, and the Ruitor, 11,480); Ranunculus
glacialis, Armeria alpina, and Pyrethrum alpinum (on Monte Viso, from 10,000 to
10,500 feet); Thlaspi rotundifolium and Saxifraga biflora (Monte Viso, about
9500 feet); and Campanula rotundifolia (?), Artemisia spicata (Wulf.), Aronicum
Doronicum, and Petrocallis Pyrenaica (Col de Seylières, 9247).
Papaver alpinum (var. Pyrenaicum),
Artemisia Nevadensis (used for giving the flavour to the Manzanilla sherry), Viola
Nevadensis, Galium Pyrenaicum, Trisetum glaciale, Festuca Clementei, Saxifraga
Grœnlandica (var. Mista), Erigeron alpinum (var. glaciale), and Arenaria tetraquetra.
On the Picacho de Veleta (11,440 feet), and on the Alcazaba (11,350), the same plants
were obtained, with the exception of the first named. At a height of 11,150 feet on
these mountains he also collected Ptilotrichum purpureum, Lepidium stylatum, and
Biscutella saxatilis; and, at 10,000 feet, Alyssum spicatum and Sideritis scordiodes.
Mr. Packe mentions the following plants as occurring at 9000 to 10,000 feet in the
Pyrenees:—Cerastium latifolium, Draba Wahlenbergii, Hutchinsia alpina, Linaria
alpina, Oxyria reniformis, Ranunculus glacialis, Saxifraga nervosa, S. oppositifolia,
S. Grœnlandica, Statice Armeria, Veronica alpina.
La Vallée de Valtornenche en 1867; and
a list of the plants which have hitherto been collected on the glacier-surrounded ridge
(Furgen Grat) connecting the Matterhorn with the Col Théodule, will be found in
Dollfus-Ausset’s Matériaux pour l’étude des Glaciers, vol. viii. part first, 1868. In the
Jahrbuch for 1873 of the Swiss Alpine Club it is stated that on an ascent of the
Finsteraarhorn (14,106 feet) the following were collected within the last 1000 feet:—Saxifraga
bryoides, S. Muscoides, Achillea atrata, and Ranunculus glacialis.
The tent was safe, although snowed up; and I turned to
conthis view is very rarely seen, as I saw it, perfectly
unclouded.Guide-book to the Yosemite Valley, and the
adjacent region), At high altitudes, all through the mountains, the weather during
the summer is almost always the finest possible for travelling. There are occasional
storms in the high mountains; but, in ordinary seasons, these are quite rare, and one
of the greatest drawbacks to the pleasure of travelling in the Alps, the uncertainty of
the weather, is here almost entirely wanting.
It is probable that a more thorough
acquaintance with that region will modify this opinion; for it must be admitted that
it is very difficult to judge of the state of the atmosphere at great heights from the
valleys, and it often occurs that a terrific storm is raging above when there is a dead
calm below, at a distance perhaps of not more than three or four miles. A case of this
kind is described in Chapter VI., and another may be mentioned here. At the very time
that I was regarding the Dent Blanche from a height of 12,550 feet on the Matterhorn,
Mr. T. S. Kennedy was engaged in making the first ascent of the former mountain.
He described his ascent in a very picturesque paper in the Alpine Journal (1863), and
I learn from it that he experienced severe weather. The wind roared over our ridge,
making fearfully wild music among the desolate crags.... It rendered an ordinary
voice inaudible,
and nothing at a distance greater than fifty yards could be seen
at all.... Thick mists and driving clouds of snow swept over and past us;
the
thermometer fell to 20° Fahr., and his companion’s hair became a mass of white icicles.
Now, at this time, Mr. Kennedy was distant from me only four and a half miles.
With me, and in my immediate neighbourhood, the air was perfectly calm, and the
temperature was agreeably warm; even during the night it fell only two or three
degrees below freezing-point. During most of the day the Dent Blanche was
perfectly unclouded, though, for a time, light fleecy clouds were hovering about its
upper 2000 feet. Still no one would have supposed from appearances that my friend
was experiencing a storm such as he has described.
Time sped away unregarded, and the little birds which had built their nests on the neighbouring cliffs had begun to chirp their evening hymn before I thought of returning. Half mechanically I turned to the tent, unrolled it, and set it up; it contained food enough for several days, and I resolved to stay over the night. I had started from Breil without provisions, or telling Favre—the innkeeper, who was accustomed to my erratic ways—where I was going. I returned to the view. The sun was setting, and its rosy rays, blending with the snowy blue, had thrown a pale, pure violet far as the eye could see; the valleys were drowned in purple gloom, whilst the summits shone with unnatural brightness: and as I sat in the door of the tent, and watched the twilight change to darkness, the earth seemed to become less earthy and almost sublime; the world seemed dead, and I, its sole inhabitant. By and by, the moon as it rose brought the hills again into sight, and by a judicious repression of detail rendered the view yet more magnificent. Something in the south hung like a great glow-worm in the air; it was too large for a star, and too steady for a meteor; and it was long before I could realise the incredible fact that it was the moonlight glittering on the great snow-slope on the north side of Monte Viso, at a distance, as the crow flies, of 98 miles. Shivering, at last I entered the tent and made my coffee. The night was passed comfortably, and the next morning, tempted by the brilliancy of the weather, I proceeded yet higher in search of another place for a platform.
Solitary scrambling over a pretty wide area had shown me that
a single individual is subjected to many difficulties which do not
trouble a party of two or three men,
and that the disadvantages of being
alone are more felt while descending
than during the ascent. In order
to neutralise these inconveniences, I
devised two little appliances, which
were now brought into use for the
first time. One was a claw—a kind of grapnel—about
five inches long, made of shear steel,
one-fifth of an inch thick. This was of use in difficult places,
where there was no hold within arm’s length, but where
there were cracks or ledges some distance higher. The
claw could be stuck on the end of the alpenstock and dropped into
such places, or, on extreme occasions, flung up until it attached itself
to something. The edges that laid hold of the rocks were serrated,
which tended to make them catch more readily: the other end had
a ring to which a rope was fastened. It must not be understood
that this was employed for hauling one’s-self up for any great distance,
but that it was used in ascending, at the most, for only a few
yards at a time. In descending, however, it could be prudently
used for a greater distance at a time, as the claws could be planted
firmly; but it was necessary to keep the rope taut, and the pull
constantly in the direction of the length of the implement, otherwise
it had a tendency to slip away. The second device was
merely a modification of a dodge practised by all climbers. It is
frequently necessary for a single man (or for the last man of a party)
during a descent, to make a loop in the end of his rope, to pass
it over some rocks, and to come down holding the free end. The
loop is then jerked off, and the process may be repeated. But as
it sometimes happens that there are no rocks at hand which will
allow a loose loop to be used, a slip-knot has to be resorted to, and
the rope is drawn in tightly. Consequently it will occur that it is
It has been mentioned (p. 55) that the rocks of the south-west ridge are by no means difficult for some distance above the Col du Lion. This is true of the rocks up to the level of the Chimney, but they steepen when that is passed, and remaining smooth and with but few fractures, and still continuing to dip outwards, present some steps of a very uncertain kind, particularly when they are glazed with ice. At this point (just above the Chimney) the climber is obliged to follow the southern (or Breil) side of the ridge, but, in a few feet more, one must turn over to the northern (or Z’Mutt) side, where, in most years, nature kindly provides a snow-slope. When this is surmounted, one can again return to the crest of the ridge, and follow it, by easy rocks, to the foot of the Great Tower. This was the highest point attained by Mr. Hawkins in 1860, and it was also our highest on the 9th of July.
This Great Tower is one of the most striking features of the
ridge. It stands out like a turret at the angle of a castle. Behind
Crags of the Matterhorn,
facing p. 120.
The first step was a difficult one. The ridge became diminished
to the least possible width—it was hard to keep one’s balance—and
just where it was narrowest, a more than perpendicular mass barred
the way. Nothing fairly within arm’s reach could be laid hold of;
it was necessary to spring up, and then to haul one’s-self over the
sharp edge by sheer strength. Progression directly upwards was
then impossible. Enormous and appalling precipices plunged
down to the Tiefenmatten glacier on the left, but round the right-hand
side it was just possible to go. One hindrance then succeeded
another, and much time was consumed in seeking the way. I have
a vivid recollection of a gully of more than usual perplexity at the
side of the Great Tower, with minute ledges and steep walls; of
the ledges dwindling down and at last ceasing; and of finding
myself, with arms and legs divergent, fixed as if crucified, pressing
against the rock, and feeling each rise and fall of my chest as I
breathed; of screwing my head round to look for hold, and not
seeing any, and of jumping sideways on to the other side. ’Tis
vain to attempt to describe such places. Whether they are sketched
with a light hand, or wrought out in laborious detail, one stands an
equal chance of being misunderstood. Their enchantment to the
climber arises from their calls on his faculties, in their demands
on his strength, and on overcoming the impediments which they
oppose to his skill. The non-mountaineering reader cannot feel
this, and his interest in descriptions of such places is usually small,
About this part there was a change in the quality of the rock, and there was a change in the general appearance of the ridge. The rocks (talcose gneiss) below this spot were singularly firm; it was rarely necessary to test one’s hold; the way led over the living rock, and not up rent-off fragments. But here, all was decay and ruin. The crest of the ridge was shattered and cleft, and the feet sank in the chips which had drifted down; while above, huge blocks, hacked and carved by the hand of time, nodded to the sky, looking like the grave-stones of giants. Out of curiosity I wandered to a notch in the ridge, between two tottering piles of immense masses, which seemed to need but a few pounds on one or the other side to make them fall; so nicely poised that they would literally have rocked in the wind, for they were put in motion by a touch; and based on support so frail that I wondered they did not collapse before my eyes. In the whole range of my Alpine experience I have seen nothing more striking than this desolate, ruined, and shattered ridge at the back of the Great Tower. I have seen stranger shapes,—rocks which mimic the human form, with monstrous leering faces—and isolated pinnacles, sharper and greater than any here; but I have never seen exhibited so impressively the tremendous effects which may be produced by frost, and by the long-continued action of forces whose individual effects are barely perceptible.
It is needless to say that it is impossible to climb by the crest of the ridge at this part; still one is compelled to keep near to it, for there is no other way. Generally speaking, the angles on the Matterhorn are too steep to allow the formation of considerable beds of snow, but here there is a corner which permits it to accumulate, and it is turned to gratefully, for, by its assistance, one can ascend four times as rapidly as upon the rocks.
The Tower was now almost out of sight, and I looked over
cravate
in the outline of the Matterhorn,
as seen from the Théodule) runs across the cliff at this part of the mountain.
My highest point was somewhat higher than the lowest part of this snow, and was
consequently about 13,400 feet above the sea.
About 5 P.M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good
as at Breil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and
had smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the
Chimney, however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then
cut off, and left behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe
had proved a great nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the
tent. It was not attached to the bâton, but was a separate affair,—an
old navy boarding-axe. While cutting up the different snow-beds
on the ascent, the bâton trailed behind fastened to the rope;
and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run through the
rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way.
But in descending, when coming down face outwards (as is always
best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon
caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset
me. So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid
dearly for the imprudence.
The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have
placed me on the Great Staircase,
down which one can run. But
[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY.
(ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN).]
THE CHIMNEY.
(ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN).
The slope was steep on which this took place, and was at the top of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses towards the Glacier du Lion—which was just seen, a thousand feet below. The gully narrowed and narrowed, until there was a mere thread of snow lying between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of 45 degrees, with its point below and its concave side uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.
The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into
some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something and
tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the
bâton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downwards in a
series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into
rocks; striking my head four or five times, each time with increased
force. The last bound sent me spinning through the air,
in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the gully to the
other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left
side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on to
The situation was sufficiently serious. The rocks could not
be left go for a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more
than twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and
I vainly tried to close them with one hand, whilst holding on
with the other. It was useless; the blood jerked out in blinding
jets at each pulsation. At last, in a moment of inspiration, I
kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on my
head. The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished.
Then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to
a place of safety, and fainted away. The sun was setting when
consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great
Staircase was descended; but, by a combination of luck and care,
the whole 4800 feet of descent to Breil was accomplished without
a slip, or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the
cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed
of the state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and
entered the inn stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed.
But Favre met me in the passage, demanded Who is
it?
screamed with fright when he got a light, and aroused the
household. Two dozen heads then held solemn council over mine,
with more talk than action. The natives were unanimous in recommending
that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with salt, should
be rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted. It was
all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was
to be attributed to that simple remedy, or to a good state of health,
[Illustration: IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.
]
IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.
[Illustration: AT BREIL (GIOMEIN).]
It was sufficiently dull during this time. I was chiefly occupied
in meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching
my clothes being washed in the tub which was turned by the
stream in the front of the house; and I vowed that if an Englishman
should at any time fall sick in the Val Tournanche, he should
not feel so solitary as I did at this dreary time.
As it seldom happens that one survives such a fall, it may be interesting to
record what my sensations were during its occurrence. I was perfectly conscious
of what was happening, and felt each blow; but, like a patient under chloroform,
experienced no pain. Each blow was, naturally, more severe than that which
preceded it, and I distinctly remember thinking,
The battering was very rough, yet no bones were broken. The most severe cuts
were one of four inches long on the top of the head, and another of three inches on
the right temple: this latter bled frightfully. There was a formidable-looking cut,
of about the same size as the last, on the palm of the left hand, and every limb was
grazed, or cut, more or less seriously. The tips of the ears were taken off, and a sharp
rock cut a circular bit out of the side of the left boot, sock, and ankle, at one stroke.
The loss of blood, although so great, did not seem to be permanently injurious. The
only serious effect has been the reduction of a naturally retentive memory to a very
common-place one; and although my recollections of more distant occurrences
remain unshaken, the events of that particular day would be clean gone but for the
few notes which were written down before the accident.Well, if the next is harder still,
that will be the end!
Like persons who have been rescued from drowning, I
remember that the recollection of a multitude of things rushed through my head,
many of them trivialities or absurdities, which had been forgotten long before; and,
more remarkable, this bounding through space did not feel disagreeable. But I
think that in no very great distance more, consciousness as well as sensation would
have been lost, and upon that I base my belief, improbable as it seems, that death by
a fall from a great height is as painless an end as can be experienced.
The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breil, and, along with the haughty chasseur, came one of his relatives, a strong and able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made another start on the 23rd of July. We got to the tent without any trouble, and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and were picking our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my traces of the week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when one of those abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred, to which the Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were created out of invisible vapours, and in a few minutes snow fell heavily. We stopped, as this part was of excessive difficulty, and, unwilling to retreat, remained on the spot several hours, in hopes that another change would occur; but, as it did not, we at length went down to the base of the Tower, and commenced to make a third platform, at the height of 12,992 feet above the sea. It still continued to snow, and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel argued that the weather had broken up, and that the mountain would become so glazed with ice as to render any attempt futile; and I, that the change was only temporary, and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form upon them. I wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader would not endure contradiction, grew more positive, and insisted that we must go down. We went down, and when we got below the Col his opinion was found to be wrong; the cloud was confined to the upper 3000 feet, and outside it there was brilliant weather.
Carrel was not an easy man to manage. He was perfectly
aware that he was the cock of the Val Tournanche, and he commanded
the other men as by right. He was equally conscious that
he was indispensable to me, and took no pains to conceal his knowledge
of the fact. If he had been commanded, or if he had been
entreated to stop, it would have been all the same. But, let me
repeat, he was the only first-rate climber I could find who believed
that the mountain was not inaccessible. With him I had hopes,
but without him none; so he was allowed to do as he would. His
will on this occasion was almost incomprehensible. He certainly
could not be charged with cowardice, for a bolder man could hardly
be found; nor was he turning away on account of difficulty, for
nothing to which we had yet come seemed to be difficult to him;
and his strong personal desire to make the ascent was evident.
There was no occasion to come down on account of food, for we had
taken, to guard against this very casualty, enough to last for a week;
and there was no danger, and little or no discomfort, in stopping in
the tent. It seemed to me that he was spinning out the ascent for
his own purposes, and that although he wished very much to be
the first man on the top, and did not object to be accompanied by
any one else who had the same wish, he had no intention of letting
one succeed too soon,—perhaps to give a greater appearance of éclat
when the thing was accomplished. As he feared no rival, he may
have supposed that the more difficulties he made the more valuable
he would be estimated; though, to do him justice, he never showed
any great hunger for money. His demands were fair, not excessive;
but he always stipulated for so much per day, and so, under any
circumstances, he did not do badly.
Vexed at having my time thus frittered away, I was still well pleased when he volunteered to start again on the morrow, if it should be fine. We were to advance the tent to the foot of the Tower, to fix ropes in the most difficult parts beyond, and to make a push for the summit on the following day.
The next morning (Friday the 25th) when I arose, good little
règlements
of Chamounix and other places. This could not have occurred at Chamounix, nor
here, if there had been a bureau des guides.Oh, beautiful mountains!
His actions were as appropriate as his words were natural,
and tears bore witness to the reality of his emotion.
Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at
the old station, and starting very early the next morning, passed
the place where we had turned back on the 24th, and, subsequently,
my highest point on the 19th. We found the crest of the
ridge so treacherous that we took to the cliffs on the right, although
most unwillingly. Little by little we fought our way up, but at
length we were both spread-eagled on the all but perpendicular
face, unable to advance, and barely able to descend. We returned
to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and infinitely more
unstable; and at length, after having pushed our attempts as far
as was prudent, I determined to return to Breil, and to have a
light ladder made to assist us to overcome some of the steepest
parts.highest part of the cravate,
and perhaps 100 feet
higher than my scramble on the 19th) there were smooth walls seven or eight feet
high in every direction, which were impassable to a single man, and which could only
be surmounted by the assistance of ladders, or by using one’s comrades as ladders.
We came down at a great pace, for we were now so familiar
with the mountain, and with each other’s wants, that we knew
immediately when to give a helping hand, and when to let alone.
The rocks also were in a better state than I have ever seen them,
being almost entirely free from glaze of ice. Meynet was always
merriest on the difficult parts, and, on the most difficult, kept on
enunciating the sentiment, We can only die once,
which thought
seemed to afford him infinite satisfaction. We arrived at the inn
early in the evening, and I found my projects summarily and
unexpectedly knocked on the head.
Professor Tyndall had arrived while we were absent, and he
had engaged both Cæsar and Jean-Antoine Carrel. Bennen was
also with him, together with a powerful and active friend, a
Valaisan guide, named Anton Walter. They had a ladder already
prepared, provisions were being collected, and they intended to
start on the following morning (Sunday). This new arrival took
me by surprise. Bennen, it will be remembered, refused point-blank
to take Professor Tyndall on the Matterhorn in 1861. He
was dead against any attempt on the mountain,
says Tyndall.
He was now eager to set out. Professor Tyndall has not explained
in what way this revolution came about in his guide. I was
equally astonished at the faithlessness of Carrel, and attributed it
to pique at our having presumed to do without him. It was
useless to compete with the Professor and his four men, who
were ready to start in a few hours, so I waited to see what would
come of their attempt.
Everything seemed to favour it, and they set out on a fine
morning in high spirits, leaving me tormented with envy and all
uncharitableness. If they succeeded, they carried off the prize for
which I had been so long struggling; and if they failed, there was
We had
gathered up our traps, and bent to the work before us, when suddenly an explosion
occurred overhead. We looked aloft and saw in mid-air a solid shot from the Matterhorn
describing its proper parabola, and finally splitting into fragments as it smote
one of the rocky towers in front. Down the shattered fragments came like a kind of
spray, slightly wide of us, but still near enough to compel a sharp look-out. Two or
three such explosions occurred, but we chose the back fin of the mountain for our
track, and from this the falling stones were speedily deflected right or left.
—Saturday
Review, Aug. 8, 1863. Reprinted in Macmillan’s Magazine, April, 1869.
I waited at the tent to welcome the Professor, and when he
arrived went down to Breil. Early next morning some one ran to
me saying that a flag was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn.
It was not so, however, although I saw that they had passed the
place where we had turned back on the 26th. I had now no doubt
of their final success, for they had got beyond the point which
Carrel, not less than myself, had always considered to be the most
questionable place on the whole mountain. Up to it there was no
choice of route,—I suppose that at no one point between it and the
Col was it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the right or left,
A indicates the position of
the Great Tower; C the cravate
(the strongly-marked streak of
snow referred to on p. 76, and which we just failed to arrive at on
the 26th); B the place where we now saw something that looked
like a flag. Behind the point B a nearly level ridge leads up to the
foot of the final peak, which will be understood by a reference to
the outline facing p. 44, on which the same letters indicate the
same places. It was just now said, we considered that if the point
C could be passed, success was certain. Tyndall was at B very
early in the morning, and I did not doubt that he would reach the
summit, although it yet remained problematical whether he would
be able to stand on the very highest point. The summit was
evidently formed of a long ridge, on which there were two points
nearly equally elevated—so equally that one could not say which
was the highest—and between the two there seemed to be a deep
D on the outlines, which might defeat one at the
very last moment.
[Illustration: A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862).]
My knapsack was packed, and I had taken a parting glass of
wine with Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to
make the fortune of his inn; but I could not bring myself to leave
until the result was heard, and lingered about, as a foolish lover
hovers round the object of his affections, even after he has been
contemptuously rejected. The sun had set before the men were
descried coming over the pastures. There was no spring in their
steps—they, too, were defeated. The Carrels hid their heads, and
the others said, as men will do when they have been beaten, that
the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so forth. Professor
Tyndall told me they had arrived within a stone’s throw of the
summit, and admonished me to have nothing more to do with the
mountain. I understood him to say that he should not try again,
and ran down to the village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to
believe that the mountain was inaccessible; leaving the tent, ropes,
and other matters in the hands of Favre, to be placed at the disposal
of any person who wished to ascend it, more, I am afraid, out
of irony than from generosity. There may have been those who
believed that the Matterhorn could be ascended, but, anyhow, their
faith did not bring forth works. No one tried again in 1862.
Business took me into Dauphiné before returning to London,
and a week after Tyndall’s defeat I lay one night, after a sultry day,
half-asleep, tossing about in one of the abominations which serve
for beds in the inn kept by the Deputy-Mayor of La Ville de Val
Louise; looking at a strange ruddiness on the ceiling, which I
thought might be some effect of electricity produced by the irritation
of the myriads of fleas; when the great bell of the church,
close at hand, pealed out with loud and hurried clangour. I jumped
up, for the voices and movements of the people in the house made
me think of fire. It was fire; and I saw from my window, on the
other side of the river, great forked flames shooting high into the
Work! work!
but the men, with much presence of mind,
chiefly ranged themselves on the sides of the empty buckets, and
left the real work to their better halves. Their efforts were
useless, and the chalets burnt themselves out.
The next morning I visited the still smouldering ruins, and saw the homeless families sitting in a dismal row in front of their charred property. The people said that one of the houses had been well insured, and that its owner had endeavoured to forestall luck. He had arranged the place for a bonfire, set the lower rooms on fire in several places, and had then gone out of the way, leaving his wife and children in the upper rooms, to be roasted or not as the case might be. His plans only partially succeeded, and it was satisfactory to see the scoundrel brought back in the custody of two stalwart gensdarmes. Three days afterwards I was in London.
[Illustration: BUT WHAT IS THIS?
]
BUT WHAT IS THIS?
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of a fleeting year!
I crossed the Channel on the 29th of July 1863, embarrassed by the possession of two ladders, each twelve feet long, which joined together like those used by firemen, and shut up like parallel rulers. My luggage was highly suggestive of housebreaking, for, besides these, there were several coils of rope, and numerous tools of suspicious appearance, and it was reluctantly admitted into France, but it passed through the custom-house with less trouble than I anticipated, after a timely expenditure of a few francs.
I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travellers,
where uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time, before
they are separated into rich and poor. The douaniers look upon
tourists as their natural enemies; see how eagerly they pounce upon
the portmanteaux! One of them has discovered something! He
has never seen its like before, and he holds it aloft in the face of
its owner, with inquisitorial insolence. But
The
what is this?But what is
says he,
laying hold of a little box. this?Powder.
But that it is forbidden
to carry of powder on the railway.
Bah!
says another and older
hand, pass the effects of Monsieur;
and our countryman—whose
cheeks had begun to redden under the stares of his
fellow-travellers—is
allowed to depart with his half-worn tooth-brush, while the
discomfited douanier gives a mighty shrug at the strange habits of
those whose insular position excludes them from the march of
continental ideas.
My real troubles commenced at Susa. The officials there, more
honest and more obtuse than the Frenchmen, declined at one and
the same time to be bribed, or to pass my baggage until a satisfactory
account of it was rendered; and, as they refused to believe
the true explanation, I was puzzled what to say, but was presently
relieved from the dilemma by one of the men, who was cleverer
than his fellows, suggesting that I was going to Turin to exhibit
in the streets; that I mounted the ladder and balanced myself on
the end of it, then lighted my pipe and put the point of the bâton
in its bowl, and caused the bâton to gyrate around my head. The
rope was to keep back the spectators, and an Englishman in my
company was the agent. Monsieur is acrobat then?
Yes,
certainly.
Pass the effects of Monsieur the acrobat!
These ladders were the source of endless trouble. Let us pass
over the doubts of the guardians of the Hôtel d’Europe (Trombetta),
whether a person in the possession of such questionable articles
should be admitted to their very respectable house, and get to
Chatillon, at the entrance of the Val Tournanche. A mule was
chartered to carry them, and, as they were too long to sling across
its back, they were arranged lengthways, and one end projected over
the animal’s head, while the other extended beyond its tail. A mule
when going up or down hill always moves with a jerky action, and
in consequence of this the ladders hit my mule severe blows between
its ears and in its flanks. The beast, not knowing what strange
creature it had on its back, naturally tossed its head and threw out
I was once more en route for the Matterhorn, for I had heard in
the spring of 1863 the cause of the failure of Professor Tyndall, and
learnt that the case was not so hopeless as it appeared to be at one
time. I found that he arrived as far only as the northern end of
the shoulder.
The point at which he says,Saturday Review, August 8, 1863.sat down with
broken hopes, the summit within a stone’s throw of us, but still
defying us,
was not the notch or cleft at D (which is literally
within a stone’s throw of the summit), but another and more formidable
cleft that intervenes between the northern end of the
shoulder
and the commencement of the final peak. It is marked
E on the outline which faces p. 44. Carrel and all the men who
had been with me knew of the existence of this cleft, and of the
pinnacle which rose between it and the final peak;L’ange Anbé.
the shoulder,
it would be necessary to bear down gradually to
the right or to the left, to avoid coming to the top of the notch.
Tyndall’s party, after arriving at the shoulder,
was led by his
guides along the crest of the ridge, and, consequently, when they
got to its northern end, they came to the top of the notch, instead of
the bottom—to the dismay of all but the Carrels. Dr. Tyndall’s
words are, The ridge was here split by a deep cleft which separated
it from the final precipice, and the case became more hopeless as we
came more near.
The Professor adds, The mountain is 14,800
He greatly
deceived himself; by the barometric measurements of Signor
Giordano the notch is no less than 800 feet below the summit. The
guide Walter (Dr. Tyndall says) said it was impossible to proceed,
and the Carrels, appealed to for their opinion (this is their own
account), gave as an answer, We are porters; ask your guides.
Bennen, thus left to himself, was finally forced to accept defeat.
Tyndall had nevertheless accomplished an advance of about 400
feet over one of the most difficult parts of the mountain.
There are material discrepancies between the published narratives
of Professor Tyndall
I have entered into this matter because much surprise has been expressed that
Carrel was able to pass this place without any great difficulty in 1865, which turned
back so strong a party in 1862. The cause of Professor Tyndall’s defeat was simply
that his second guide (Walter) did not give aid to Bennen when it was required, and
that the Carrels
It is not so easy to understand how Dr. Tyndall and Bennen overlooked the
existence of this cleft, for it is seen over several points of the compass, and particularly
well from the southern side of the Théodule pass. Still more difficult is it to
explain how the Professor came to consider that he was only a stone’s-throw from
the summit; for, when he got to the end of Saturday Review, 1863, and Macmillan’s Magazine, 1869.urged on,
that they pronounced
flatly against the final precipice,
they yielded so utterly,
and that Bennen said, in answer to a final appeal made to him,
Jean-Antoine Carrel says that when
Professor Tyndall gave the order to turn What could I do, sir? not one of them would accompany me.
It was the accurate truth.he would have advanced
to examine the route, as he did not think that farther progress
was impossible, but he was stopped by the Professor, and was
naturally obliged to follow the others.would not act as guides after having been hired as porters. J.-A. Carrel
not only knew of the existence of this place before they came to it, but always
believed in the possibility of passing it, and of ascending the mountain; and had he
been leader to the party, I do not doubt that he might have taken Tyndall to the
top. But when appealed to to assist Bennen (a Swiss, and the recognised leader of
the party), was it likely that he (an Italian, a porter), who intended to be the first
man up the mountain by a route which he regarded peculiarly his own, would render
any aid?
the shoulder,
he must have been perfectly
aware that the whole height of the final peak was still above him.
F.
The Val Tournanche is one of the most charming valleys in the
Italian Alps; it is a paradise to an artist, and if the space at my
command were greater, I would willingly linger over its groves of
chestnuts, its bright trickling rills and its roaring torrents, its
upland unsuspected valleys and its noble cliffs. The path rises
steeply from Chatillon, but it is well shaded, and the heat of the
summer sun is tempered by cool air and spray which comes off the
ice-cold streams.Voyages
dans les Alpes, vol. iv. pp. 379-81, 406-9; in Canon Carrel’s pamphlet, La Vallée de
Valtornenche en 1867; and in King’s Italian Valleys of the Alps, pp. 220-1.unfinished work, and
I learn from Jean-Antoine Carrel that
there are other groups of arches, which
are not seen from the path, all having the
same appearance. It may be questioned
whether those seen near the village of
Antey are Roman. Some of them are
semicircular, whilst others are distinctly
pointed. Here is one of the latter, which
might pass for fourteenth-century work, or later;—a two-centred
arch, with mean voussoirs, and the masonry in rough courses.
These arches are well worth the attention of an archæologist, but
some difficulty will be found in approaching them closely.
We sauntered up the valley, and got to Breil when all were
asleep. A halo round the moon promised watery weather, and we
were not disappointed, for, on the next day (August 1), rain fell
heavily, and when the clouds lifted for a time, we saw that new
snow lay thickly over everything higher than 9000 feet. J.-A.
Carrel was ready and waiting (as I had determined to give the
bold cragsman another chance); and he did not need to say that
the Matterhorn would be impracticable for several days after all
this new snow, even if the weather were to arrange itself at once.
Our first day together was accordingly spent upon a neighbouring
summit, the Cimes Blanches; a degraded mountain, well known
for its fine panoramic view. It was little that we saw; for, in
every direction except to the south, writhing masses of heavy
clouds obscured everything; and to the south our view was intercepted
by a peak higher than the Cimes Blanches, named the
Grand Tournalin.Carrel,
I said, as a number of stones whizzed by which they had dislodged,
this must be put a stop to.
Diable!
he grunted, it is very
well to talk, but how will you do it?
I said that I would try;
and, sitting down, poured a little brandy into the hollow of my
hand, and allured the nearest goat with deceitful gestures. It
was one who had gobbled up the paper in which the salt had been
carried—an animal of enterprising character—and it advanced
fearlessly and licked up the brandy. I shall not easily forget its
surprise. It stopped short, and coughed, and looked at me as
much as to say, Oh, you cheat!
and spat and ran away; stopping
now and then to cough and spit again. We were not troubled
any more by those goats.
More snow fell during the night, and our attempt on the
Matterhorn was postponed indefinitely. As there was nothing to
It is stated in one of the MS. note-books of the late Principal
J. D. Forbes, that this depression, now called the Breuiljoch, was
formerly
The summit of the Théodule pass is 10,899 feet above the sea. It is estimated
that of late about a thousand tourists have crossed it per annum. In the winter, when
the crevasses are bridged over and partially filled up, and the weather is favourable,
cows and sheep pass over it from Zermatt to Val Tournanche, and
In the
A few days before we crossed the Breuiljoch in 1863, Mr. F. Morshead made a
parallel pass to it. He crossed the ridge on the Although the admirable situation of Zermatt has been known for, at least,
forty years, it is only within the last twenty or so that it has become an approved
Alpine centre. Thirty years ago the Théodule pass, the Weissthor, and the
Col d’Hérens, were, I believe, the only routes ever taken from Zermatt across the
Pennine Alps. At the present time there are (inclusive of these passes and of the
valley road) no less than twenty-six different ways in which a tourist may go from
Zermatt. The summits of some of these cols are more than 14,000 feet above the
level of the sea, and a good many of them cannot be recommended, either for ease, or
as offering the shortest way from Zermatt to the valleys and villages to which they
lead.
Zermatt itself is still only a village with 600 inhabitants (about forty of whom are
guides), with picturesque châlet dwellings, black with age. The hotels, including the
new inn on the Riffelberg, mostly belong to M. Alexandre Seiler, to whom the village
and valley are very much indebted for their prosperity, and who is the best person
to consult for information, or in all cases of difficulty.the pass between the Val Tournanche and Zermatt, and
that it was abandoned for the Théodule in consequence of changes
vice versa.
middle of August, 1792, De Saussure appears to have taken mules from
Breil, over the Val Tournanche glacier to the summit of the Théodule; and on a previous
journey he did the same, also in the middle of August. He distinctly mentions
(§ 2220) that the glacier was completely covered with snow, and that no crevasses
were open. I do not think mules could have been taken over the same spot in any
August during the past twenty years without great difficulty. In that month the
glacier is usually very bare of snow, and many crevasses are open. They are easily
enough avoided by those on foot, but would prove very troublesome to mules.
western side of the little peak, and
followed a somewhat more difficult route than ours. In 1865 I wanted to use
Mr. Morshead’s pass (see p. 235), but found that it was not possible to descend the
Zermatt side; for, during the two years which had elapsed, the glacier had shrunk
so much that it was completely severed from the summit of the pass, and we could
not get down the rocks that were exposed.
Carrel and I wandered out again in the afternoon, and went,
first of all, to a favourite spot with tourists near the end of the
Gorner glacier (or, properly speaking, the Boden glacier), to a little
verdant flat—studded with Euphrasia officinalis—the delight of
swarms of bees, who gather there the honey which afterwards
appears at the table d’hôte.
[Illustration: WATER-WORN ROCKS IN THE GORGE BELOW THE GORNER GLACIER.]
On our right the glacier-torrent thundered down the valley
[Illustration: STRIATIONS PRODUCED BY GLACIER-ACTION (AT GRINDELWALD).]
A little bridge, apparently frail, spans the torrent just above the
entrance to this gorge, and from it one perceives, being fashioned
in the rocks below, concavities similar to those to which reference
has just been made. The torrent is seen hurrying forwards. Not
everywhere. In some places the water strikes projecting angles,
and, thrown back by them, remains almost stationary, eddying
round and round: in others, obstructions fling it up in fountains,
which play perpetually on the under surfaces of overhanging masses;
and sometimes do so in such a way that the water not only works
upon the under surfaces, but round the corner; that is to say, upon
the surfaces which are not opposed to the general direction of the
current. In all cases concavities are being produced. Projecting
angles are rounded, it is true, and are more or less convex,
but they are overlooked on account of the prevalence of concave
forms.
Cause and effect help each other here. The inequalities of the torrent bed and walls cause its eddyings, and the eddies fashion the concavities. The more profound the latter become, the more disturbance is caused in the water. The destruction of the rocks proceeds at an ever-increasing rate; for the larger the amount of surface that is exposed, the greater are the opportunities for the assaults of heat and cold.
When water is in the form of glacier it has not the power of making concavities, such as these, in rocks, and of working upon surfaces which are not opposed to the direction of the current. Its nature is changed; it operates in a different way, and it leaves marks which are readily distinguished from those produced by torrent-action.
The prevailing forms which result from glacier-action are more
or less convex. Ultimately, all angles and almost all curves are
obliterated, and large areas of flat surfaces are produced. This perfection
of abrasion is rarely found, except in such localities as have
sustained a grinding much more severe than that which has occurred
in the Alps; and, generally speaking, the dictum of the veteran
Un des faits les mieux constatés est que l’érosion des glaciers se distingue de
celle des eaux en ce que la première produit des roches convexes ou moutonnées,
tandis que la seconde donne lieu à des concavités.
—Prof. B. Studer, Origine des
Lacs Suisses.roches moutonnées, but their
effects in the aggregate, on a range of mountains or an entire
country, can be recognised sometimes at a distance of fifteen or
twenty miles from the incessant repetition of these convex forms.
We finished up the 3d of August with a walk over the Findelen
glacier, and returned to Zermatt at a later hour than we intended,
both very sleepy. This is noteworthy only on account of that which
followed. We had to cross the Col de Valpelline on the next day,
and an early start was desirable. Monsieur Seiler, excellent man,
knowing this, called us himself, and when he came to my door, I
answered, All right, Seiler, I will get up,
and immediately turned
over to the other side, saying to myself, First of all, ten minutes
more sleep.
But Seiler waited and listened, and, suspecting the
case, knocked again. Herr Whymper, have you got a light?
Without thinking what the consequences might be, I answered,
No,
and then the worthy man actually forced the lock off his own
door to give me one. By similar and equally friendly and disinterested
acts, Monsieur Seiler has acquired his enviable reputation.
At 4 A.M. we left his Monte Rosa Hotel, and were soon pushing
our way through the thickets of grey alder that skirt the path up
the right bank of the exquisite little valley which leads to the
Z’Muttgletscher.
Nothing can well seem more inaccessible than the Matterhorn
upon this side; and even in cold blood one holds the breath when
looking at its stupendous cliffs. There are but few equal to them in
size in the Alps, and there are none which can more truly be termed
precipices. Greatest of them all is the immense north cliff,—that
which bends over towards the Z’Muttgletscher. Stones which drop
There is no aspect of destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs,
says Professor Ruskin. Granted;—when they are seen from afar.
But approach, and sit down by the side of the Z’Muttgletscher, and
you will hear that their piecemeal destruction is proceeding ceaselessly—incessantly.
You will hear, but, probably, you will not
see; for even when the descending masses thunder as loudly as
heavy guns, and the echoes roll back from the Ebihorn opposite,
they will still be as pin-points against this grand old face, so vast
is its scale!
If you would see the aspects of destruction,
you must come
still closer, and climb its cliffs and ridges, or mount to the plateau
of the Matterhorngletscher, which is cut up and ploughed up by
these missiles, and strewn on its surface with their smaller fragments;
the larger masses, falling with tremendous velocity, plunge
into the snow and are lost to sight.
The Matterhorngletscher, too, sends down its avalanches, as if
in rivalry with the rocks behind. Round the whole of its northern
side it does not terminate in the usual manner by gentle slopes,
but comes to a sudden end at the top of the steep rocks which lie
betwixt it and the Z’Muttgletscher; and seldom does an hour pass
without a huge slice breaking away and falling with dreadful uproar
on to the slopes below, where it is re-compacted.
The desolate, outside pines of the Z’Mutt forests, stripped of their bark, and blanched by the weather, are a fit foreground to a scene that can hardly be surpassed in solemn grandeur. It is a subject worthy of the pencil of a great painter, and one which would tax the powers of the very greatest.
Higher up the glacier the mountain appeared less savage although
not less inaccessible; and, about three hours later, when
we arrived at the island of rock, called the Stockje (which marks
the end of the Z’Muttgletscher proper, and which separates its
higher feeder, the Stockgletscher, from its lower and greater one,
the Tiefenmatten), Carrel himself, one of the least demonstrative
of men, could not refrain from expressing wonder at the steepness
of its faces, and at the audacity that had prompted us to camp
upon the south-west ridge; the profile of which is seen very well
from the Stockje.the Cervin from the north-west
(Modern Painters,
vol. iv.) is taken from the Stockje. The Col du Lion is a little depression on the
ridge, close to the margin of the engraving, on the right-hand side; the third tent-platform
was formed at the foot of the perpendicular cliff, on the ridge, exactly one-third
way between the Col du Lion and the summit. The battlemented portion of
the ridge, a little higher up, is called the
; and the nearly horizontal
portion of the ridge above it is crête du coqthe shoulder.
only from the
direction of Breil.
Three years afterwards I was traversing the same spot with the guide Franz Biener, when all at once a puff of wind brought to us a very bad smell; and, on looking about, we discovered a dead chamois half-way up the southern cliffs of the Stockje. We clambered up, and found that it had been killed by a most uncommon and extraordinary accident. It had slipped on the upper rocks, had rolled over and over down a slope of débris, without being able to regain its feet, had fallen over a little patch of rocks that projected through the débris, and had caught the points of both horns on a tiny ledge, not an inch broad. It had just been able to touch the débris, where it led away down from the rocks, and had pawed and scratched until it could no longer touch. It had evidently been starved to death, and we found the poor beast almost swinging in the air, with its head thrown back and tongue protruding, looking to the sky as if imploring help.
We had no such excitement as this in 1863, and crossed this
easy pass to the châlets of Prerayen in a very leisurely fashion.
From the summit to Prerayen let us descend in one step. The
way has been described before; and those who wish for information
about it should consult the description of Mr. Jacomb, the
discoverer of the pass. Nor need we stop at Prerayen, except to
remark that the owner of the châlets (who is usually taken for a
common herdsman) must not be judged by appearances. He is a
man of substance; he has many flocks and herds; and although,
when approached politely, is courteous, he can (and probably will)
act as the master of Prerayen, if his position is not recognised, and
with all the importance of a man who pays taxes to the extent of
500 francs per annum to his government.
[Illustration: CHAMOIS IN DIFFICULTIES.]
The hill-tops were clouded when we rose from our hay on the
5th of August. We decided not to continue the tour of our
The Dent d’Erin had not been ascended at this time, and we had diverged from our route on the 4th, and had scrambled some distance up the base of Mont Brulé, to see how far its south-western slopes were assailable. We were divided in opinion as to the best way of approaching the peak. Carrel, true to his habit of sticking to rocks in preference to ice, counselled ascending by the long buttress of the Tête de Bella Cia (which descends towards the west, and forms the southern boundary of the last glacier that falls into the Glacier de Zardesan), and thence traversing the heads of all the tributaries of the Zardesan to the western and rocky ridge of the Dent. I, on the other hand, proposed to follow the Glacier de Zardesan itself throughout its entire length, and from the plateau at its head (where my proposed route would cross Carrel’s) to make directly towards the summit, up the snow-covered glacier slope, instead of by the western ridge. The hunchback, who was accompanying us on these excursions, declared in favour of Carrel’s route, and it was accordingly adopted.
The first part of the programme was successfully executed;
and at 10.30 A.M. on the 6th of August, we were sitting astride
the western ridge, at a height of about 12,500 feet, looking down
upon the Tiefenmatten glacier. To all appearance another hour
would place us on the summit; but in another hour we found
that we were not destined to succeed. The ridge (like all of
the principal rocky ridges of the great peaks upon which I have
stood) had been completely shattered by frost, and was nothing
more than a heap of piled up fragments. It was always narrow,
I followed my leader, who said not a word, and did not rebel until we came to a place where a block had to be surmounted which lay poised across the ridge. Carrel could not climb it without assistance, or advance beyond it until I joined him above; and as he stepped off my back on to it, I felt it quiver and bear down upon me. I doubted the possibility of another man standing upon it without bringing it down. Then I rebelled. There was no honour to be gained by persevering, or dishonour in turning from a place which was dangerous on account of its excessive difficulty. So we returned to Prerayen, for there was too little time to allow us to re-ascend by the other route, which was subsequently shown to be the right way up the mountain.
Four days afterwards a party of Englishmen (including my
friends, W. E. Hall, Craufurd Grove, and Reginald Macdonald),
arrived in the Valpelline, and (unaware of our attempt) on the
12th, under the skilful guidance of Melchior Anderegg, made the
first ascent of the Dent d’Erin by the route which I had proposed.
This is the only mountain which I have essayed to ascend, that
has not, sooner or later, fallen to me. Our failure was mortifying,
yet I am satisfied that we did wisely in returning, and that if we
had persevered, by Carrel’s route, another Alpine accident would
have been recorded. Other routes have been since discovered up
On p. 7 it is stated that there was not a pass from Prerayen to Breil in 1860,
and this is correct. On July 8, 1868, my enterprising guide, Jean-Antoine Carrel,
started from Breil at 2
As their route joins that taken by Messrs. Hall, Grove, and Macdonald, on their
ascent of the Dent d’Erin in 1863, it is evident that that mountain can be ascended
from Breil. Carrel considers that the route taken by himself and his comrade Bich
can be improved upon; and, if so, it is possible that the ascent of the Dent d’Erin
can be made from Breil in less time than from Prerayen. Breil is very much to be
preferred as a starting-point.
A.M. with a well-known comrade—J. Baptiste Bich, of Val
Tournanche—to endeavour to make one. They went towards the glacier which
descends from the Dent d’Erin to the south-east, and, on arriving at its base, ascended
at first by some snow between it and the cliffs on its south, and afterwards took to
the cliffs themselves. [This glacier they called the glacier of Mont Albert, after the
local name of the peak which on Mr. Reilly’s map of the Valpelline is called Les
Jumeaux.
On Mr. Reilly’s map the glacier is called Glacier d’Erin.
] They
ascended the rocks to a considerable height, and then struck across the glacier,
towards the north, to a small
(isolated patch of rocks) that is nearly in the
centre of the glacier. They passed above this, and between it and the great rognonséracs.
Afterwards their route led them towards the Dent d’Erin, and they arrived at the
base of its final peak by mounting a couloir (gully filled with snow), and the rocks
at the head of the glacier. They gained the summit of their pass at 1 P.M., and,
descending by the glacier of Zardesan, arrived at Prerayen at 6.30 P.M.
On the 7th of August we crossed the Va Cornère
pass,A.M. on the 8th, to attack the Tournalin.
Meynet was left behind for that day, and most unwillingly did
the hunchback part from us, and begged hard to be allowed to
come. Pay me nothing, only let me go with you;
I shall
want but a little bread and cheese, and of that I won’t eat much;
I would much rather go with you than carry things down the
valley.
Such were his arguments, and I was really sorry that
the rapidity of our movements obliged us to desert the good little
man.
Carrel led over the meadows on the south and east of the bluff upon which the village of Val Tournanche is built, and then by a zig-zag path through a long and steep forest, making many short cuts, which showed he had a thorough knowledge of the ground. After we came again into daylight, our route took us up one of those little, concealed, lateral valleys which are so numerous on the slopes bounding the Val Tournanche.
This valley, the Combe de Ceneil, has a general easterly trend, and contains but one small cluster of houses (Ceneil). The Tournalin is situated at the head of the Combe, and nearly due east of the village of Val Tournanche, but from that place no part of the mountain is visible. After Ceneil is passed it comes into view, rising above a cirque of cliffs (streaked by several fine waterfalls), at the end of the Combe. To avoid these cliffs the path bends somewhat to the south, keeping throughout to the left bank of the valley, and at about 3500 feet above Val Tournanche, and 1500 feet above Ceneil and a mile or so to its east, arrives at the base of some moraines, which are remarkably large considering the dimensions of the glaciers which formed them. The ranges upon the western side of the Val Tournanche are seen to great advantage from this spot; and here the path ends and the way steepens.
When we arrived at these moraines, we had a choice of two
routes. One, continuing to the east, over the moraines themselves,
the débris above them, and a large snow-bed still higher up, to a
col or depression to the south of the peak, from whence an
easy ridge led towards the summit. The other, over a shrunken
glacier on our north-east (now, perhaps, not in existence), which
led to a well-marked col on the north of the peak, from whence
a less easy ridge rose directly to the highest point. We followed
the first named of these routes, and in little more than half-an-hour
stood upon the Col, which commanded a most glorious view
of the southern side of Monte Rosa, and of the ranges to its east,
and to the east of the Val d’Ayas.
[Illustration: THEY SCATTERED IN A PANIC WHEN SALUTED BY THE CRIES OF MY EXCITED COMRADE.
]
THEY SCATTERED IN A PANIC WHEN SALUTED BY THE CRIES OF MY EXCITED COMRADE.
Whilst we were resting at this point, a large party of vagrant chamois arrived on the summit of the mountain from the northern side, some of whom—by their statuesque position—seemed to appreciate the grand panorama by which they were surrounded, while others amused themselves, like two-legged tourists, in rolling stones over the cliffs. The clatter of these falling fragments made us look up. The chamois were so numerous that we could not count them, and clustered around the summit, totally unaware of our presence. They scattered in a panic, as if a shell had burst amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited comrade; and plunged wildly down in several directions, with unfaltering and unerring bounds, with such speed and with such grace that we were filled with admiration and respect for their mountaineering abilities.
The ridge that led from the Col towards the summit was
singularly easy, although well broken up by frost, and Carrel
thought that it would not be difficult to arrange a path for mules
out of the shattered blocks; but when we arrived on the summit
we found ourselves separated from the very highest point by
a cleft which had been concealed up to that time: its southern
side was nearly perpendicular, but it was only fourteen or fifteen
feet deep. Carrel lowered me down, and afterwards descended on
to the head of my axe, and subsequently on to my shoulders, with
a cleverness which was almost as far removed from my awkwardness
as his own efforts were from those of the chamois. A few
[Illustration: CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.
]
CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.
I recommend any person who has
a day to spare in the Val Tournanche
to ascend the Tournalin. It should be
remembered, however (if its ascent is
made for the sake of the view), that
these southern Pennine Alps seldom
remain unclouded after mid-day, and,
indeed, frequently not later than 10
or 11 A.M. Towards sunset the equilibrium
of the atmosphere is restored, and the clouds very commonly
disappear.
I advise the ascent of this mountain not on account of its
height, or from its accessibility or inaccessibility, but simply for
the wide and splendid view which may be seen from its summit.
Its position is superb, and the list of the peaks which can be seen
from it includes almost the whole of the principal mountains of the
Cottian, Dauphiné, Graian, Pennine, and Oberland groups. The
view has, in the highest perfection, those elements of picturesqueness
which are wanting in the purely panoramic views of higher
[Illustration: THE LATE CANON CARREL, OF AOSTA.]
Those who would, but cannot, stand upon the highest Alps, may
console themselves with the knowledge that they do not usually
yield the views that make the strongest and most permanent
impressions. Marvellous some of the panoramas seen from the
greatest peaks undoubtedly are; but they are necessarily without
those isolated and central points which are so valuable pictorially.
The eye roams over a multitude of objects (each, perhaps, grand
individually), and, distracted by an embarrassment of riches,
wanders from one to another, erasing by the contemplation of the
No views create such lasting impressions as those which are seen but for a moment, when a veil of mist is rent in twain, and a single spire or dome is disclosed. The peaks which are seen at these moments are not, perhaps, the greatest or the noblest, but the recollection of them outlives the memory of any panoramic view, because the picture, photographed by the eye, has time to dry, instead of being blurred, while yet wet, by contact with other impressions. The reverse is the case with the bird’s-eye panoramic views from the great peaks, which sometimes embrace a hundred miles in nearly every direction. The eye is confounded by the crowd of details, and is unable to distinguish the relative importance of the objects which are seen. It is almost as difficult to form a just estimate (with the eye) of the respective heights of a number of peaks from a very high summit, as it is from the bottom of a valley. I think that the grandest and the most satisfactory standpoints for viewing mountain scenery are those which are sufficiently elevated to give a feeling of depth, as well as of height, which are lofty enough to exhibit wide and varied views, but not so high as to sink everything to the level of the spectator. The view from the Grand Tournalin is a favourable example of this class of panoramic views.
We descended from the summit by the northern route, and found it tolerably stiff clambering as far as the Col. Thence, down the glacier, the way was straightforward, and we joined the route taken on the ascent at the foot of the ridge leading towards the east. In the evening we returned to Breil.
There is an abrupt rise in the valley about two miles to the
north of the village of Val Tournanche, and just above this step
the torrent has eaten its way into its bed and formed an extraordinary
chasm, which has long been known by the name Gouffre
gouffre, along its walls; and, on
payment of a toll of half a franc, any one can now enter the
Gouffre des Busserailles.
I cannot, without a couple of sections and a plan, give an exact
idea to the reader of this remarkable place. It corresponds in
some of its features to the gorge figured upon page 96, but it
exhibits in a much more notable manner the characteristic action
and extraordinary power of running water. The length of the
chasm or gouffre is about 320 feet, and from the top of its walls
to the surface of the water is about 110 feet. At no part can
the entire length or depth be seen at a glance; for, although the
width at some places is 15 feet or more, the view is limited by
the sinuosities of the walls. These are everywhere polished to
a smooth, vitreous-in-appearance surface. In some places the
torrent has wormed into the rock, and has left natural bridges.
The most extraordinary features of the Gouffre des Busserailles,
however, are the caverns (or marmites as they are termed), which
the water has hollowed out of the heart of the rock. Carrel’s plank
path leads into one of the greatest,—a grotto that is about 28 feet
across at its largest diameter, and 15 or 16 feet high; roofed above
by the living rock, and with the torrent roaring 50 feet or
there
I visited the interior of the gouffre in 1869, and my wonder at
its caverns was increased by observing the hardness of the hornblende
out of which they have been hollowed. Carrel chiselled off
a large piece, which is now lying before me. It has a highly
polished, glassy surface, and might be mistaken, for a moment, for
ice-polished rock. But the water has found out the atoms which
were least hard, and it is dotted all over by minute depressions,
much as the face of one is who has suffered from smallpox.
The edges of these little hollows are rounded, and the whole
surfaces of the depressions are polished nearly, or quite, as highly
as the general surface of the fragment. The water has eaten
more deeply into some veins of steatite than in other places, and
the presence of the steatite may possibly have had something to
do with the formation of the gouffre.
I arrived at Breil again after an absence of six days, well satisfied with my tour of the Matterhorn, which had been rendered very pleasant by the willingness of my guides, and by the kindliness of the natives. Still, it must be admitted that the inhabitants of the Val Tournanche are behind the times. Their paths are as bad as, or worse than, they were in the time of De Saussure, and their inns are much inferior to those on the Swiss side. If it were otherwise there would be nothing to prevent the valley becoming one of the most popular and frequented of all the valleys in the Alps. As it is, tourists who enter it seem to think only about how soon they can get out of it, and hence it is much less known than it deserves to be on account of its natural attractions.
I believe that the great hindrance to the improvement of the
paths in the Italian valleys generally is the wide-spread impression
that the innkeepers would alone directly benefit by any amelioration
of their condition. To a certain extent this view is correct; but
inasmuch as the prosperity of the natives is connected with that of
the innkeepers, the interests of both are pretty nearly identical.
I will not venture to criticise in detail the dishes which are
brought to table, since I am profoundly ignorant of their constitution.
It is commonly said amongst Alpine tourists that goat flesh
represents mutton, and mule does service for beef and chamois. I
reserve my own opinion upon this point until it has been shown
what becomes of all the dead mules. But I may say, I hope, without
wounding the susceptibilities of my acquaintances among the
Italian innkeepers, that it would tend to smoothen their intercourse
with their guests if requests for solid food were less frequently
regarded as criminal. The deprecating airs with which inquiries
for really substantial food are received always remind me of a
Dauphiné innkeeper, who remarked that he had heard a good many
tourists travel in Switzerland. Yes,
I answered, there are a
good many.
How many?
Well,
I said, I have seen a
hundred or more sit down at a table d’hôte.
He lifted up his
hands—Why,
said he, they would want meat every day!
Yes, that is not improbable.
In that case,
he replied, I
think we are better without them.
But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,
The long, long views of poor, designing man.
Carrel had carte blanche in the matter of guides, and his choice fell
upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet, and two others whose names
I do not know. These men were now brought together, and our
preparations were completed, as the weather was clearing up.
We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the 10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy termination to our enterprise.
By going always, though gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion
before nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had
vanished; the platform, whereupon my tent had stood, looked very
forlorn, its stones had been scattered by wind and frost, and had
half disappeared: and the summit of the Col itself, which in 1862
had always been respectably broad, and covered by snow, was
now sharper than the ridge of any church roof, and was hard ice.
Already we had found that the bad weather of the past week had
done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet below the Col
were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered the
older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through
its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm,
and raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but, just as it was
It
is time we were tied up,
and, after we had been tied up, he went
to work again as if nothing had happened.
We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the
value of a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart,
and advanced, generally, in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed
closely by another man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head
under his feet, when there was need; and when this couple
were well placed the second pair advanced, in similar fashion,—the
rope being drawn in by those above, and paid out gradually by
those below. The leading men again advanced, or the third pair,
and so on. This manner of progression was slow, but sure. One
man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did
slip) he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the
others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to
the one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his
powers to the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations.
For these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy
enough under ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high
degree. The snow-water which had trickled down for many days
past in little streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by
which we wished to ascend; and, refrozen in the night, had glazed
the slabs over which we had to pass,—sometimes with a fine film
of ice as thin as a sheet of paper, and sometimes so thickly that we
We went on gaily, passed the second tent platform, the
Chimney, and the other well-remembered points, and reckoned, confidently,
on sleeping that night upon the top of the shoulder;
but, before we had well arrived at the foot of the Great Tower, a
sudden rush of cold air warned us to look out.
It was difficult to say where this air came from; it did not
blow as a wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath!
All was tranquil again; the atmosphere showed no signs of disturbance;
there was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen
anywhere. But we did not remain very long in this state. The cold
air came again, and this time it was difficult to say where it did not
come from. We jammed down our hats as it beat against the ridge,
and screamed amongst the crags. Before we had got to the foot of
the Tower, mists had been formed above and below. They appeared
at first in small, isolated patches (in several places at the same time),
which danced and jerked and were torn into shreds by the wind,
but grew larger under the process. They were united together, and
rent again,—showing us the blue sky for a moment, and blotting it
out the next; and augmented incessantly, until the whole heavens
were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take off
our packs, and get under any kind of shelter, a hurricane of snow
burst upon us from the east. It fell very heavily, and in a few
minutes the ridge was covered by it. What shall we do?
I
shouted to Carrel. Monsieur,
said he, the wind is bad; the
weather has changed; we are heavily laden. Here is a fine
No one differed from him; so we fell to work to make
a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours completed the platform
which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had blackened
during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before
a thunderstorm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked
gîte;
let us stop! If we go on we shall be half-frozen. That is my
opinion.
When I say that the thunder was simultaneous with the lightning,
I speak as an inexact person. My meaning is that the
time which elapsed between seeing the flash and hearing the
report was inappreciable to me. I wish to speak with all possible
precision, and there are two points with regard to this storm upon
which I can speak with some accuracy. The first is in regard to
the distance of the lightning from our party. We might have
been 1100 feet from it if a second of time had elapsed between
seeing the flashes and hearing the reports; and a second of time
is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was certain that we
were sometimes less than that distance from the lightning,
because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the ridge,
both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably
less) than a thousand feet distant.
Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds
which are merely echoes from true thunder, or the noise which
occurs simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this
subject at some length in his Meteorological Essays, and seemed to
doubt if it would ever be possible to determine whether echoes are
always the cause of the rolling sounds commonly called thunder.There is, therefore, little hope of thus arriving at anything decisive as to the
exact part which echoes take in the production of the rolling sound of thunder.
P. 165, English ed., translated by Col. Sabine: Longmans, 1855.
At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw crowds for its own sake); I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent d’Hérens. It was a favourite amusement with us to shout to rouse this echo, which repeated any sharp cry, in a very distinct manner, several times, after the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged rollings from the surrounding mountains, after one flash, had not usually ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a single discharge, and after such times I could recognise the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they were the echoes.
If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should
have supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions
which had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely
distinguishable from the true thunder; which, during this storm,
seemed to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single, harsh,
instantaneous sound.
The same has seemed to me to be the case at all times when I have been close
to the points of explosion. There has been always a distinct interval between the
first explosion and the rolling sounds and secondary explosions which I have
Others have observed the same. believed
to be merely echoes; but it has never been possible (except in the above-mentioned
case) to identify them as such.
The geologist, Professor Theobald, of Chur,
who was in the Solferino storm, between the Tschiertscher and Urden Alp, in the
electric clouds, says that the peals were short, like cannon shots, but of a clearer,
more cracking tone, and that the rolling of the thunder was only heard farther on.
Berlepsch’s Alps, English ed., p. 133.
Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a
thousand feet from the points of explosion (and consequently
hearing the report almost in the same moment as we saw the flash,
This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the
Alps) I have obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are
actually echoes; and that they are not, necessarily, the reports of
a number of discharges over a long line, occurring at varying
distances from the spectator, and consequently unable to arrive at
his ear at the same moment, although they follow each other so
swiftly as to produce a sound more or less continuous.
Mr. J. Glaisher has frequently pointed out that all sounds in balloons at some
distance from the earth are notable for their brevity.
I learn from Mr. Glaisher that the thunder-claps which have been heard by him
during his It is one sound only;
—there
is no reverberation, no reflection; and this is characteristic of all sounds in the balloon,
one clear sound, continuing during its own vibrations, then gone in a moment.Good
Words, 1863, p. 224.
travels in the air
have been no exception to the general rule, and the
absence of rolling has fortified his belief that the rolling sounds which accompany
thunder are echoes, and echoes only.
The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently
from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding
it was partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears
our refuge might be blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so,
during some of the lulls, we issued out and built a wall to windward.
At half-past three the wind changed to the north-west, and
the clouds vanished. We immediately took the opportunity to
send down one of the porters (under protection of some of the
others, a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would accommodate
only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather
was variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and
sometimes a dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined
to the Mont Cervin, for when the clouds lifted we could see
every
The greatest rock-falls always seemed to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. This was noticeable on each of the seven nights which I passed upon the south-west ridge, at heights varying from 11,800 to 13,000 feet.
I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters. But it is certain that the greatest of the falls which happened during the night took place after midnight, and this I connect with the fact that the maximum of cold during any twenty-four hours very commonly occurs between midnight and dawn.
We turned out at 3.30 A.M. on the 11th, and were dismayed to
find that it still continued to snow. At 9 A.M. it ceased to fall,
and the sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage,
and set out to try to get upon the shoulder.
We struggled
upwards until eleven o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again.
We held a council; the opinions expressed at it were unanimous
against advancing, and I decided to retreat. For we had risen less
than 300 feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at
the rope which Tyndall’s party left behind, attached to the rocks,
the shoulder.
Not one of us
cared to attempt to do so under the existing circumstances; for
besides having to move our own weight, which was sufficiently
troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to transport much
heavy baggage, tent, blankets, and provisions, ladder, and 450 feet
of rope, besides many other smaller matters. These, however, were
not the most serious considerations. Supposing that we got upon
the shoulder,
we might find ourselves detained there several
days, unable either to go up or down.
[Illustration: THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.]
We returned to Breil in the course of the afternoon. It was
quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements
with evident scepticism. They were
astonished to learn that we had been
exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six
hours’ duration. Why,
said
Favre, the innkeeper,
Ah!
that small cloud! None except
those who have had experience of
it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.
we have had
no snow; it has been fine all the
time you have been absent, and
there has been only that small
cloud upon the mountain.
[Illustration: MONSIEUR FAVRE.]
Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable
variations of weather? The ready answer is, Oh, the mountain
is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.
This is not a sufficient
answer. Although the mountain is isolated, it is not so much more
isolated than the neighbouring peaks that it should gather clouds
when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the
I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature
rather than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation.
I am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur
in the atmosphere of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine
days,rock mountain;
that it receives a great amount of heat,snow mountains.
In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the thermometer to show 70° in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than 13,000 feet high, and but a very few degrees higher 6000 or 7000 feet lower. At other times, there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Faht.) between two stations, the higher not more than 6000 or 7000 feet above the lower.
Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on
all sides of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above
its summit, no clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the
atmosphere immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous
strata, a local courant ascendant
must necessarily be
generated; and portions of the cooler superincumbent (or
circumseem to be created at a considerable distance, as if the whole of the
atmosphere of the neighbourhood was undergoing a change, when in reality they are
being formed in immediate proximity to the mountain.
This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behaviour of the neighbouring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche (14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn; whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889), (mountains of about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair) usually remain perfectly clear.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE CHANNEL.]
I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and disconsolate; but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change: and returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations, and to form new plans.
The more to help the greater deed is done.
When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in
Dauphiné, in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment,
that it was not the culminating point of the district; and that
another mountain—distant about a couple of miles, and separated
from us by an impassable gulf—claimed that distinction. I was
troubled in spirit about this mountain, and my thoughts often
reverted to the great wall-sided peak, second in apparent inaccessibility
only to the Matterhorn. It had, moreover, another
claim to attention—it was the highest mountain In France.
The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.
In the meantime others had turned their attention to Dauphiné. First of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the guides Michel Croz, Peter Perrn, and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des Ecrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather less dangerous laurels elsewhere.
His expedition, however, threw some light upon the Ecrins.
He pointed out the direction from which an attack was most likely
to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and the Rev. T. G.
[Illustration: MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).]
The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of
these expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for
assistance. Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave
him a high character, and concluded his reply to me by saying,
he was only happy when upwards of 10,000 feet high.
I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he
was employing his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I
would toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,
were bagatelles to
him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary
mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength,
Of all the guides with whom I travelled, Michel Croz was
the man who was most after my own heart. He did not work like
a blunt razor, and take to his toil unkindly. He did not need
urging, or to be told a second time to do anything. You had but to
say what was to be done, and how it was to be done, and the work
was done, if it was possible. Such men are not common, and when
they are known they are valued. Michel was not widely known,
but those who did know him employed him again and again. The
inscription that is placed upon his tomb truthfully records that
he was beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travellers.
At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W. Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme; and, as we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our respective parties. The excursions which are described in this and the two following chapters are mutual ideas which were jointly executed.
Our united programme was framed so as to avoid sleeping in inns, and so that we should see from the highest point attained on one day a considerable portion of the route which was intended to be followed on the next. This latter matter was an important one to us, as all of our projected excursions were new ones, and led over ground about which there was very little information in print.
My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of Grindelwald
as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a perfect
one. Both men were in the prime of life;
We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road, at midday on
June 20, 1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de
Valloires to the village of the same name. The summit of this
pretty little pass is about 3500 feet above St. Michel, and from it
we had a fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks
of singular form, which it was our especial object to investigate.Itinéraire du Dauphiné. Having made out
from the summit of the Col de Valloires that they could be
approached from the Valley of Valloires, we hastened down to
find a place where we could pass the night, as near as possible
to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.
By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.
In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.
At 3.55 A.M. on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a
time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply
chan
Three questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?
The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the
two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in
height; but we were without information as to which two they
had measured.relatively easy.
We therefore said, We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.
That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s
relatively easy
peak, according to his description, was evidently
the most northern of the three. Our peak then was to be one of the
other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the
central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal
in height. When, however, the council came to study the third
How is it to be done?
it was unanimously voted that
upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly relatively
difficult,
and that a move should be made round to the northern side.
The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some
snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond
40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and
northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45 A.M. We then studied the northern
face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that
it was relatively
impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders,
and said, My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.
Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a
thousand francs would not tempt him to try it. We then turned
to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more
hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed
accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top
of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.
We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet
above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view
of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south,
we saw the monarch of the Dauphiné massif, whose closer acquaintance
it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away,
and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of
a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse),
and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope
we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression
was that we should have to return in our track. Some running
up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with
threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided
to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so
narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the
feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s
snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and
gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we
got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—Let us
the guides—No, it is too steep.
Our friend, however,
started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time
very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed
downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that
seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let
go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him
heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of
feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few
moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him
ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.
[Illustration: THE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.]
We others followed the track shown by the dotted line upon the
engraving (making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which
jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended
by a sitting glissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom.
We then turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit
ridge of an old moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively
Guided by the sound of a distant moo,
we speedily found the
highest chalets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were
tenanted by three old women (who seemed to belong to one of the
missing links sought by naturalists), destitute of all ideas except in
regard to cows, and who spoke a barbarous patois, well-nigh unintelligible
to the Savoyard Croz. They would not believe that we
had passed between the Aiguilles,—It is impossible, the
cows
never go there.Could we get to La Grave over yonder ridge?
Oh yes! the
Could they show us the way?
No; but we could follow the cows often crossed!cow-tracks.
We stayed a while near these chalets, to examine the western sides of the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north, or south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about 11,000 feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion remained unchanged.
We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides,
and very nearly completely round the southernmost one. The
northern one we also saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It
is, however, precisely from this direction M. Joanne says that its
ascent is relatively easy.) We do not, therefore, venture to express
any opinion respecting its ascent, except as regards its actual
summit. This is formed of two curious prongs, or pinnacles of
rock, and we do not understand in what way they (or either of
them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised if this ascent is
discovered to have been made in spirit rather than body; in fact,
in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont Blanc, not
entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!
All three of the Aiguilles may be accessible, but they look as
inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest
summits between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc; they
are placed slightly to the north of the watershed between those
We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the chalets of La Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse, in which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the valley that descends to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de Maurienne.
Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the
village of La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the
Romanche, viz.:—the Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare.
The former pass was crossed, many years ago, by J. D. Forbes,
and was mentioned by him in his
Whilst stopping in the hospice on the Col de Lautaret, in 1869, I was accosted
by a middle-aged peasant, who asked if I would ride (for a consideration) in his cart
towards Briançon. He was inquisitive as to my knowledge of his district, and at
last asked,
After this he became communicative. Norway and its Glaciers. The
latter one lies to the north of the former, and is seldom traversed
by tourists, but it was convenient for us, and we set out to cross it
on the morning of the 22d, after having passed a comfortable, but
not luxurious, night in the hay, at La Sausse, where, however, the
simplicity of the accommodation was more than counterbalanced
by the civility and hospitality of the people in charge.Have you been at La Sausse?
Yes.
Well, then, I tell you,
you
saw there some of the first people in the world.Yes,
I said, they were primitive,
certainly.
But he was serious, and went on—Yes, real brave people;
and, slapping
his knee to give emphasis, but that they are first-rate for minding the cows!You thought, probably,
said he,
when I offered to take you down, that I was some poor ——, not worth a
sou; but
I will tell you, that was my mountain! my mountain! that you saw at La Sausse;
they were my cows! a hundred of them altogether.Why, you are rich.
Passably
rich. I have another mountain on the Col du Galibier, and another at Villeneuve.
He (although a common peasant in outward appearance) confessed to being
worth four thousand pounds.
[Our object now was to cross to La Grave (on the high road
from Grenoble to Briançon), and to ascend,
The bracketed paragraphs in Chaps. VII. VIII. and IX. are extracted from the
Journal of Mr. A. W. Moore.
It would be uninteresting and unprofitable to enter into a discussion of the confusion
of these names at greater length. It is sufficient to say that they were
confounded in a most perplexing manner by all the authorities we were able to
consult, and also by the natives on the spot.
en route, some point
sufficiently high to give us a good view of the Dauphiné Alps in
general, and of the grand chain of the Meije in particular. Before
Joanne
had elicited the fact
that the shortest route from La Sausse to La Grave was by the
Col de Martignare; and also that from the aforesaid Col it was
possible to ascend a lofty summit, called by him the Bec-du-Grenier,
also called Aiguille de Goléon. On referring, however, to the
Sardinian survey, we found there depicted, to the east of the Col
de Martignare, not one peak bearing the above two names, but two
distinct summits; one—just above the Col—the Bec-du-Grenier
(the height of which was not stated); the other, still farther to the
east, and somewhat to the south of the watershed—the Aiguille du
Goléon (11,250 English feet in height), with a very considerable
glacier—the Glacier Lombard—between the two. On the French
map,
We left the chalets at 4.15 A.M. [under a shower of good
wishes from our hostesses], proceeded at first towards the upper end
of the ravine, then doubled back up a long buttress which projects
in an unusual way, and went towards the Col de Martignare; but
before arriving at its summit we again doubled, and resumed the
A.M. we stood on the watershed, and followed
it towards the east; keeping for some distance strictly to the
ridge, and afterwards diverging a little to the south to avoid a considerable
secondary aiguille, which prevented a straight track being
made to the summit at which we were aiming. At 9.15 we stood
on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.
We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a
plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summits
A, B, C, D
(see plan on p. 128). We stood upon C, which was almost
exactly the same elevation as B, but was higher than D, and lower
than A. Peak A was the highest of the four, and was about 200
feet higher than B and C; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon
(French survey, 11,250 feet). Peak D we considered was the Bec-du-Grenier;
and, in default of other names, we called B and C the
Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly
direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.
Peaks B and C overhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were
connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation
of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined
the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was
therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient
to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles
d’Arve.
We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to
speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates
in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be
mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la
Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave
itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest
road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in
fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of
I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.
Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was
the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and
one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges,
torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.
The ridge called La Meije runs from E.S.E. to W.N.W., and is crowned by
numerous aiguilles of tolerably equal elevation. The two highest are towards the
eastern and western ends of the ridge, and are rather more than a mile apart. To
the former the French surveyors assign a height of 12,730, and to the latter 13,080
feet. In our opinion the western aiguille can hardly be more than 200 feet higher
than the eastern one. It is possible that its height may have diminished since it
was measured.
In 1869 I carefully examined the eastern end of the ridge from the top of the Col
de Lautaret, and saw that the summit at that end can be ascended by following a
long glacier which descends from it towards the N.E. into the Valley of Arsine.
The highest summit presents considerable difficulties.
Sheet 189 of the French map is extremely inaccurate in the neighbourhood of the
Meije, and particularly so on its northern side. The ridges and glaciers which are
laid down upon it can scarcely be identified on the spot.
words a sense of the loveliness of curves,
of the beauty of colour, or of the harmonies of sound, I should try
to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should
succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may
have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly
incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these
Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.
I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.
When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather
despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which
seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There
they looked as if they were roches
moutonnées.
So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior
Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the
family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who
is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have
been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well
known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor
in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst
the eternal snows,
—his sceptre is an ice-axe.
Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally
known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near
Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public
notice in Hinchcliff’s Summer Months in the Alps, and was
known to very few persons at the time that little work was
published. In 1855 he was Boots
at the Grimsel Hotel, and
in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the
benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got
the trinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on
It would be almost an easier
task to say what he has not done
than to catalogue his achievements.
Invariable success attends
his arms; he leads his
followers to victory, but not to
death. I believe that no serious
accident has ever befallen travellers
in his charge. Like his
friend Almer, he can be called
a safe man. It is the highest
praise that can be given to a
first-rate guide.
[Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.]
Early in the afternoon we
found ourselves in the little inn
at La Grave, on the great
Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down
sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily
remarked, except the smell.vice versa, were lodged immediately underneath the
salle-à-manger and bedrooms, and a pungent, steamy odour rose from them through
the cracks in the floor, and constantly pervaded the whole house. I am told that the
inn has been considerably improved since 1864.I think the passage of the Brèche
is possible, but that it will be very difficult.
His opinion coincided
with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot
about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.
At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes
crossed the Romanche, and at 4 A.M. got to the moraine of the
eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.not moutonnée, their smooth look
from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. [It was
really quite a pleasure to scale such delightful rocks. We felt
the stone held the boot so well, that, without making a positive
effort to do so, it would be almost impossible to slip.] In an hour
we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and
began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there
was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice
by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as
easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past 6 we were
on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave
turned out en masse into the road, and watched us with amazement
as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions.
Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to
them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without
hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as
it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other
side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles
lessened, and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed,
and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45)
the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously
[Illustration: Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.]
All mountaineers know how valuable it is to study beforehand an intended route over new ground from a height at some distance. None but blunderers fail to do so, if it is possible; and one cannot do so too thoroughly. As a rule, the closer one approaches underneath a summit, the more difficult it is to pick out a path with judgment. Inferior peaks seem unduly important, subordinate ridges are exalted, and slopes conceal points beyond; and if one blindly undertakes an ascent, without having acquired a tolerable notion of the relative importance of the parts, and of their positions to one another, it will be miraculous if great difficulties are not encountered.
But although the examination of an intended route from a
height at a distance will tell one (who knows the meaning of the
things he is looking at) a good deal, and will enable him to steer
clear of many difficulties against which he might otherwise blindly
run, it will seldom allow one to pronounce positively upon the
practicability or impracticability of the whole of the route. No
living man, for example, can pronounce positively from a distance
It is possible to decide with greater certainty in regard to the
practicability of glaciers. When one is seen to have few open crevasses
(and this may be told from a great distance), then we know
that it is possible to traverse it; but to what extent it, or a glacier
that is much broken up by crevasses, will be troublesome, will
depend upon the width and length of the crevasses, and upon the
angles of the surface of the glacier itself. A glacier may be greatly
crevassed, but the fissures may be so narrow that there is no occasion
to deviate from a straight line when passing across them; or
a glacier may have few open crevasses, and yet may be practically
impassable on account of the steepness of the angles of its surface.
Nominally, a man with an axe can go anywhere upon a glacier, but
in practice it is found that to move freely upon ice one must have
to deal only with small angles. It is thus necessary to know
approximately the angles of the surfaces of a glacier before it is
possible to determine whether it will afford easy travelling, or will
be so difficult as to be (for all practical purposes) impassable. This
cannot be told by looking at glaciers in full face from a distance;
they must be seen in profile; and it is often desirable to examine
them both from the front and in profile,—to do the first to study
the direction of the crevasses, to note where they are most and least
numerous; and the second to see whether its angles are moderate
or great. Should they be very steep, it may be better to avoid
them altogether, and to mount even by difficult rocks; but upon
glaciers of gentle inclination, and with few open crevasses, better
progress can always be made than upon the easiest rocks.
So much to explain why we were deceived when looking at the Brèche de la Meije from the Aiguille de la Sausse. We took note of all the difficulties, but did not pay sufficient attention to the distance that the Brèche was south of La Grave. My meaning will be apparent from the accompanying diagram, Fig. 1 (constructed upon the data supplied by the French surveyors), which will also serve to illustrate how badly angles of elevation are judged by the unaided eye.
The village of La Grave is just 5000 feet, and the highest
summit of the Meije is 13,080 feet above the level of the sea.
There is therefore a difference in their levels of 8080 feet. But
the summit of the Meije is south of La Grave about 14,750 feet,
and, consequently, a line drawn from La Grave to the summit of the
Meije is no steeper than the dotted line drawn from A to C,
Fig. 1;
or, in other words, if one could go in a direct line from La Grave
to the summit of the Meije the ascent would be at an angle of less
than 30°. Nine persons out of ten would probably estimate the
angle on the spot at double this amount.
The Brèche is 2000 feet below the summit of the Meije, and
only 6000 feet above La Grave. A direct ascent from the village
to the Brèche would consequently be at an angle of not much more
than 20°. But it is not possible to make the ascent as the crow
flies; it has to be made by an indirect and much longer route.
Our track was probably double the length of a direct line between
the two places. Doubling the length halved the angles, and we
mean of the whole could not
have passed the angle above indicated.
[Illustration: THE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).reversed in consequence.
reversed in consequence.
We did not trouble ourselves much with these matters when
we sat on the top of the Brèche. Our day’s work was as good
as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews and Bonney that
there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we abandoned
ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering, alternately, as we gazed
upon the Rateau and the Ecrins, how the one mountain could
Alpine Journal.
Filled with high mountains, rearing their heads as if to reach to heaven, crowned
with glaciers, and fissured with immense chasms, where lie the eternal snows guarded
by bare and rugged cliffs; offering the most varied sights, and enjoying all temperatures;
and containing everything that is most curious and interesting, the most
simple and the most sublime, the most smiling and the most severe, the most beautiful
and the most awful; such is the department of the High Alps.
Ladoucette.
Before 5 o’clock on the afternoon of June 23, we were trotting
down the steep path that leads into La Bérarde. We put up, of
course, with the chasseur-guide Rodier (who, as usual, was smooth
and smiling), and, after congratulations were over, we returned to
the exterior to watch for the arrival of one Alexander Pic, who had
been sent overnight with our baggage viâ Freney and Venos. But
when the night fell, and no Pic appeared, we saw that our plans
must be modified; for he was necessary to our very existence—he
carried our food, our tobacco, our all. So, after some discussion, it
was agreed that a portion of our programme should be abandoned,
that the night of the 24th should be passed at the head of the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, and that, on the 25th, a push should
be made for the summit of the Ecrins. We then went to straw.
Our porter Pic strolled in next morning with a very jaunty
air, and we seized upon our tooth-brushes; but, upon looking for
the cigars, we found starvation staring us in the face. Hullo!
Monsieur Pic, where are our cigars?
Gentlemen,
he began, I
am desolated!
and then, quite pat, he told a long rigmarole about
a fit on the road, of brigands, thieves, of their ransacking the
knapAh! Monsieur Pic, we see what it is, you have smoked
them yourself!
Gentlemen, I never smoke,
Whereupon
we inquired secretly if he was known to smoke, and found
that he was. However, he said that he had never spoken truer
words, and perhaps he had not, for he is reported to be the greatest
liar in Dauphiné!
never!
[Illustration: Map of the central Dauphiné Alps]
We were now able to start, and set out at 1.15 P.M. to bivouac
upon the Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, accompanied by Rodier, who
staggered under a load of blankets. Many slopes had to be mounted,
and many torrents to be crossed, all of which has been described
by Mr. Tuckett.Alpine Journal, December 1863.
Each one selected his nook, and we then joined round a grand
fire made by our men. Fortnum and Mason’s portable soup was
sliced up and brewed, and was excellent; but it should be said
that before it was excellent, three times the quantity named in the
directions had to be used. Art is required in drinking as in
making this soup, and one point is this—always let your friends
drink first; not only because it is more polite, but because the
soup has a tendency to burn the mouth if taken too hot, and one
drink of the bottom is worth two of the top, as all the goodness
settles.
[While engaged in these operations, the mist that enveloped the glacier and surrounding peaks was becoming thinner; little bits of blue sky appeared here and there, until suddenly, when we were looking towards the head of the glacier, far, far above us, at an almost inconceivable height, in a tiny patch of blue, appeared a wonderful rocky pinnacle, bathed in the beams of the fast-sinking sun. We were so electrified by the glory of the sight that it was some seconds before we realised what we saw, and understood that that astounding point, removed apparently miles from the earth, was one of the highest summits of Les Ecrins; and that we hoped, before another sun had set, to have stood upon an even loftier pinnacle. The mists rose and fell, presenting us with a series of dissolving views of ravishing grandeur, and finally died away, leaving the glacier and its mighty bounding precipices under an exquisite pale blue sky, free from a single speck of cloud.]
The night passed over without anything worth mention, but we
had had occasion to observe in the morning an instance of the
curious evaporation that is frequently noticeable in the High Alps.
On the previous night we had hung up on a knob of rock our
mackintosh bag containing five bottles of Rodier’s bad wine. In
the morning, although the stopper appeared to have been in all
night, about four-fifths had evaporated. It was strange; my friends
At 4 A.M. we moved off across the glacier in single file towards
the foot of a great gully, which led from the upper slopes of the
glacier de la Bonne Pierre, to the lowest point in the ridge that
runs from the Ecrins to the mountain called Roche Faurio,—cheered
by Rodier, who now returned with his wraps to La
Bérarde. This gully (or couloir) was discovered and descended by
Mr. Tuckett, and we will now return for a minute to the explorations
of that accomplished mountaineer.
In the year 1862 he had the good fortune to obtain from the
Dépôt de la Guerre at Paris, a MS. copy of the then unpublished
sheet 189 of the map of France, and with it in hand, he swept
backwards and forwards across the central Dauphiné Alps, untroubled
by the doubts as to the identity of peaks, which had perplexed
Mr. Macdonald and myself in 1861; and, enlightened by
it, he was able to point out (which he did in the fairest manner)
that we had confounded the Ecrins with another mountain—the
Pic Sans Nom. We made this blunder through imperfect knowledge
of the district and inaccurate reports of the natives;—but
it was not an extraordinary one (the two mountains are not unlike
each other), considering the difficulty that there is in obtaining
from any except the very highest summits a complete view of
this intricate group.
The situations of the principal summits can be perceived at a
There is some uncertainty respecting the elevation of this mountain. The Frenchmen give 3925 mètres (12,878) as its highest point, but Mr. Tuckett, who took a good theodolite to the top of Mont Pelvoux (which he agreed with his predecessors had an elevation of 12,973 feet), found that the summit of the Aléfroide was elevated above his station 4′; and as the distance between the two points was 12,467 feet, this would represent a difference in altitude of 5 mètres in favour of the Aléfroide. I saw this mountain from the summit of Mont Pelvoux in 1861, and was in doubt as to which of the two was the higher, and in 1864, from the summit of the Pointe des Ecrins (as will presently be related), it looked actually higher than Mont Pelvoux. I have therefore little doubt but that Mr. Tuckett is right in believing the Aléfroide to have an elevation of about 13,000 feet, instead of 12,878, as determined by the French surveyors.
Mont Pelvoux is to the east of the Aléfroide and off the main
ridge, and the Pic Sans Nom (12,845 feet) is placed between these
two mountains. The latter is one of the grandest of the Dauphiné
The lowest depression on the main ridge to the south of the Aléfroide is the Col du Selé, and this, according to Mr. Tuckett, is 10,834 feet. The ridge soon rises again, and, a little farther to the south, joins another ridge running nearly east and west. To a mountain at the junction of these two ridges the Frenchmen have given the singular name Crête des Bœufs Rouges! The highest point hereabouts is 11,332 feet; and a little to the west there is another peak (Mont Bans) of 11,979 feet. The main ridge runs from this last-named point, in a north-westerly direction, to the Cols de Says, both of which exceed 10,000 feet.
It will thus be seen that the general elevation of this main
ridge is almost equal to that of the range of Mont Blanc, or of the
central Pennine Alps; and if we were to follow it out more completely,
or to follow the other ridges surrounding or radiating from
it, we should find that there is a remarkable absence, throughout
the entire district, of low gaps and depressions, and that there are
an extraordinary number of peaks of medium elevation.
The possession of the advanced copy
of sheet 189 of the
French map, enabled Mr. Tuckett to grasp most of what I have just
viâ the village of Claux,
and the glaciers du Selé and de la Pilatte,—this he called the Col
du Selé; the second, between Ville Vallouise and Villar d’Arène
(on the Lautaret road) viâ Claux and the glaciers Blanc and
d’Arsine,—the Col du Glacier Blanc; and the third, from Vallouise
to La Bérarde, viâ the Glacier Blanc, the Glacier de l’Encula, and
the Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, the Col des Ecrins.
This last pass was discovered accidentally. Mr. Tuckett set out
intending to endeavour to ascend the Pointe des Ecrins, but circumstances
were against him, as he relates in the following words:—Arrived
on the plateau
(of the Glacier de l’Encula), a most
striking view of the Ecrins burst upon us, and a hasty inspection
encouraged us to hope that its ascent would be practicable. On
the sides of La Bérarde and the Glacier Noir it presents, as has
been already stated, the most precipitous and inaccessible faces
that can well be conceived; but in the direction of the Glacier
de l’Encula, as the upper plateau of the Glacier Blanc is named
on the French map, the slopes are less rapid, and immense masses
of
névé and séracs cover it nearly to the summit.
The snow was in very bad order, and as we sank at each step
above the knee, it soon became evident that our prospects of
success were extremely doubtful. A nearer approach, too, disclosed
traces of fresh avalanches, and after much deliberation and
a careful examination through the telescope, it was decided that
the chances in our favour were too small to render it desirable
to waste time in the attempt.... I examined the map, from
which I perceived that the glacier seen through the gap
(in the
ridge running from Roche Faurio to the Ecrins) to the west, at a
great depth below, must be that of La Bonne Pierre; and if a
descent to its head was practicable, a passage might probably be
effected to La Bérarde. On suggesting to Croz and Perrn that,
though baffled by the state of the snow on the Ecrins, we might
etc. etc.couloir,Alpine Journal, Dec. 1863.
This was the couloir at the foot of which we found ourselves at daybreak on the 25th of June 1864; but before commencing the relation of our doings upon that eventful day, I must recount the experiences of Messrs. Mathews and Bonney in 1862.
These gentlemen, with the two Croz’s, attempted the ascent of
the Ecrins a few weeks after Mr. Tuckett had inspected the mountain.
On August 26, says Mr. Bonney, we pushed on, and our
hopes each moment rose higher and higher; even the cautious
Michel committed himself so far as to cry,
Ah, malheureux
Ecrins, vous serez bientôt morts,
as we addressed ourselves to
the last slope leading up to the foot of the final cone. The old
proverb about many a slip
was, however, to prove true on this
occasion. Arrived at the top of this slope, we found that we were
cut off from the peak by a formidable bergschrund, crossed by the
rottenest of snow-bridges. We looked to the right and to the left,
to see whether it would be possible to get on either arête at its
extremity; but instead of rising directly from the snow as they
appeared to do from below, they were terminated by a wall of
rock some forty feet high. There was but one place where the
bergschrund was narrow enough to admit of crossing, and there a
cliff of ice had to be climbed, and then a path to be cut up a steep
slope of snow, before the arête could be reached. At last, after
searching in vain for some time, Michel bade us wait a little, and
started off to explore the gap separating the highest peak from the
snow-dome on the right, and see if it were possible to ascend the
rocky wall. Presently he appeared, evidently climbing with
difficulty, and at last stood on the arête itself. Again we thought
the victory was won, and started off to follow him. Suddenly he
called to us to halt, and turned to descend. In a few minutes he
Michel’s account was that he had reached the arête with great
difficulty, and saw that it was practicable for some distance, in
fact, as far as he could see; but that the snow was in a most
dangerous condition, being very incoherent and resting on hard
ice; that when he began to descend in order to tell us this, he
found the rocks so smooth and slippery that return was impossible;
and that for some little time he feared that he should not be able
to extricate himself, and was in considerable danger. Of course
the arête could have been reached by the way our guides had
descended, but it was so evident that their judgment was against
proceeding, that we did not feel justified in urging them on. We
had seen so much of them that we felt sure they would never
hang back unless there was real danger, and so we gave the word
for retreating.
Alpine Journal, June 1863.
On both of these expeditions there was fine weather and plenty
of time. On each occasion the parties slept out at, and started
from, a considerable elevation, and arrived at the base of the
final peak of the Ecrins early in the day, and with plenty of
We learnt privately, from Messrs. Mathews, Bonney, and
Tuckett, that unless the snow was in a good state upon the final
peak (that is to say, coherent and stable), we should probably be of
the same opinion as themselves; and that, although the face of the
mountain fronting the Glacier de l’Encula was much less steep
than its other faces, and was apparently the only side upon which
an attempt was at all likely to be successful, it was, nevertheless,
so steep, that for several days, at least, after a fall of snow upon it,
the chances in favour of avalanches would be considerable.
The reader need scarcely be told, after all that has been said about the variableness of weather in the High Alps, the chance was small indeed that we should find upon the 25th of June, or any other set day, the precise condition of affairs that was deemed indispensable for success. We had such confidence in the judgment of our friends, that it was understood amongst us the ascent should be abandoned, unless the conditions were manifestly favourable.
By five minutes to six we were at the top of the gully (a first-rate
couloir, about 1000 feet high), and within sight of our work.
Hard, thin, and wedge-like as the Ecrins had looked from afar,
it had never looked so hard and so thin as it did when we emerged
from the top of the couloir through the gap in the ridge. No
tender shadows spoke of broad and rounded ridges, but sharp
and shadowless its serrated edges stood out against the clear
We took in all this in a few minutes, and seeing there was no
time to be lost, despatched a hasty meal, left knapsacks, provisions,
and all incumbrances by the Col, started again at half-past six, and
made direct for the left side of the schrund, for it was there alone
that a passage was practicable. We crossed it at 8.10. Our route
can now be followed upon the annexed outline. The arrow marked D
points out the direction of the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre. The
ridge in front, that extends
right across, is the ridge that
is partially shown on the top
of the map at p. 146, leading
from Roche Faurio towards
the W.N.W. We arrived upon the plateau of the Glacier de
l’Encula, behind this ridge, from the direction of D, and then made
a nearly straight track to the left hand of the bergschrund at A.
Thus far there was no trouble, but the nature of the work
changed immediately. If we regard the upper 700 feet alone of
the final peak of the Ecrins, it may be described as a three-sided
pyramid. One face is towards the Glacier Noir, and forms one
of the sheerest precipices in the Alps. Another is towards the
Glacier du Vallon, and is less steep, and less uniform in angle than
the first. The third is towards the Glacier de l’Encula, and it was
by this one we approached the summit. Imagine a triangular
plane, 700 or 800 feet high, set at an angle exceeding 50°; let
it be smooth, glassy; let the uppermost edges be cut into spikes
and teeth, and let them be bent, some one way, some another.
Let the glassy face be covered with minute fragments of rock,
scarcely attached, but varnished with ice; imagine this, and then
By
all means let us go there, the sooner the better.
No slight was
intended, and he resumed his work, after a time being relieved by
Almer. Half-past ten came; an hour had passed; they were still
cutting. Dreary work for us, for no capering about could be done
here; hand as well as foot holes were necessary; the fingers and
toes got very cold; the ice, as it boomed in bounding down the
bergschrund, was very suggestive; conversation was very restricted,
separated as we were by our tether of 20 feet apiece. Another
hour passed. We were now almost immediately below the summit,
and we stopped to look up. We were nearly as far off it (vertically)
as we had been more than three hours before. The day seemed
going against us. The only rocks near at hand were scattered;
no bigger than tea-cups, and most of these, we found afterwards,
were glazed with ice. Time forbade cutting right up to the
might a slip have been fatal to every one, but it
would have been so beyond doubt: nothing, moreover, was easier
than to make one. It was a place where all had to work in unison,
where there must be no slackening of the rope, and no unnecessary
tension. For another hour we were in this trying situation, and
at 12.30 we gained the arête again at a much higher point (B),
close to the summit. Our men were, I am afraid, well-nigh worn
out. Cutting up a couloir 1000 feet high was not the right sort
of preparation for work of this kind. Be it so or not, we were all
glad to rest for a short time, for we had not sat down a minute
since leaving the col six hours before. Almer, however, was restless,
knowing that midday was past, and that much remained to
be accomplished, and untied himself, and commenced working
towards the summit. Connecting the teeth of rock were beds of
snow, and Almer, only a few feet from me, was crossing the top of
one of these, when suddenly, without a moment’s warning, it broke
away under him, and plunged down on to the glacier. As he
staggered for a second, one foot in the act of stepping, and the
other on the falling mass, I thought him lost; but he happily fell
on to the right side and stopped himself. Had he taken the step
with his right instead of the left foot, he would, in all probability,
have fallen several hundred feet without touching anything, and
would not have been arrested before reaching the glacier, a vertical
distance of at least 3000 feet.
Small, ridiculously small, as the distance was to the summit, we
were occupied nearly another hour before it was gained. Almer
was a few feet in front, and he, with characteristic modesty, hesitated
to step on the highest point, and drew back to allow us to
pass. A cry was raised for Croz, who had done the chief part of
the work, but he declined the honour, and we marched on to the
According to my custom, I bagged a piece from off the highest
rock (chlorite slate), and I found afterwards that it had a striking
similarity to the final peak of the Ecrins. I have noticed the same
thing on other occasions,
[Illustration: FRAGMENT FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE POINTE DES ECRINS.]
Did space permit me, I could give a very poor idea of the view, but it will be readily imagined that a panorama extending over as much ground as the whole of England is one worth taking some trouble to see, and one which is not often to be seen even in the Alps. No clouds obscured it, and a list of the summits that we saw would include nearly all the highest peaks of the chain. I saw the Pelvoux now—as I had seen the Ecrins from it three years before—across the basin of the Glacier Noir. It is a splendid mountain, although in height it is equalled, if not surpassed, by its neighbour the Aléfroide.
We could stay on the summit only a short time, and at a quarter
to two prepared for the descent. Now, as we looked down, and
thought of what we had passed over in coming up, we one and all
hesitated about returning the same way. Moore said, no. Walker
said the same, and I too; the guides were both of the same mind:
this, be it remarked, although we had considered that there was no
chance whatever of getting up any other way. But those last
rocks
were not to be forgotten. Had they only protruded to a
moderate extent, or had they been merely glazed, we should doubtless
still have tried: but they were not reasonable rocks,—they
would neither allow us to hold, nor would do it themselves. So
we turned to the western arête, trusting to luck that we should
find a way down to the schrund, and some means of getting over it
afterwards. Our faces were a tolerable index to our thoughts, and
apparently the thoughts of the party were not happy ones. Had
any one then said to me, You are a great fool for coming here,
I
should have answered with humility, It is too true.
And had
my monitor gone on to say, Swear you will never ascend another
mountain if you get down safely,
I am inclined to think I should
have taken the oath. In fact, the game here was not worth the
risk. The guides felt it as well as ourselves, and as Almer led off,
he remarked, with more piety than logic, The good God has
brought us up, and he will take us down in safety,
which showed
pretty well what he was thinking about.
The ridge down which we now endeavoured to make our way was not inferior in difficulty to the other. But were serrated to an extent that made it impossible to keep strictly to them, and obliged us to descend occasionally for some distance on the northern face and then mount again. Both were so rotten that the most experienced of our party, as well as the least, continually upset blocks large and small. Both arêtes were so narrow, so thin, that it was often a matter for speculation on which side an unstable block would fall.
At one point it seemed that we should be obliged to return to
may have expressed apprehension or alarm, but it certainly did not
show hope or joy. We learned that there was no means of getting
down, and that we must, if we wanted to pass the notch, jump
across on to an unstable block on the other side. It was decided
that it should be done, and Almer, with a larger extent of rope
than usual, jumped. The rock swayed as he came down upon it,
but he clutched a large mass with both arms and brought himself
to anchor. That which was both difficult and dangerous for the
first man was easy enough for the others, and we got across with
less trouble than I expected; stimulated by Croz’s perfectly just
observation, that if we couldn’t get across there we were not
likely to get down the other way.
We had now arrived at C and could no longer continue on the
arête, so we commenced descending the face again. Before long
we were close to the schrund, but unable to see what it was like
at this part, as the upper edge bent over. Two hours had already
passed since leaving the summit, and it began to be highly probable
that we should have to spend a night on the Glacier Blanc. Almer,
who yet led, cut steps right down to the edge, but still he could
not see below; therefore, warning us to hold tight, he made his
whole body rigid, and (standing in the large step which he had cut
for the purpose), had the upper part of his person lowered out until
he saw what he wanted. He shouted that our work was finished,
made me come close to the edge and untie myself, advanced the
others until he had rope enough, and then with a loud jödel jumped
We had been more than eight hours and a half accomplishing
the ascent of the final peak, which, according to an observation by
Mr. Bonney in 1862, is only 525 feet high.Alpine Journal. We considered the height assigned to the
final peak by Mr. Bonney was too small, and thought it should have been 200 feet
more.P.M.E
on the outline on p. 156.
We had now the pleasure of walking over a plain that is
known by the name of the Pré de Madame Carle, covered with
pebbles of all sizes, and intersected by numerous small streams
or torrents. Every hole looked like a stone, every stone like a
hole, and we tumbled about from side to side until our limbs and
our tempers became thoroughly jaded. My companions, being
both short-sighted, found the travelling especially disagreeable; so
Oh, how delightful! the very thing I have been longing
for. Let us have a perfectly extemporaneous bivouac.
This,
it should be said, was when the night threatened thunder and
lightning, rain, and all other delights.
The pleasures of a perfectly extemporaneous bivouac under these circumstances not being novelties to Croz and myself, we thought we would try for the miseries of a roof; but Walker and Almer, with their usual good nature, declared it was the very thing that they, too, were longing for; so the trio resolved to stop. We generously left them all the provisions (a dozen cubic inches or thereabouts of bacon fat, and half a candle), and pushed on for the chalets of Aléfroide, or at least we thought we did, but could not be certain. In the course of half-an-hour we got uncommonly close to the main torrent, and Croz all at once disappeared. I stepped cautiously forward to peer down into the place where I thought he was, and quietly tumbled head over heels into a big rhododendron bush. Extricating myself with some trouble, I fell backwards over some rocks, and got wedged in a cleft so close to the torrent that it splashed all over me.
The colloquy which then ensued amid the thundering of the stream was as follows:—
Hullo, Croz!
Eh, Monsieur.
Where
are you?Here,
Monsieur.
Where
is here?I don’t know; where are
you?Here, Croz;
and so on.
The fact was, from the intense darkness, and the noise of the torrent, we had no idea of each other’s situation. In the course of ten minutes, however, we joined together again, agreed we had had quite enough of that kind of thing, and adjourned to a most eligible rock at 10.15.
How well I remember the night at that rock, and the jolly way
in which Croz came out! We were both very wet about the legs,
[Illustration: A NIGHT WITH CROZ.]
I have failed to give the impression I wish if it has not been
made evident that the ascent of the Pointe des Ecrins was not an
ordinary piece of work. There is an increasing disposition now-a-days
amongst those who write on the Alps, to underrate the difficulties
and dangers which are met with, and this disposition is, I
think, not less mischievous than the old-fashioned style of making
everything terrible. Difficult as we found the peak, I believe we
The ascent of the Pointe des Ecrins has been made several times since 1864.
The second ascent was made by a French gentleman, named Vincent, with the
Chamounix guides Jean Carrier and Alexandre Tournier. They followed our route,
but reversed it; that is to say, ascended by the western and descended by the
eastern arête.
The best course to adopt in future attacks on the mountain, would be to bring a
ladder, or some other means of passing the bergschrund, in its centre, immediately
under the summit. One could then proceed directly upwards, and so avoid the labour
and difficulties which are inevitable upon any ascent by way of the arêtes.
How pleasant it is for him who is saved to remember his danger.
From Ailefroide to Claux, but for the path, travel would be scarcely
more easy than over the Pré de Madame Carle.in situ is
seen, so covered up is it by the débris, which seems to have been
derived almost entirely from the neighbouring cliffs.
It was Sunday, a day most calm and bright.
Golden sunlight
had dispersed the clouds, and was glorifying the heights,
and we forgot hunger through the brilliancy of the morning and
beauty of the mountains.
We meant the 26th to be a day of rest, but it was little that we
found in the
The path from Ville de Val Louise to Entraigues is good, and well shaded by
luxuriant foliage. The valley (d’Entraigues) is narrow; bordered by fine cliffs; and
closed at its western end by a noble block of mountains, which looks much higher
than it is. The highest point (the Pic de Bonvoisin) is 11,500 feet. Potatoes, peas,
and other vegetables, are grown at Entraigues (5284 feet), although the situation of
the chalets is bleak, and cut off from the sun.
The Combe (or Vallon) de la Selle joins the main valley at Entraigues, and one
can pass from the former by the little-known Col de Loup (immediately to the south
of the Pic de Bonvoisin) into the Val Godemar. Two other passes, both of considerable
height, lead from the head of the Vallon de la Selle into the valleys of Champoléon
and Argentière.
cabaret of Claude Giraud, and we fled before the babel
of sound which rose in intensity as men descended to a depth which
is unattainable by the beasts of the field, and found at the chalets
of Entraigues
Again we were received with the most cordial hospitality.
Everything that was eatable or drinkable was brought out and
pressed upon us; every little curiosity was exhibited; every information
that could be afforded was given; and when we retired
to our clean straw, we again congratulated each other that we had
escaped from the foul den which is where a good inn should be,
and had cast in our lot with those who dwell in chalets. Very
luxurious that straw seemed after two nights upon quartz pebbles
and glacier mud, and I felt quite aggrieved (expecting it was the
summons for departure) when, about midnight, the heavy wooden
door creaked on its hinges, and a man hem’d and ha’d to attract
attention; but when it whispered, Monsieur Edvard,
I perceived
my mistake,—it was our Pelvoux companion, Monsieur
Reynaud, the excellent agent-voyer of La Bessée.
Monsieur Reynaud had been invited to accompany us on the
excursion that is described in this chapter, but had arrived at Val
Louise after we had left, and had energetically pursued us during
the night. Our idea was that a pass might be made over the
high ridge called (on the French map) Crête de Bœufs Rouges,
We left Entraigues at 3.30 on the morning of June 27, and
proceeded, over very gently-inclined ground, towards the foot of
A.M., finding that there was no chance of obtaining a view
from the bottom of the valley of the ridge over which our route
was to be taken, sent Almer up the lower slopes of the Bonvoisin
to reconnoitre. He telegraphed that we might proceed; and at
5.45 we quitted the snow-beds at the bottom of the valley for
the slopes which rose towards the north.
The course was N.N.W., and was prodigiously steep. In less than
two miles difference of latitude we rose one mile of absolute height.
But the route was so far from being an exceptionally difficult one,
that at 10.45 we stood on the summit of the pass, having made an
ascent of more than 5000 feet in five hours, inclusive of halts.
Upon sheet 189 of the French map a glacier is laid down on
the south of the Crête des Bœufs Rouges, extending along the
entire length of the ridge, at its foot, from east to west. In 1864
this glacier did not exist as one glacier, but in the place where it
should have been there were several small ones, all of which were,
I believe, separated from each other.
We commenced the ascent from the Val d’Entraigues, to the
west of the most western of these small glaciers, and quitted the
valley by the first great gap in its cliffs after that glacier was
passed. We did not take to the ice until it afforded an easier route
than the rocks; then (8.30) Croz went to the front, and led with
admirable skill through a maze of crevasses up to the foot of a
great snow couloir, that rose from the head of the glacier to the
summit of the ridge over which we had to pass.
We had settled beforehand in London, without knowing
any
[Illustration: A SNOW COULOIR.]
Snow couloirs are nothing
more or less than
gullies partly filled by
snow. They are most useful
institutions, and may
be considered as natural
highways placed, by a
kind Providence, in convenient
situations for getting
over places which
would otherwise be
inac
Nothing, perhaps, could look much more unpromising to those
who do not know the virtues of couloirs than such a place as the
engraving represents,
Couloirs look prodigiously steep when seen from the front, and, so viewed, it is impossible to be certain of their inclination within many degrees. Snow, however, does actually lie at steeper angles in couloirs than in any other situations;—45° to 50° degrees is not an uncommon inclination. Even at such angles, two men with proper axes can mount on snow at the rate of 700 to 800 feet per hour. The same amount can only be accomplished in the same time on steep rocks when they are of the very easiest character, and four or five hours may be readily spent upon an equal height of difficult rocks. Snow couloirs are therefore to be commended because they economise time.
Of course, in all gullies, one is liable to be encountered by falling
stones. Most of those which fall from the rocks of a couloir,
sooner or later spin down the snow which fills the trough; and, as
their course and pace are more clearly apparent when falling over
snow than when jumping from ledge to ledge, persons with lively
At 9.30 A.M. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading
from the nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east
of Mont Bans.
Croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the ascent, and at 10.45 we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to refresh ourselves with a good halt. Unhappily, at that moment a mist, which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out the whole of the view on the northern side. Croz was the only one who caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on immediately, while its recollection was fresh in his memory. We are consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass, except that it lies immediately to the east of Mont Bans, and is elevated about 11,300 feet above the level of the sea. It is the highest pass in Dauphiné. We called it the Col de Pilatte.
We commenced to descend towards the Glacier de Pilatte by a
slope of smooth ice, the face of which, according to the measurement
of Mr. Moore, had an inclination of 54°! Croz still led, and
the others followed at intervals of about 15 feet, all being tied
together, and Almer occupying the responsible position of last
man. The two guides were therefore about 70 feet apart. They
were quite invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral
even to us. But the strong man could be heard by all hewing out
the steps below, while every now and then the voice of the steady
man pierced the cloud,—Slip not, dear sirs; place well your feet:
stir not until you are certain.
For three quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion.
The axe of Croz all at once stopped. What is the matter, Croz?
Bergschrund, gentlemen.
Can we get over?
Upon my
word, I don’t know; I think we must jump.
The clouds rolled
away right and left as he spoke. The effect was dramatic! It was
a coup de théâtre, preparatory to the great sensation leap
which
was about to be executed by the entire company.
Some unseen cause, some cliff or obstruction in the rocks
underneath, had caused our wall of ice to split into two portions,
A downward jump of 15 or 16 feet, and a forward leap of 7 or 8 feet had to be made at the same time. That is not much, you will say. It was not much; it was not the quantity, but it was the quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavour. You had to hit a narrow ridge of ice. If that was passed, it seemed as if you might roll down for ever and ever. If it was not attained, you dropped into the crevasse below; which, although partly choked by icicles and snow that had fallen from above, was still gaping in many places, ready to receive an erratic body.
Croz untied Walker in order to get rope enough, and warning us
to hold fast, sprang over the chasm. He alighted cleverly on his
feet; untied himself and sent up the rope to Walker, who followed
his example. It was then my turn, and I advanced to the edge of
the ice. The second which followed was what is called a supreme
moment. That is to say, I felt supremely ridiculous. The world
seemed to revolve at a frightful pace, and my stomach to fly away.
The next moment I found myself sprawling in the snow, and then,
of course, vowed that it was nothing, and prepared to encourage
my friend Reynaud.
He came to the edge and made declarations. I do not believe
that he was a whit more reluctant to pass the place than we others,
but he was infinitely more demonstrative,—in a word, he was
French. He wrung his hands, Oh! what a
diable of a place!It is nothing, Reynaud,
I said, it is
nothing.Jump,
cried
the others, jump.
But he turned round, as far as one can do
such a thing in an ice-step, and covered his face with his hands,
ejaculating, Upon my word, it is not possible. No! no!! no!!!
it is not possible.
How he came over I do not know. We saw a toe—it seemed
This chapter has already passed the limits within which it
should have been confined, but I cannot close it without paying
tribute to the ability with which Croz led us, through a dense
mist, down the remainder of the Glacier de Pilatte. As an exhibition
of strength and skill, it has probably never been surpassed
in the Alps or elsewhere. On this almost unknown and very steep
glacier, he was perfectly at home, even in the mists. Never able
to see fifty feet ahead, he still went on with the utmost certainty,
and without having to retrace a single step; and displayed from
first to last consummate knowledge of the materials with which he
was dealing. Now he cut steps down one side of a sérac, went with
a dash at the other side, and hauled us up after him; then cut away
along a ridge until a point was gained from which we could jump
on to another ridge; then, doubling back, found a snow-bridge,
across which he crawled on hands and knees, towed us across by
the legs, ridiculing our apprehensions, mimicking our awkwardness,
declining all help, bidding us only to follow him.
About 1 P.M. we emerged from the mist and found ourselves
just arrived upon the level portion of the glacier, having, as Reynaud
properly remarked, come down as quickly as if there had not
been any mist at all. Then we attacked the leg of mutton which
my friend had so thoughtfully brought with him, and afterwards
raced down, with renewed energy, to La Bérarde.
Reynaud and I walked together to St. Christophe, where we
parted. Since then we have talked over the doings of this
So our little campaign in Dauphiné came to an end. It was remarkable for the absence of failures, and for the ease and precision with which all our plans were carried out. This was due very much to the spirit of my companions; but it was also owing to the fine weather which we were fortunate enough to enjoy, and to our making a very early start every morning. By beginning our work at or before the break of day, on the longest days in the year, we were not only able to avoid hurrying when deliberation was desirable, but could afford to spend several hours in delightful ease whenever the fancy seized us.
I cannot too strongly recommend to tourists in search of
amusement to avoid the inns of Dauphiné. Sleep in the chalets.
Get what food you can from the inns, but do not as a rule attempt
to pass nights in them.Sleep in them you cannot. M. Joanne
says that the inventor of the insecticide powder was a native of
Dauphiné. I can well believe it. He must have often felt the
necessity of such an invention in his infancy and childhood.
On June 29 I crossed the Col du Galibier to St. Michel; on the 30th, the Col des Encombres to Moutiers; on July 1, the Col du Bonhomme to Contamines; and on the 2d, by the Pavilion de Bellevue to Chamounix, where I joined Mr. Adams-Reilly to take part in some expeditions which had been planned long before.
Nothing binds men so closely together as agreement in plans and desires.
Cicero.
A few years ago not many persons knew from personal knowledge
how extremely inaccurately the chain of Mont Blanc was
delineated. In the earlier part of the century thousands had made
the tour of the chain, and before the year 1860 at least one thousand
individuals had stood upon its highest summit; but out of
all this number there was not one capable, willing, or able, to map
the mountain which, until recently, was regarded the highest in
Europe.
Many persons knew that great blunders had been perpetrated, and it was notorious that even Mont Blanc itself was represented in a ludicrously incorrect manner on all sides excepting the north; but there was not, perhaps, a single individual who knew, at the time to which I refer, that errors of no less than 1000 feet had been committed in the determination of heights at each end of the chain; that some glaciers were represented of double their real dimensions; and that ridges and mountains were laid down which actually had no existence.
One portion alone of the entire chain had been surveyed at
the time of which I speak with anything like accuracy. It was
not done (as one would have expected) by a Government, but
by a private individual,—by the British De Saussure,—the late
J. D. Forbes. In the year 1842, he made a special survey of the
The map produced from this
survey was worthy of its author; and subsequent explorers of
the region he investigated have been able to detect only trivial
inaccuracies in his work.
In 1861, Sheet xxii. of Dufour’s Map of Switzerland appeared. It included the section of the chain of Mont Blanc that belonged to Switzerland, and this portion of the sheet was executed with the admirable fidelity and thoroughness which characterise the whole of Dufour’s unique map. The remainder of the chain (amounting to about four-fifths of the whole) was laid down after the work of previous topographers, and its wretchedness was made more apparent by contrast with the finished work of the Swiss surveyors.
In 1863, Mr. Adams-Reilly, who had been travelling in the
Alps during several years, resolved to attempt a survey of the
unsurveyed portions of the chain of Mont Blanc. He provided himself
with a good theodolite, and starting from a base-line measured
by Forbes in the Valley of Chamounix, determined the positions of
no less than 200 points. The accuracy of his work may be judged
from the fact that, after having turned many corners and carried
his observations over a distance of fifty miles, his Col Ferret fell
within 200 yards of the position assigned to it by General Dufour!
In the winter of 1863 and the spring of 1864, Mr. Reilly constructed an entirely original map from his newly-acquired data. The spaces between his trigonometrically determined points he filled in after photographs, and a series of panoramic sketches which he made from his different stations. The map so produced was an immense advance upon those already in existence, and it was the first which exhibited the great peaks in their proper positions.
This extraordinary piece of work revealed Mr. Reilly to me as
a man of wonderful determination and perseverance. With very
small hope that my proposal would be accepted, I invited him
to take part in renewed attacks on the Matterhorn. He entered
At the time that Mr. Reilly was carrying on his survey, Captain
Mieulet was executing another in continuation of the great map of
France; for about one-half of the chain of Mont Blanc (including
the whole of the valley of Chamounix) had recently become French
once more. Captain Mieulet was directed to survey up to his
frontier only, and the sheet which was destined to include his
work was to be engraved, of course, upon the scale of the rest of
the map, viz., 1/80000 of nature. But upon representations being
made at head-quarters that it would be of great advantage to extend
the survey as far as Massif du Mont Blanc, extrait des minutes de la Carte de France,
leré par M. Mieulet, Capitaine d’Etat Major.
Mr. Reilly presented his MS. map to the English Alpine Club. It was resolved that it should be published; but before it passed into the engraver’s hands its author undertook to revise it carefully. To this end he planned a number of expeditions to high points which up to that time had been regarded inaccessible, and upon some of these ascents he invited me to accompany him. Before I pass on to these expeditions, it will be convenient to devote a few lines to the topography of the chain of Mont Blanc.
At the present time the chain is divided betwixt France,
Switzerland, and Italy. France has the lion’s share, Switzerland
The frontier-line follows the main ridge. Very little of it can
be seen from the Valley of Chamounix, and from the village itself
two small strips only are visible (amounting to scarcely three miles
Mont Blanc itself is bounded by the two glaciers of Miage, the
glaciers de la Brenva and du Géant, the Val Véni and the Valley
of Chamounix. A long ridge runs out towards the N.N.E. from
the summit, through Mont Maudit, to the Aiguille du Midi.
Another ridge proceeds towards the N.W., through the Bosse du
Dromadaire to the Dôme du Goûter; this then divides into two,
of which one continues N.W. to the Aiguille du Goûter, and the
other (which is a part of the main ridge of the chain) towards
the W. to the Aiguille de Bionnassay. The two routes which are
commonly followed for the ascent of Mont Blanc lie between
these two principal ridges—one leading from Chamounix, viâ the
Grands Mulets, the other from the village of Bionnassay, viâ the
Aiguille and Dôme du Goûter.
The ascent of Mont Blanc has been made from several directions besides these, and perhaps there is no single point of the compass from which the mountain cannot be ascended. But there is not the least probability that any one will discover easier ways to the summit than those already known.
I believe it is correct to say that the Aiguille du Midi and the
Aiguille de Miage were the only two summits in the chain of
Mont Blanc which had been ascended at the beginning of 1864.
The finest, as well as the highest peak in the chain (after
Mont Blanc itself), is the Grandes Jorasses. The next, without a
The summit of the Aiguille Verte would have been one of the
best stations out of all these mountains for the purposes of my
friend. Its great height, and its isolated and commanding position,
make it a most admirable point for viewing the intricacies of the
chain; but he exercised a wise discretion in passing it by, and in
selecting as our first excursion the passage of the Col de Triolet.
We slept under some big rocks on the Couvercle on the night of July 7, with the thermometer at 26·5 Faht., and at 4.30 on the 8th made a straight track to the north of the Jardin, and thence went in zigzags, to break the ascent, over the upper slopes of the Glacier de Talèfre towards the foot of the Aiguille de Triolet. Croz was still my guide, Reilly was accompanied by one of the Michel Payots of Chamounix, and Henri Charlet, of the same place, was our porter.
The way was over an undulating plain of glacier of moderate
inclination until the corner leading to the Col, from whence a
steep secondary glacier led down into the basin of the Talèfre.
We experienced no difficulty in making the ascent of this secondary
A.M.
arrived on the top of the so-called pass, at a height, according to
Mieulet, of 12,162 feet, and 4530 above our camp on the Couvercle.
The descent was commenced by very steep, but firm, rocks,
and then by a branch of the Glacier de Triolet. SchrundsOur lives,
so
Reilly expressed it, were made a burden to us with schrunds.
We flattered ourselves that we should arrive at the chalets of Prè
du Bar very early in the day; but, owing to much time being lost
on the slopes of Mont Rouge, it was nearly 4 P.M. before we got to
them. There were no bridges across the torrent nearer than Gruetta,
and rather than descend so far, we preferred to round the base of
Mont Rouge, and to cross the snout of the Glacier du Mont Dolent.
We occupied the 9th with a scramble up Mont Dolent. This
was a miniature ascent. It contained a little of everything. First
we went up to the Col Ferret (No. 1), and had a little grind over
shaly banks; then there was a little walk over grass; then a little
tramp over a moraine (which, strange to say, gave a pleasant
path); then a little zigzagging over the snow-covered glacier of
Mont Dolent. Then there was a little bergschrund; then a little
wall of snow,—which we mounted by the side of a little buttress;
and when we struck the ridge descending S.E. from the summit,
we found a little arête of snow leading to the highest point. The
summit itself was little,—very small indeed; it was the loveliest
little cone of snow that was ever piled up on mountain-top; so
But there was nothing little about the view from the Mont
Dolent. [Situated at the junction of three mountain ridges, it rises
in a positive steeple far above anything in its immediate neighbourhood;
and certain gaps in the surrounding ridges, which seem
contrived for that especial purpose, extend the view in almost every
direction. The precipices which descend to the Glacier d’Argentière
I can only compare to those of the Jungfrau, and the ridges on both
sides of that glacier, especially the steep rocks of Les Droites and
Les Courtes, surmounted by the sharp snow-peak of the Aig. Verte,
have almost the effect of the Grandes Jorasses. Then, framed, as
it were, between the massive tower of the Aig. de Triolet and the
more distant Jorasses, lies, without exception, the most delicately
beautiful picture I have ever seen—the whole massif of Mont Blanc,
raising its great head of snow far above the tangled series of flying
buttresses which uphold the Monts Maudits, supported on the left
by Mont Peuteret and by the mass of ragged aiguilles which overhang
the Brenva. This aspect of Mont Blanc is not new, but from
this point its pose is unrivalled, and it has all the superiority of a
picture grouped by the hand of a master.... The view is as
extensive, and far more lovely than that from Mont Blanc itself.]
We went down to Courmayeur, and on the afternoon of July 10
started from that place to camp on Mont Suc, for the ascent of the
Aiguille de Trélatête; hopeful that the mists which were hanging
about would clear away. They did not, so we deposited ourselves,
and a vast load of straw, on the moraine of the Miage Glacier, just
above the Lac de Combal, in a charming little hole which some
solitary shepherd had excavated beneath a great slab of rock. We
spent the night there, and the whole of the next day, unwilling
Patience,
I said to him viciously, comes readily
to fellows who have shilling novels; but I
have not got one; I have picked all the mud out of the nails of
my boots, and have skinned my face; what
shall I do?
Go and study the moraine
of the Miage,
said he. I went, and came
back after an hour. What news?
cried
Reilly, raising himself on his elbow. Very
little; it’s a big moraine, bigger than I
thought, with ridge outside ridge, like a fortified camp; and there
are walls upon it which have been built
and loop-holed, as if for defence.
Try
again,
he said, as he threw himself on his
back. But I went to Croz, who was asleep,
and tickled his nose with a straw until
he awoke; and then, as that amusement was played out, watched
Reilly, who was getting numbed, and shifted
uneasily from side to side, and threw himself
on his stomach, and rested his head
on his elbows, and lighted his pipe and
puffed at it savagely. When I looked again,
how was Reilly? An indistinguishable
heap; arms, legs, head, stones, and straw, all mixed together, his
hat flung on one side, his novel tossed far
away! Then I went to him, and read him
a lecture on the excellence of patience.
Bah! it was a dull time. Our mountain,
like a beautiful coquette, sometimes
unveiled herself for a moment, and looked charming above, although
[Illustration: OUR CAMP ON MONT SUC.
We left our bivouac at 4.45 A.M., and at 9.40 arrived upon the
highest of the three summits of the Trélatête, by passing over the
[For four years I had felt great interest in the geography of the chain; the year before I had mapped, more or less successfully, all but this spot, and this spot had always eluded my grasp. The praises, undeserved as they were, which my map had received, were as gall and wormwood to me when I thought of that great slope which I had been obliged to leave a blank, speckled over with unmeaning dots of rock, gathered from previous maps—for I had consulted them all without meeting an intelligible representation of it. From the surface of the Miage glacier I had gained nothing, for I could only see the feet of magnificent ice-streams, and no more; but now, from the top of the dead wall of rock which had so long closed my view, I saw those fine glaciers from top to bottom, pouring down their streams, nearly as large as the Bossons, from Mont Blanc, from the Bosse, and from the Dôme.
The head of Mont Blanc is supported on this side by two buttresses,
between which vast glaciers descend. Of these the most
southernrognon of rock. Next, to
the left, comes the largest of the buttresses of which I have spoken,
almost forming an aiguille in itself. The next glacier
The great buttresses betwixt these magnificent ice-streams have
moraine. De Saussure says (vol. i. p. 380,
§ 536), the peasants of Chamounix call these heaps of débris
It may be inferred from this that the term was a local one, peculiar to
Chamounix.the moraine of the
glacier.
The dimensions of moraines are not ruled by those of glaciers.
Many small glaciers have large moraines,Mer de Glace of Greenland. For if a country or
district is completely covered up by glacier, the moraines may be
of the very smallest dimensions.
The contributions that are supplied to moraines by glaciers
themselves, from the abrasion of the rocks over which their ice
passes, are minute compared with the accumulations which are
If the contrary view were to be adopted, if it could be maintained
that glaciers,
by their motion, break off masses of rock from
the sides and bottoms of their valley courses, and crowd along every
thing that is movable, so as to form large accumulations of débris
in front, and along their sides,Atlas of Physical Geography, by Augustus Petermann and the Rev. T. Milner.
The italics are not in the original.
This doctrine does not find much favour with those who have
personal knowledge of what glaciers do at the present time. From
De SaussureThe stones that are found upon the upper extremities of glaciers are of the
same nature as the mountains which rise above; but, as the ice carries them down
into the valleys, they arrive between rocks of a totally different nature from their
own.
—De Saussure, § 536.above the ice, not from the bed over which it passes. But
amongst the writings of modern speculators upon glaciers and
glacier-action in bygone times, it is not uncommon to find the
notions entertained, that moraines represent the amount of excavation
(such is the term employed) performed by glaciers, or at least
are comprised of matter which has been excavated by glaciers;
that vast moraines have necessarily been produced by vast
glaciers; and that a great extension of glaciers necessarily causes
the production of vast moraines. Such generalisations cannot be
sustained.
We descended in our track to the Lac de Combal, and from thence went over the Col de la Seigne to les Motets, where we slept; on July 13, crossed the Col du Mont Tondu to Contamines (in a sharp thunderstorm), and the Col de Voza to Chamounix. Two days only remained for excursions in this neighbourhood, and we resolved to employ them in another attempt to ascend the Aiguille d’Argentière, upon which mountain we had been cruelly defeated just eight days before.
It happened in this way.—Reilly had a notion that the ascent of the Aiguille could be accomplished by following the ridge leading to its summit from the Col du Chardonnet. At half-past six, on the morning of the 6th, we found ourselves accordingly on the top of that pass. The party consisted of our friend Moore and his guide Almer, Reilly and his guide François Couttet, myself and Michel Croz. So far the weather had been calm, and the way easy; but immediately we arrived on the summit of the pass, we got into a furious wind. Five minutes earlier we were warm,—now we were frozen. Fine snow whirled up into the air penetrated every crack in our harness, and assailed our skins as painfully as if it had been red hot instead of freezing cold. The teeth chattered involuntarily—talking was laborious; the breath froze instantaneously; eating was disagreeable; sitting was impossible!
We looked towards our mountain. Its aspect was not encouraging.
The ridge that led upwards had a spiked arête, palisaded
with miniature aiguilles, banked up at their bases by heavy snow-beds,
which led down, at considerable angles, on one side towards
the Glacier de Saleinoz, on the other towards the Glacier du Chardonnet.
Under any circumstances, it would have been a stiff piece
of work to clamber up that way. Prudence and comfort counselled,
Give it up.
Discretion overruled valour. Moore and Almer
crossed the Col du Chardonnet to go to Orsières, and we others
returned towards Chamounix.
But when we got some distance down, the evil spirit which
prompts men to ascend mountains tempted us to stop, and to look
The glacier was steep, and the snow gully rising out of it was
steeper. Seven hundred steps were cut. Then the couloir became
too steep. We took to the rocks on its left, and at last gained the
ridge, at a point about 1500 feet above the Col du Chardonnet.
We faced about to the right, and went along the ridge; keeping
on some snow a little below its crest, on the Saleinoz side. Then
we got the wind again; yet no one thought of turning, for we
were within 250 feet of the summit.
The axes of Croz and Couttet went to work once more, for the
slope was about as steep as snow-slope could be. Its surface was
covered with a loose, granular crust; dry and utterly incoherent;
which slipped away in streaks directly it was meddled with. The
men had to cut through this into the old beds underneath, and to
pause incessantly to rake away the powdery stuff, which poured
down in hissing streams over the hard substratum. Ugh! how
cold it was! How the wind blew! Couttet’s hat was torn from
its fastenings, and went on a tour in Switzerland. The flour-like
snow, swept off the ridge above, was tossed spirally upwards,
eddying in tourmentes; then, dropt in lulls, or caught by other
gusts, was flung far and wide to feed the Saleinoz.
My feet are getting suspiciously numbed,
cried Reilly:
how about frost-bites?
Kick hard, sir,
shouted the men;
it’s the only way.
Their fingers were kept alive by their work;
but it was cold for the feet, and they kicked and hewed simultaneously.
I followed their example too violently, and made a
hole clean through my footing. A clatter followed as if crockery
had been thrown down a well.
I went down a step or two, and discovered in a second that all
were standing over a cavern (not a crevasse, speaking properly)
that was bridged over by a thin vault of ice, from which great
icicles hung in groves. Almost in the same minute Reilly pushed
one of his hands right through the roof. The whole party might
have tumbled through at any moment. Go ahead, Croz, we are
over a chasm!
We know it,
he answered, and we can’t find
a firm place.
In the blandest manner, my comrade inquired if to persevere
would not be to do that which is called tempting Providence.
My reply being in the affirmative, he further observed, Suppose
we go down?
Very willingly.
Ask the guides.
They had
not the least objection; so we went down, and slept that night at
the Montanvert.
Off the ridge we were out of the wind. In fact, a hundred feet
down to windward, on the slope fronting the Glacier du Chardonnet,
we were broiling hot; there was not a suspicion of a breeze.
Upon that side there was nothing to tell that a hurricane was
raging a hundred feet higher,—the cloudless sky looked tranquillity
itself: whilst to leeward the only sign of a disturbed atmosphere
was the friskiness of the snow upon the crests of the ridges.
We set out on the 14th, with Croz, Payot, and Charlet, to finish off the work which had been cut short so abruptly, and slept, as before, at the Chalets de Lognan. On the 15th, about midday, we arrived upon the summit of the aiguille, and found that we had actually been within one hundred feet of it when we turned back upon the first attempt.
It was a triumph to Reilly. In this neighbourhood he had
performed the feat (in 1863) of joining together two mountains,
each about 13,000 feet high, standing on the map about a mile
and a half apart.
Long before we made the ascent he had procured
evidence which could not be impugned, that the Pointe des
Plines, a fictitious summit which had figured on other maps as a
distinct mountain, could be no other than the Aiguille d’Argentière,
I do not know which to admire most, the fidelity of Mr. Reilly’s map, or the indefatigable industry by which the materials were accumulated from which it was constructed. To men who are sound in limb it may be amusing to arrive on a summit (as we did upon the top of Mont Dolent), sitting astride a ridge too narrow to stand upon; or to do battle with a ferocious wind (as we did on the top of the Aiguille de Trélatête); or to feel half-frozen in midsummer (as we did on the Aiguille d’Argentière). But there is extremely little amusement in making sketches and notes under such conditions. Yet upon all these expeditions, under the most adverse circumstances, and in the most trying situations, Mr. Reilly’s brain and fingers were always at work. Throughout all he was ever alike; the same genial, equable-tempered companion, whether victorious or whether defeated; always ready to sacrifice his own desires to suit our comfort and convenience. By a happy union of audacity and prudence, combined with untiring perseverance, he eventually completed his self-imposed task—a work which would have been intolerable except as a labour of love—and which, for a single individual, may well-nigh be termed Herculean.
We separated upon the level part of the Glacier d’Argentière,
Reilly going with Payot and Charlet viâ the chalets of Lognan and
de la Pendant, whilst I, with Croz, followed the right bank of the
glacier to the village of Argentière.P.M. we entered the
humble inn, and ten minutes afterwards heard the echoes of
the cannon which were fired upon the arrival of our comrades
at Chamounix.
A daring leader is a dangerous thing.
On July 10, Croz and I went to Sierre, in the Valais, viâ the Col
de Balme, the Col de la Forclaz, and Martigny. The Swiss side of
the Forclaz is not creditable to Switzerland. The path from Martigny
to the summit has undergone successive improvements in
these latter years; but mendicants permanently disfigure it.
We passed many tired pedestrians toiling up this oven, persecuted
by trains of parasitic children. These children swarm there
like maggots in a rotten cheese. They carry baskets of fruit with
which to plague the weary tourist. They flit around him like
flies; they thrust the fruit in his face; they pester him with their
pertinacity. Beware of them!—taste, touch not their fruit. In
the eyes of these children, each peach, each grape, is worth a
prince’s ransom. It is to no purpose to be angry; it is like flapping
wasps—they only buzz the more. Whatever you do, or whatever
you say, the end will be the same. Give me something,
is
the alpha and omega of all their addresses. They learn the phrase,
it is said, before they are taught the alphabet. It is in all their
mouths. From the tiny toddler up to the maiden of sixteen, there
is nothing heard but one universal chorus of—Give me something;
will you have the goodness to give me something?
From Sierre we went up the Val d’Anniviers to Zinal, to join
our former companions, Moore and Almer. Moore was ambitious
to discover a shorter way from Zinal to Zermatt than the two
The Col de Zinal or Triftjoch, between the Trifthorn and the Ober Gabelhorn;
and the Col Durand between the last-mentioned mountain and the Dent Blanche.
For our route from Zinal to Zermatt, see the Map of the Valley of Zermatt.
He was awaiting us, and we immediately proceeded up the
valley, and across the foot of the Zinal glacier to the Arpitetta Alp,
where a chalet was supposed to exist in which we might pass the
night. We found it at length,
A foul native invited us to enter. The interior was dark; and,
when our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we saw that our
palace was in plan about 15 by 20 feet; on one side it was
scarcely five feet high, and on the other was nearly seven. On
this side there was a raised platform, about six feet wide, littered
with dirty straw and still dirtier sheepskins. This was the bedroom.
The remainder of the width of the apartment was the
parlour. The rest was the factory. Cheese was the article which
was being fabricated, and the foul native was engaged in its
manufacture. He was garnished behind with a regular cowherd’s
one-legged stool, which gave him a queer, uncanny look when it
was elevated in the air as he bent over into his tub; for the making
of his cheese required him to blow into a tub for ten minutes at a
Big, black, and leaden-coloured clouds rolled up from Zinal,
and met in combat on the Moming glacier with others which
descended from the Rothhorn. Down came the rain in torrents,
and crash went the thunder. The herd-boys hurried under shelter,
for the frightened cattle needed no driving, and tore spontaneously
down the Alp as if running a steeple-chase. Men, cows, pigs,
sheep, and goats forgot their mutual animosities, and rushed to
the only refuge on the mountain. The spell was broken which
had bound the elements for some weeks past, and the cirque from
the Weisshorn to Lo Besso was the theatre in which they spent
their fury.
A sullen morning succeeded an angry night. We were undecided
in our council whether to advance or to return down the
valley. Good seemed likely to overpower bad; so, at 5.40, we
left the chalet en route for our pass [amidst the most encouraging
assurances from all the people on the Alp that we need not distress
ourselves about the weather, as it was not possible to get to the
point at which we were aiming].
Our course led us at first over ordinary mountain slopes, and
then over a flat expanse of glacier. Before this was quitted, it
was needful to determine the exact line which was to be taken.
We were divided betwixt two opinions. I advocated that a
course should be steered due south, and that the upper plateau of
the Moming glacier should be attained by making a great detour
to our right. This was negatived without a division. Almer
declared in favour of making for some rocks to the south-west of
the Schallhorn, and attaining the upper plateau of the glacier by
mounting them. Croz advised a middle course, up some very
He did not go very far, however, before he found that he had undertaken too much, and after [glancing occasionally round at us, to see what we thought about it, suggested that it might, after all, be wiser to take to the rocks of the Schallhorn]. That is to say, he suggested the abandonment of his own and the adoption of Almer’s route. No one opposed the change of plan, and, in the absence of instructions to the contrary, he proceeded to cut steps across an ice-slope towards the rocks.
Let the reader now cast his eye upon the map of the Valley of
Zermatt, and he will see that when we quitted the slopes of the
Arpitetta Alp, we took a south-easterly course over the Moming
glacier. We halted to settle the plan of attack shortly after we
got upon the ice. The rocks of the Schallhorn, whose ascent
Almer recommended, were then to our south-east. Croz’s proposed
route was to the south-west of the rocks, and led up the southern
side of a very steep and broken glacier.ice-fall.
Across this ice-slope Croz now proceeded to cut. It was
executing a flank movement in the face of an enemy by whom
we might be attacked at any moment. The peril was obvious. It
was a monstrous folly. It was foolhardiness. A retreat should
have been sounded.
I am not ashamed to confess,
wrote Moore in his Journal,
that during the whole time we were crossing this slope my heart
was in my mouth, and I never felt relieved from such a load of
care as when, after, I suppose, a passage of about twenty minutes,
we got on to the rocks and were in safety.... I have never
heard a positive oath come from Almer’s mouth, but the language
in which he kept up a running commentary, more to himself than
to me, as we went along, was stronger than I should have given
him credit for using. His prominent feeling seemed to be one of
indignation that we should be in such a position, and self-reproach
at being a party to the proceeding; while the emphatic way in
which, at intervals, he exclaimed, Quick; be quick,
sufficiently
betokened his alarm.
It was not necessary to admonish Croz to be quick. He was
fully as alive to the risk as any of the others. He told me afterwards,
that this place was the most dangerous he had ever
crossed, and that no consideration whatever would tempt him
to cross it again. Manfully did he exert himself to escape from
the impending destruction. His head, bent down to his work,
never turned to the right or to the left. One, two, three, went his
axe, and then he stepped on to the spot where he had been cutting.
How painfully insecure should we have considered those steps at
any other time! But now, we thought only of the rocks in front,
and of the hideous séracs, lurching over above us, apparently in
the act of falling.
We got to the rocks in safety, and if they had been doubly as difficult as they were, we should still have been well content. We sat down and refreshed the inner man; keeping our eyes on the towering pinnacles of ice under which we had passed; but which, now, were almost beneath us. Without a preliminary warning sound, one of the largest—as high as the Monument at London Bridge—fell upon the slope below. The stately mass heeled over as if upon a hinge (holding together until it bent 30 degrees forwards), then it crushed out its base, and, rent into a thousand fragments, plunged vertically down upon the slope that we had crossed! Every atom of our track, that was in its course, was obliterated; all the new snow was swept away, and a broad sheet of smooth, glassy ice, showed the resistless force with which it had fallen.
[Illustration: ICE-AVALANCHE ON THE MOMING PASS.]
It was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy
Many,
says Thucydides, though
seeing well the perils ahead, are forced along by fear of dishonour—as
the world calls it—so that, vanquished by a mere word, they
fall into irremediable calamities.
Such was nearly the case here.
No one could say a word in justification of the course which was
adopted; all were alive to the danger that was being encountered;
yet a grave risk was deliberately—although unwillingly—incurred,
in preference to admitting, by withdrawal from an untenable position,
that an error of judgment had been committed.
After a laborious trudge over many species of snow, and through
many varieties of vapour—from the quality of a Scotch mist to that
of a London fog—we at length stood on the depression between
the Rothhorn and the Schallhorn.
These snow-cornices are common on the crests of high mountain ridges, and
it is always prudent (just before arriving upon the summit of a mountain or ridge)
to
These cornices are frequently rolled round in a volute, and sometimes take most
extravagant forms. See page 32.
sound with the alpenstock, that is to say, drive it in, to discover whether there is
one or not. Men have often narrowly escaped losing their lives from neglecting this
precaution. Several instances have been known of cornices having given way without
a moment’s notice, and of life only having been saved through men being tied
together.
Croz—held hard in by the others, who kept down the Zinal
side—opened his shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away
[Illustration: SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1864.]
It was well for us now that we had such a man as leader. An
inferior or less daring guide would have hesitated to enter upon the
physique. He acted,
rather than said, Where snow lies fast, there man can go; where
ice exists, a way may be cut; it is a question of power; I have
the power,—all you have to do is to follow me.
Truly, he did not
spare himself, and could he have performed the feats upon the
boards of a theatre that he did upon this occasion, he would have
brought down the house with thunders of applause. Here is what
Moore wrote in his Journal.
[The descent bore a strong resemblance to the Col de Pilatte,
but was very much steeper and altogether more difficult, which is
saying a good deal. Croz was in his element, and selected his way
with marvellous sagacity, while Almer had an equally honourable
and, perhaps, more responsible post in the rear, which he kept with
his usual steadiness.... One particular passage has impressed
itself on my mind as one of the most nervous I have ever made.
We had to pass along a crest of ice, a mere knife-edge,—on our
left a broad crevasse, whose bottom was lost in blue haze, and on
our right, at an angle of 70°, or more, a slope falling to a similar
gulf below. Croz, as he went along the edge, chipped small
notches in the ice, in which we placed our feet, with the toes well
turned out, doing all we knew to preserve our balance. While
stepping from one of these precarious footholds to another, I
staggered for a moment. I had not really lost my footing; but
the agonised tone in which Almer, who was behind me, on seeing
me waver, exclaimed, Slip not, sir!
gave us an even livelier
impression than we already had of the insecurity of the position....
One huge chasm, whose upper edge was far above the lower
one, could neither be leaped nor turned, and threatened to prove
an insuperable barrier. But Croz showed himself equal to the
emergency. Held up by the rest of the party, he cut a series of
holes for the hands and feet, down and along the almost perpendicular
wall of ice forming the upper side of the schrund. Down
this slippery staircase we crept, with our faces to the wall, until a
schrunds.... To make a
long story short; after a most desperate and exciting struggle, and
as bad a piece of ice-work as it is possible to imagine, we emerged
on to the upper plateau of the Hohlicht glacier.]
The glimpses which had been caught of the lower part of the
Hohlicht glacier were discouraging, so it was now determined to
cross over the ridge between it and the Rothhorn glacier. This
was not done without great trouble. Again we rose to a height
exceeding 12,000 feet. Eventually we took to the track of the
despised Triftjoch, and descended by the well-known, but rough,
path which leads to that pass; arriving at the Monte Rosa hotel at
Zermatt at 7.20 P.M. We occupied nearly twelve hours of actual
walking in coming from the chalet on the Arpitetta Alp (which
was 2½ hours above Zinal), and we consequently found that the
Moming pass was not the shortest route from Zinal to Zermatt,
although it was the most direct.
Two dozen guides—good, bad, and indifferent; French, Swiss,
and Italian—can commonly be seen sitting on the wall on the front
of the Monte Rosa hotel: waiting on their employers, and looking
for employers; watching new arrivals, and speculating on the
number of francs which may be extracted from their pockets. The
Messieurs—sometimes strangely and wonderfully dressed—stand
about in groups, or lean back in chairs, or lounge on the benches
which are placed by the door. They wear extraordinary boots,
and still more remarkable head-dresses. Their peeled, blistered,
and swollen faces are worth studying. Some, by the exercise of
watchfulness and unremitting care, have been fortunate enough
to acquire a fine raw sienna complexion. But most of them have
not been so happy. They have been scorched on rocks, and roasted
on glaciers. Their cheeks—first puffed, then cracked—have exuded
a turpentine-like matter, which has coursed down their faces, and
[Illustration: THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT, IN 1864.]
Such are the pleasures of the mountaineer! Scornfully and derisively the last comer compares the sight with his own flaccid face and dainty hands; unconscious that he too, perhaps, will be numbered with those whom he now ridicules.
There is a frankness of manner about these strangely-apparelled
and queer-faced men, which does not remind one of drawing-room,
or city life; and it is good to see—in this club-room of
Zermatt—those cold bodies, our too-frigid countrymen,
This opportunity has been taken to introduce to the reader some of the most
expert amateur mountaineers of the time; and a few of the guides who have been,
or will be, mentioned in the course of the book.
The late Peter
I left this agreeable society to seek letters at the post. They yielded disastrous intelligence. My holiday was brought to an abrupt termination, and I awaited the arrival of Reilly (who was convoying the stores for the attack on the Matterhorn) only to inform him that our arrangements were upset; then travelled home, day and night, as fast as express trains would carry me.
Ye crags and peaks, I’m with you once again!
Again!
Our career in 1864 had been one of unbroken success, but the great ascent upon which I had set my heart was not attempted, and, until it was accomplished, I was unsatisfied. Other things, too, influenced me to visit the Alps once more. I wished to travel elsewhere, in places where the responsibility of direction would rest with myself alone. It was well to know how far my judgment in the choice of routes could be relied upon.
The journey of 1865 was chiefly undertaken, then, to find out to what extent I was capable to select paths over mountainous country. The programme which was drawn up for this journey was rather ambitious, since it included almost all of the great peaks which had not then been ascended; but it was neither lightly undertaken nor hastily executed. All pains were taken to secure success. Information was sought from those who could give it, and the defeats of others were studied, that their errors might be avoided. The results which followed came not so much, perhaps, from luck, as from forethought and careful calculation.
For success does not, as a rule, come by chance, and when one
fails there is a reason for it. But when any notable, or so-called
brilliant thing is done, we are too apt to look upon the success
Up to a certain point, the programme was completely and happily carried out. Nothing but success attended our efforts so long as the excursions were executed as they had been planned. Most of them were made upon the very days which had been fixed for them months beforehand; and all were accomplished, comparatively speaking, so easily, that their descriptions must be, in the absence of difficulty and danger, less interesting to the general reader than they would have been if our course had been marked by blunders and want of judgment. Before proceeding to speak of these excursions, it will not be entirely useless to explain the reasons which influenced the selection of the routes which were adopted upon them.
In the course of the past five seasons my early practices were
revolutionised. My antipathy to snow was overcome, and my
predilection for rocks was modified. Like all those who are not
mountaineers born, I was, at the first, extremely nervous upon
steep snow. The snow seemed bound to slip, and all those who
were upon it to go along with it. Snow of a certain quality is
undoubtedly liable to slip when it is at a certain
inclination.
It is comparatively seldom, however, that an ascent of a great mountain can be executed exclusively upon snow and glacier. Ridges peep through which have to be surmounted. In my earlier scramblings I usually took to, or was taken upon, the summits (or arêtes) of the ridges, and a good many mountaineers habitually take to them on principle, as the natural and proper way. According to my experience, it is seldom well to do so when any other course is open. As I have already said, and presently shall repeat more particularly, the crests of all the main ridges of the great peaks of the Alps are shattered and cleft by frost; and it not unfrequently happens that a notch in a ridge, which appears perfectly insignificant from a distance, is found to be an insuperable barrier to farther progress; and a great detour, or a long descent, has to be made to avoid the obstacle. When committed to an arête one is tied, almost always, to a particular course, from which it is difficult to deviate. Much loss of time must result if any serious obstruction occurs; and defeat often follows a temporary check.
But it rarely happens that a great alpine peak is seen that is
cut off abruptly, in all directions, from the snows and glaciers which
surround it. In its gullies snow will cling, although its faces may
be too steep for the formation of permanent snow-beds. The merits
of these snow-gullies (or couloirs) have been already pointed
out,
By following the glaciers, the snow-slopes above, and the couloirs rising from them, it is usually possible to get very close to the summits of the great peaks in the Alps. The final climb will, perhaps, necessarily be by an arête. The less of it the better.
It occasionally occurs that considerable mountain slopes, or
faces, are destitute of snow-gullies. In that case it will, very
likely, be best to adhere to the faces (or to the gullies or minor
ridges upon them) rather than to take to the great ridges. Upon a
In selecting the routes which were taken in 1865, I looked, first, for places where glaciers and snow extended highest up into the mountains which were to be ascended, or the ridges which were to be crossed. Next, for gullies filled with snow leading still higher; and finally, from the heads of the gullies we completed the ascents, whenever it was practicable, by faces instead of by arêtes. The ascent of the Grand Cornier (13,022), of the Dent Blanche (14,318), Grandes Jorasses (13,700), Aiguille Verte (13,540), Ruinette (12,727), and the Matterhorn (14,780), were all accomplished in this way; besides the other excursions which will be referred to by and by. The route selected, before the start was made, was in every case strictly followed out.
We inspected all of these mountains from neighbouring heights
before entering upon their ascents. I explained to the guides the
routes I proposed to be taken, and (when the courses were at all
complicated) sketched them out on paper to prevent misunderstanding.
In some few cases they suggested variations, and in
every case the route was well discussed. The execution of the
work was done by the guides, and I seldom interfered with, or
attempted to assist in it.
The 13th of June 1865 I spent in the valley of Lauterbrunnen with the Rev. W. H. Hawker and the guides Christian and Ulrich Lauener; and on the 14th crossed the Petersgrat with Christian Almer and Johann Tännler to Turtman (Tourtemagne) in the Valais. Tännler was then paid off, as Michel Croz and Franz Biener were awaiting me.
It was not possible to find two leading guides who worked
together more harmoniously than Croz and Almer. Biener’s part
was subordinate to theirs, and he was added as a convenience rather
than as a necessity. Croz spoke French alone, Almer little else
than German. Biener spoke both languages, and was useful on
The importance of having a reserve of power on mountain
expeditions cannot be too strongly insisted upon. We always had
some in hand, and were never pressed, or overworked, so long as
we were together. Come what might, we were ready for it. But
by a series of chances, which I shall never cease to regret, I was
first obliged to part with Croz, and then to dismiss the others;
I engaged Croz for 1865 before I parted from him in 1864; but upon writing to
him in the month of April to fix the dates of his engagement, I found that he had
supposed he was free (in consequence of not having heard from me earlier), and had
engaged himself to a Mr. B—— from the 27th of June. I endeavoured to hold him
to his promise, but he considered himself unable to withdraw from his later obligation.
His letters were honourable to him. The following extract from the last one
he wrote to me is given as an interesting souvenir of a brave and upright man:—
On June 15 we went, from Turtman to Z’meiden, and thence over the Forcletta pass to Zinal. We diverged from the summit of the pass up some neighbouring heights to inspect the Grand Cornier, and I decided to have nothing to do with its northern side. It seemed quite safe to pronounce it inaccessible from that direction, although it was more than seven miles away.
On the 16th we left Zinal at 2.5 A.M., having been for a
moment greatly surprised by an entry in the hotel-book,
The ridges leading to the north and to the south from the
summit of the Grand Cornier, exhibited in a most striking manner
the extraordinary effects that may be produced by violent alternations
of heat and cold. The southern one was hacked and split
into the wildest forms; and the northern one was not less cleft
and impracticable, and offered the droll piece of rock-carving
which is represented upon page 211. Some small blocks actually
[Illustration: PART OF THE SOUTHERN RIDGE OF THE GRAND CORNIER.]
It is natural that the great ridges should present the wildest
forms—not on account of their dimensions, but by reason of their
positions. They are exposed to the fiercest heat of the sun, and
are seldom in shadow as long as it is above the horizon. They are
entirely unprotected, and are attacked by the strongest blasts and
by the most intense cold. The most durable rocks are not proof
against such assaults. These grand, apparently solid—eternal—mountains,
seeming so firm, so immutable, are yet ever changing
and crumbling into dust. These shattered ridges are evidence
of their sufferings. Let me repeat that every principal ridge of
every great peak in the Alps amongst those I have seen has been
The minor ridges do not usually present such extraordinary forms as the principal ones. They are less exposed, and they are less broken up; and it is reasonable to assume that their annual degradation is less than that of the summit-ridges.
The wear and tear does not cease even in
winter, for these great ridges are
never completely covered up by
snow,
I wrote in the
The men who were left by M. Dollfus-Ausset in his observatory upon the summit
of the Col Théodule, during the winter of 1865, remarked that the snow was partially
melted upon the rocks in their vicinity upon 19th, 20th, 21st, 22d, 23d, 26th, 27th
December of that year, and upon the 22d of December they entered in their Journal,
Athenæum, August 29, 1863, to the same effect. This action
of the frost does not cease in winter, inasmuch as it is impossible for the Matterhorn
to be entirely covered by snow. Less precipitous mountains may be entirely covered
up during winter, and if they do not then actually gain height, the wear and tear is,
at least, suspended.... We arrive, therefore, at the conclusion that, although
such snow-peaks as Mont Blanc
These remarks have received confirmation.
may in the course of ages grow higher, the Matterhorn
must decrease in height.
—Nous avons vu au Matterhorn que la neige se fondait sur roches et qu’il s’en écoulait
de l’eau.Matériaux pour l’étude des Glaciers, vol. viii. part i. p. 246, 1868; and
vol. viii. part ii. p. 77, 1869.
[Illustration: PART OF THE NORTHERN RIDGE OF THE GRAND CORNIER.]
The rock-falls which are continually occurring upon all rock
mountains (such as are referred to upon pp. 29, 55) are, of course,
These falls of rock take place from two causes. First, from the
heat of the sun detaching small stones or rocks which have been
arrested on ledges or slopes and bound together by snow or ice. I
have seen such released many times when the sun has risen high;
fall gently at first, gather strength, grow in volume, and at last
rush down with a cloud trailing behind, like the dust after an
express train. Secondly, from the freezing of the water which
trickles, during the day, into the clefts, fissures, and crannies.
This agency is naturally most active in the night, and then, or
during very cold weather, the greatest falls take place.
When one has continually seen and heard these falls, it is easily
understood why the glaciers are laden with moraines. The wonder
is, not that they are sometimes so great, but that they are not
always greater. Irrespective of lithological considerations, one
knows that this débris cannot have been excavated by the glaciers.
The moraines are borne by glaciers, but they are born from the
ridges. They are generated by the sun, and delivered by the frost.
Fire,
it is well said in Plutarch’s life of Camillus, is the most
active thing in nature, and all generation is motion, or at least,
with motion; all other parts of matter without warmth lie sluggish
and dead, and crave the influence of heat as their life, and when
that comes upon them, they immediately acquire some active or
passive qualities.
It must not be thought that heat generates motion, or motion heat (though
in some respects this be true), but that the very essence of heat, or the substantial
self of heat, is motion and nothing else.
—Novum Organum, book ii. Devey’s
Translation.
If the Alps were granted a perfectly invariable temperature, if
they were no longer subjected, alternately, to freezing blasts and
to scorching heat, they might more correctly be termed eternal.
They might still continue to decay, but their abasement would be
much less rapid.
When rocks are covered up by a sheet of glacier they do enjoy
an almost invariable temperature. The extremes of summer and
winter are unknown to rocks which are so covered up,—a range of
a very few degrees is the most that is possible underneath the ice.at the sides of glacier beds, the range of temperature is greater. But
there is evidence that the winter cold does not penetrate to the innermost recesses of
glacier-beds in the fact that streams continue to flow underneath the ice all the year
round, winter as well as summer, in the Alps and (I was informed in Greenland) in
Greenland. Experimental proof can be readily obtained that even in midsummer
the bottom temperature is close to 32° Faht.then, little or no disintegration from unequal expansion
and contraction. Frost, then, does not penetrate into the heart of
the rock, and cleave off vast masses. The rocks, then, sustain
grinding instead of cleaving. Atoms, then, come away instead of
masses. Fissures and overhanging surfaces are bridged, for the
ice cannot get at them; and after many centuries of grinding
have been sustained, we still find numberless angular surfaces (in
the lee-sides) which were fashioned before the ice began to work.
The points of difference which are so evident between the
operations of heat, cold, and water, and those of glaciers upon
rocks, are as follow. The former take advantage of cracks, fissures,
joints, and soft places; the latter do not. The former can work
underneath overhanging masses; the latter cannot. The effects
produced by the former continually increase, because they continually
expose fresh surfaces by forming new cracks, fissures, and
holes. The effects which the latter produce constantly diminish,
because the area of the surfaces operated upon becomes less and
less, as they become smoother and flatter.
What can one conclude, then, but that sun, frost, and water,
comparatively,
but for a short time, which is always slow and feeble in its
operations, and which constantly diminishes in intensity?
Yet there are some who refuse to believe that sun, frost, and
water have played an important part in modelling the Alps, and
hold it as an article of their faith that the Alpine region owes its
present conformation mainly to the action of its ancient glaciers
!On the Conformation of the Alps,
Phil. Mag., Sept. 1862.
My reverie was interrupted by Croz observing that it was time
to be off. Less than two hours sufficed to take us to the glacier
plateau below (where we had left our baggage); three quarters of
an hour more placed us upon the depression between the Grand
Cornier and the Dent Blanche (Col du Grand CornierP.M. we arrived at Abricolla. Croz and Biener hankered after
milk, and descended to a village lower down the valley; but
Almer and I stayed where we were, and passed a chilly night
on some planks in a half-burnt chalet.A.M. Thence to plateau S.E. of summit of Grand Cornier, 5 h. 25 min. From
the plateau to the summit of the mountain, 2½ hours. The last 300 feet of the ridge
followed were exceedingly sharp and narrow, with a great cornice, from which huge
icicles depended. We were obliged to go underneath the cornice, and to cut a way
through the icicles. Descent from summit to plateau, 1 h. 40 min. Sharp snow-storm,
with thunder. Plateau to summit of Col du Grand Cornier (rocks easy),
45 min. From the summit of the Col to the end of glacier leading to the west, 55 min.
Thence to Abricolla (7959), 15 min.
God help thee, Trav’ller, on thy journey far;
To-night will guide thee....
Croz and Biener did not return until past 5 A.M. on June 17, and
we then set out at once for Zermatt, intending to cross the Col
d’Hérens. But we did not proceed far before the attractions of
the Dent Blanche were felt to be irresistible, and we turned
aside up the steep lateral glacier which descends along its south-western
face.
The Dent Blanche is a mountain that is little known except to the climbing fraternity. It was, and is, reputed to be one of the most difficult mountains in the Alps. Many attempts were made to scale it before its ascent was accomplished. Even Leslie Stephen himself, fleetest of foot of the whole Alpine brotherhood, once upon a time returned discomfited from it.
[Illustration: LESLIE STEPHEN.]
It was not climbed until 1862; but in that
year Mr. T. S. Kennedy, with Mr. Wigram, and
the guides Jean B. Croz
Mr. Kennedy started from Abricolla between 2 and 3 A.M. on
July 18, 1862, and ascending the glacier that is mentioned in the
opening paragraph, went towards the point marked 3912 mètres
upon the map;
Mr. Kennedy described his expedition in a very interesting
paper in the Alpine Journal. His account bore the impress of
truth; yet unbelievers said that it was impossible to have told (in
weather such as was experienced) whether the summit had actually
been attained, and sometimes roundly asserted that the mountain,
as the saying is, still remained virgin.
I did not share these doubts, although they influenced me to
make the ascent. I thought it might be possible to find an easier
route than that taken by Mr. Kennedy, and that if we succeeded
in discovering one we should be able at once to refute his traducers,
and to vaunt our superior wisdom. Actuated by these
elevated motives, I halted my little army at the foot of the
glacier, and inquired, Which is best for us to do?—to ascend
the Dent Blanche, or to cross to Zermatt?
They answered,
with befitting solemnity, We think Dent Blanche is best.
From the chalets of Abricolla the south-west face of the Dent Blanche is regarded almost exactly in profile. From thence it is seen that the angle of the face scarcely exceeds thirty degrees, and after observing this I concluded that the face would, in all probability, give an easier path to the summit than the crest of the very jagged ridge which was followed by Mr. Kennedy.
We zigzagged up the glacier along the foot of the face, and
looked for a way on to it. We looked for some time in vain, for a
mighty bergschrund effectually prevented approach, and, like a
fortress’ moat, protected the wall from assault. We went up and
[Illustration: THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865]
A bergschrund, it was said on p. 182, is a schrund, and something
more than a schrund. A schrund is simply a big crevasse.
very large, but early in the season (that is to say in the month of
June or before) bergschrunds are usually snowed up, or well
bridged over, and do not give much trouble. Later in the year,
say in August, they are frequently very great hindrances, and
occasionally are completely impassable.
They are lines of rupture consequent upon unequal motion.
The glaciers below move quicker than the snow or ice which clings
immediately to the mountains; hence these fissures result. The
slower motion of that which is above can only be attributed to its
having to sustain greater friction; for the rule is that the upper
portion is set at a steeper angle than the lower. As that is the
case, we should expect that the upper portion would move quicker
than the lower, and it would do so, doubtless, but for the retardation
of the rocks over which, and through which, it passes.
We crossed the bergschrund of the Dent Blanche, I suppose,
at a height of about 12,000 feet above the level of the sea. Our
work may be said to have commenced at that point. The face,
although not steep in its general inclination, was so cut up by
little ridges and cliffs, and so seamed with incipient couloirs, that
it had all the difficulty of a much more precipitous slope. The
difficulties were never great, but they were numerous, and made
a very respectable total when put together. We passed the bergschrund
soon after nine in the morning, and during the next
eleven hours halted only five-and-forty minutes. The whole of
the remainder of the time was occupied in ascending and descending
the 2400 feet which compose this south-western face; and
inasmuch as 1000 feet per hour (taking the mean of ascent and
The hindrances opposed to us by the mountain itself were,
however, as nothing compared with the atmospheric obstructions.
It is true there was plenty of, Are you fast, Almer?
Yes.
Go ahead, Biener.
Biener, made secure, cried, Come on, sir,
and Monsieur endeavoured. No, no,
said Almer, not there,—
—pointing
with his bâton to the right place to clutch. Then
’twas Croz’s turn, and we all drew in the rope as the great man
followed. here,Forwards
once more—and so on.
Five hundred feet of this kind of work had been accomplished
when we were saluted (not entirely unexpectedly) by the first gust
of a hurricane which was raging above. The day was a lovely one
for dwellers in the valleys, but we had, long ago, noted some light,
gossamer clouds, that were hovering round our summit, being
drawn out in a suspicious manner into long, silky threads. Croz,
indeed, prophesied before we had crossed the schrund, that we
should be beaten by the wind, and had advised that we should
return. But I had retorted, No, my good Croz, you said just
now
Dent Blanche is best
; we must go up the Dent Blanche.
I have a very lively and disagreeable recollection of this wind. Upon the outskirts of the disturbed region it was only felt occasionally. It then seemed to make rushes at one particular man, and when it had discomfited him, it whisked itself away to some far-off spot, only to return, presently, in greater force than before.
My old enemy—the Matterhorn—seen across the basin of the
Z’Muttgletscher, looked totally unassailable. Do you think,
the
men asked, that you, or any one else, will ever get up
And when, undismayed by their ridicule, I stoutly
answered, that
mountain?Yes, but not upon that side,
they burst into derisive
chuckles. I must confess that my hopes sank; for nothing can
look more completely inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its
northern and north-west sides.
Forwards
once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens.
Not a thousand feet more; in three hours we shall be on the
summit.
You mean
echoed Croz, so slow had been the
progress. But I was not far wrong in the estimate. At 3.15 we
struck the great ridge followed by Mr. Kennedy, close to the top of
the mountain. The wind and cold were terrible there. Progress
was oftentimes impossible, and we waited, crouching under the lee
of rocks, listening to ten,the shrieking of the mindless wind,
while
the blasts swept across, tearing off the upper snow and blowing
it away in streamers over the Schönbühl glacier—nothing seen
except an indescribable writhing in the air, like the wind made
visible.
Our goal was concealed by mist, although it was only a few
yards away, and Croz’s prophecy, that we should stay all night
upon the summit, seemed likely to come true. The men rose with
the occasion, although even their fingers had nearly lost sensation.
There were no murmurings, nor suggestions of return, and they
pressed on for the little white cone which they knew must be
near at hand. Stopped again; a big mass perched loosely on the
ridge barred the way; we could not crawl over, and scarcely dared
creep round it. The wine went round for the last time. The
liquor was half-frozen,—still we would more of it. It was all
gone; the bottle was left behind, and we pushed on, for there
was a lull.
The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds
opened, and I saw that we were all but upon the highest point,
and that, between us and it, about twenty yards off, there was a
little artificial pile of stones. Kennedy was a true man,—it was a
cairn which he had erected. What is that, Croz?
he bawled. It was needless to proceed farther; I jerked
the rope from Biener, and motioned that we should go back. He
did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately. Homme des
pierres,They did not
see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and misinterpreted
We commenced the descent of the face. It was hideous work.
The men looked like impersonations of Winter, with their hair all
frosted, and their beards matted with ice. My hands were numbed—dead.
I begged the others to stop.
was their reply. They were right; to
stop was to be entirely frozen. So we went down; gripping rocks
varnished with ice, which pulled the skin from the fingers. Gloves
were useless; they became iced too, and the bâtons slid through
them as slippery as eels. The iron of the axes stuck to the fingers—it
felt red-hot; but it was useless to shrink, the rocks and the
axes had to be firmly grasped—no faltering would do here.
We cannot afford to stop;
we must continue to move,
We turned back at 4.12 P.M., and at 8.15 crossed the bergschrund
again, not having halted for a minute upon the entire
descent. During the last two hours it was windless, but time was
of such vital importance that we pressed on incessantly, and did
not stop until we were fairly upon the glacier. Then we took
stock of what remained of the tips of our fingers. There was not
much skin left; they were perfectly raw, and for weeks afterwards
I was reminded of the ascent of the Dent Blanche by the twinges
which I felt when I pulled on my boots. The others escaped with
some slight frost-bites; and, altogether, we had reason to congratulate
ourselves that we got off so lightly. The men complimented
me upon the descent, and I could do the same honestly to them.
If they had worked less vigorously, or harmoniously, we should
have been benighted upon the face, where there was not a single
spot upon which it was possible to sit; and if that had happened,
I do not think that one would have survived to tell the tale.
We made the descent of the glacier in a mist, and of the
P.M. We had been
absent eighteen and a half hours, and out of that time had been
going not less than seventeen. That night we slept the sleep of
those who are thoroughly tired.
[Illustration: T. S. KENNEDY.]
Two days afterwards, when walking into Zermatt, whom should
we meet but Mr. Kennedy. Hullo!
we said, we have just seen
your cairn on the top of the Dent
Blanche.
No, you haven’t,
he
answered, very positively. What
do you mean?
Why, that you
cannot have seen my cairn, because
I didn’t make one!
Well,
but we saw
a cairn.No doubt;
it was made by a man who went
up the mountain last year with
Lauener and Zurfluh,
O-o-h,
we said, rather disgusted at hearing
news when we expected to
communicate some, O-o-h! good morning, Kennedy.
Before this
happened, we managed to lose our way upon the Col d’Hérens;
but an account of that must be reserved for the next chapter.
Oh! ye immortal gods, where in the world are we?
Cicero.
We should have started for Zermatt about 7 A.M. on the 18th, had
not Biener asked to be allowed to go to mass at Evolène, a village
about two and a half hours from Abricolla. He received permission,
on the condition that he returned not later than mid-day,
but he did not come back until 2.30 P.M., and we thereby got into
a pretty little mess.
The pass which we were about to traverse to Zermatt—the Col
d’Hérens—is one of the few glacier-passes in this district which
have been known almost from time immemorial. It is frequently
crossed in the summer season, and is a very easy route, notwithstanding
that the summit of the pass is 11,417 feet above the
level of the sea.
From Abricolla to the summit the way lies chiefly over the flat Glacier de Ferpècle. The walk is of the most straightforward kind. The glacier rises in gentle undulations; its crevasses are small and easily avoided; and all you have to do, after once getting upon the ice, is to proceed due south, in the most direct manner possible. If you do so, in two hours you should be upon the summit of the pass.
We tied ourselves in line, of course, when we entered upon the
For some little time Biener progressed steadily, making a
tolerably straight track; but at length he wavered, and deviated
sometimes to the right, and sometimes to the left. Croz rushed
forward directly he saw this, and taking the poor young man by
his shoulders gave him a good shaking, told him that he was an
imbecile, to untie himself at once, and to go to the rear. Biener
looked half-frightened, and obeyed without a murmur. Croz led
off briskly, and made a good straight track for a few minutes.
Then, it seemed to me, he began to move steadily round to the
left. I looked back, but the mist was now too thick to see our
traces, and so we continued to follow our leader. At last the others
(who were behind, and in a better position to judge) thought the
same as I did, and we pulled up Croz to deliver our opinion. He
took our criticism in good part, but when Biener opened his mouth
that was too much for him to stand, and he told the young man
again, You are imbecile; I bet you twenty francs to one that my
track is better than yours; twenty francs, now then, imbecile!
Almer went to the front. He commenced by returning in the
track for a hundred yards or so, and then started off at a tangent
from Croz’s curve. We kept this course for half-an-hour, and then
were certain that we were not on the right route, because the
snow became decidedly steep. We bore away more and more to
the right, to avoid this steep bank, but at last I rebelled, as we
had for some time been going almost south-west, which was
altogether the wrong direction. After a long discussion we
We were greatly puzzled, and could not in the least tell
whether we were too near the Dent Blanche or too close to the
Tête Blanche. The mists had thickened, and were now as dense as
a moderate London fog. There were no rocks or echoes to direct
us, and the guidance of the compass brought us invariably against
these steep snow-banks. The men were fairly beaten; they had
all had a try, or more than one, and at last gave it up as a bad job,
and asked what was to be done. It was 7.30 P.M. and only an hour
of daylight was left. We were beginning to feel used up, for we
had wandered about at tip-top speed for the last three hours and a
half, so I said, This is my advice; let us turn in our track, and go
back as hard as ever we can, not quitting the track for an instant.
They were well content, but just as we were starting off, the
clouds lifted a little, and we thought we saw the Col. It was then
to our right, and we went at it with a dash. Before we had gone
a hundred paces down came the mist again. We kept on nevertheless
for twenty minutes, and then, as darkness was perceptibly
coming on, and the snow was yet rising in front, we turned back,
and by running down the entire distance managed to get clear of
the Ferpècle glacier just as it became pitch dark. We arrived at
our cheerless chalet in due course, and went to bed supperless,
for our food was gone; all very sulky—not to say savage—agreeing
in nothing except in bullying Biener.
At 7 A.M. on the 19th, we set out, for the third time, for the
Col d’Hérens. It was a fine day, and we gradually recovered our
tempers as we saw the follies which had been committed on the
previous evening. Biener’s wavering track was not so bad; but
Croz had swerved from the right route from the first, and had
traced a complete semicircle, so that when we stopped him we
were facing Abricolla—whence we had started. Almer had commenced
with great discretion; but he kept on too long, and crossed
wrong. We arrived at Zermatt in six and a half hours’
walking from Abricolla, and Seller’s hospitable reception set us
all right again.
On the 20th we crossed the Théodule pass, and diverged from its summit up the Théodulhorn (11,391) to examine a route which I suggested for the ascent of the Matterhorn. Before continuing an account of our proceedings, I must stop for a minute to explain why this new route was proposed, in place of that up the south-western ridge.
The main peak of the Matterhorn may be divided into three
sections.
I gave it up for four reasons. 1. On account of my growing
disinclination for arêtes, and preference for snow and rock-faces
(see Chap. XII.). 2. Because I was persuaded that meteorological
disturbances (by which we had been baffled several times) might
be expected to occur again and again
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG.]
When one looks at the Matterhorn from Zermatt, the mountain is regarded (nearly) from the north-east. The face that fronts the east is consequently neither seen in profile nor in full front, but almost half-way between the two; it looks, therefore, more steep than it really is. The majority of those who visit Zermatt go up to the Riffelberg, or to the Gornergrat, and from these places, the mountain naturally looks still more precipitous, because its eastern face (which is almost all that is seen of it) is viewed more directly in front. From the Riffel hotel the slope seems to be set at an angle of 70°. If the tourist continues to go southwards, and crosses the Théodule pass, he gets, at one point, immediately in front of the eastern face, which then seems to be absolutely perpendicular. Comparatively few persons correct the erroneous impressions they receive in these quarters by studying the face in profile, and most go away with a very incorrect and exaggerated idea of the precipitousness of this side of the mountain, because they have considered the question from one point of view alone.
Several years passed away before I shook myself clear of my
early and false impressions regarding the steepness of this side of
the Matterhorn. First of all, I noticed that there were places on
this eastern face where snow remained permanently all the year
round. I do not speak of snow in gullies, but of the considerable
slopes which are seen upon the accompanying engraving, about
half-way up the face. Such beds as these could not continue to
remain throughout the summer, unless the snow had been able to
accumulate in the winter in large masses; and snow cannot
accuat 45°.
A great step was made when this was learnt. This knowledge alone would not, however, have caused me to try an ascent by the eastern face instead of by the south-west ridge. Forty degrees may not seem a formidable inclination to the reader, nor is it for only a small cliff. But it is very unusual to find so steep a gradient maintained continuously as the general angle of a great mountain-slope, and very few instances can be quoted from the High Alps of such an angle being preserved over a rise of 3000 feet.
I do not think that the steepness or the height of this cliff would have deterred climbers from attempting to ascend it, if it had not, in addition, looked so repulsively smooth. Men despaired of finding anything to grasp. Now, some of the difficulties of the south-west ridge came from the smoothness of the rocks, although that ridge, even from a distance, seemed to be well broken up. How much greater, then, might not have been the difficulty of climbing a face which looked smooth and unbroken close at hand?
A more serious hindrance to mounting the south-west ridge is
found in the dip of its rocks to the west-south-west. The great
mass of the Matterhorn, it is now well ascertained, is composed of
It is not possible to go a single time upon the rocks of the
south-west ridge, from the Col du Lion to the foot of the Great
Tower, without observing the prevalence of their outward dip, and
that their fractured edges have a tendency to overhang; nor can
one fail to notice that it is upon this account the débris, which
is rent off by frost, does not remain in situ, but pours down in
showers over the surrounding cliffs. Each day’s work, so to speak,
is cleared away; the ridge is swept clean; there is scarcely
anything seen but firm rock.Shoulder
)
they are much disintegrated; and then, upon the final peak, they are again firm.
The fact that the mountain is composed of a series of stratified
beds was pointed out long ago. De Saussure remarked it, and
recorded explicitly, in his Travels (§ 2243), that they rose to the
north-east at an angle of about 45°.
Forbes noticed it also; and
gave it as his opinion that the beds were less inclined, or
nearly horizontal.
He added, De Saussure is no doubt correct.
Travels through the Alps, 2nd ed. p. 317.
I was acquainted with both of the above-quoted passages, but did not turn the knowledge to any practical account until I re-observed the same fact for myself. It was not until after my repulse in 1863, that I referred the peculiar difficulties of the south-west ridge to the dip of the strata; but when once persuaded that structure and not texture was the real impediment, it was reasonable to infer that the opposite side, that is to say the eastern face, might be comparatively easy. In brief, that an arrangement should be found like Fig. 2, instead of like Fig. 1. This trivial deduction was the key to the ascent of the Matterhorn.
The point was, Did the strata continue with a similar dip throughout the mountain? If they did, then this great eastern face, instead of being hopelessly impracticable, should be quite the reverse.—In fact, it should be a great natural staircase, with steps inclining inwards; and, if it were so, its smooth aspect might be of no account, for the smallest steps, inclined in this fashion, would afford good footing.
They did so, as far as one could judge from a distance. When
snow fell in the summer time, it brought out long, terraced lines
upon the mountain; rudely parallel to each other; inclined in
the direction shown (approximately) upon the figures in the accompanying
plate; and the eastern face, on those occasions, was often
whitened almost completely over; while the other sides, with the
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST.]
THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PARALLEL RED LINES REPRESENT ON AN AVERAGE A VERTICAL HEIGHT OF ABOUT 60 FEET, BUT, ON ACCOUNT OF FORESHORTENING, THE HEIGHT BETWEEN THE UPPERMOST LINES IS SOMEWHAT MORE THAN THIS AMOUNT.
The very outline of the mountain, too, confirmed the conjecture that its structure would assist an ascent on the eastern face, although it opposed one on all other sides. Look at any photograph of the peak from the north-east (or, failing one, the outline facing page 230, which is carefully traced from one), and you will see that upon the right-hand side (that facing the Z’Muttgletscher) there is an incessant repetition of overhanging cliffs, and of slopes all trending downwards; in short, that the character of the whole of that side is similar to Fig. 1, p. 229; and that upon the left hand (or south-east) ridge, the forms, as far as they go, are suggestive of the structure of Fig. 2. There is no doubt that the contours of the mountain, seen from this direction, have been largely influenced by the direction of its beds.
It was not, therefore, from a freak, that I invited Mr. Reilly to join in an attack upon the eastern face, but from a gradually-acquired conviction that it would prove to give the easiest path to the summit; and, if we had not been obliged to part, the mountain would, doubtless, have been ascended in 1864.
My guides readily admitted that they had been greatly deceived as to the steepness of the eastern face, when they were halted to look at it in profile, as we came down the Z’Muttgletscher, on our way to Zermatt; but they were far from being satisfied that it would turn out to be easy to climb, and Almer and Biener expressed themselves decidedly averse to making an attempt upon it. I gave way temporarily before their evident reluctance, and we made the ascent of the Théodulhorn to examine an alternative route, which I expected would commend itself to them in preference to the other, as a great part of it led over snow.
There is an immense gully in the Matterhorn, which leads
up from the Glacier du Mont Cervin to a point high up on the
We started at 5.45 A.M. on June 21, and followed the route of
the BreuiljochA.M. we arrived at a convenient place for a halt,
While the men were unpacking the food I went to a little promontory to examine our proposed route more narrowly, and to admire our noble couloir, which led straight up into the heart of the mountain for fully one thousand feet. It then bent towards the north, and ran up to the crest of the south-eastern ridge. My curiosity was piqued to know what was round this corner, and whilst I was gazing up at it, and following with the eye the exquisitely drawn curves which wandered down the snow in the gully, all converging to a large rut in its centre, I saw a few little stones skidding down. I consoled myself with thinking that they would not interfere with us if we adhered to the side. But then a larger one came down, a solitary fellow, rushing at the rate of sixty miles an hour—and another—and another. I was unwilling to raise the fears of the men unnecessarily, and said nothing to them. They did not hear the stones. Almer was seated on a rock, carving large slices from a leg of mutton, the others were chatting, and the first intimation they had of danger was from a crash—a sudden roar—which reverberated awfully amongst the cliffs, and, looking up, they saw masses of rocks, boulders and stones, big and little, dart round the corner eight hundred feet or so above us, fly with fearful fury against the opposite cliffs, rebound from them against the walls on our side, and descend; some ricochetting from side to side in a frantic manner; some bounding down in leaps of a hundred feet or more over the snow; and others trailing down in a jumbled, confused mass, mixed with snow and ice, deepening the grooves which, a moment before, had excited my admiration.
The men looked wildly around for protection, and, dropping the
food, dashed under cover in all directions. The precious mutton
was pitched on one side, the wine-bag was let fall, and its contents
gushed out from the unclosed neck, whilst all four cowered under
defending rocks, endeavouring to make themselves as small as
possible. Let it not be supposed that their fright was
unreason
This ricochet practice was a novelty to me. It arose, of course, from the couloir being bent, and from the falling rocks having acquired great pace before they passed the angle. In straight gullies it will, probably, never be experienced. The rule is, as I have already remarked, that falling stones keep down the centres of gullies, and they are out of harm’s way if one follows the sides.
[Illustration: MY TENT-BEARER—THE HUNCHBACK.]
There would have been singularly little amusement, and very
great risk, in mounting this gully, and we turned our backs upon
it with perfect unanimity. The question then arose, What is
to be done?
I suggested climbing the rocks above us, but this
was voted impossible. I thought the men were right, yet would
not give in without being assured of the fact, and clambered up to
Monsieur; Almer, a hundred feet below, sat on a rock with his
face buried in his hands; Biener was nowhere, out of sight. Come
down, come down,
shouted Croz; it is useless,
and I turned at
length, convinced that it was even as he said. Thus my little plan
was knocked on the head, and we were thrown back upon the
original scheme.
We at once made a straight track for Mr. Morshead’s BreuiljochP.M. We were
then unexpectedly checked. The pass, as one, had vanished! and
we found ourselves cut off from the Furggengletscher by a small
but precipitous wall of rock;—the glacier had shrunk so much
that descent was impracticable. During the last hour clouds had
been coming up from the south; they now surrounded us, and it
began to blow hard. The men clustered together, and advocated
leaving the mountain alone. Almer asked, with more point than
politeness, Why don’t you try to go up a mountain which
can be
ascended?It is impossible,
chimed in Biener. Sir,
said
Croz, if we cross to the other side we shall lose three days, and
very likely shall not succeed. You want to make ascents in the
chain of Mont Blanc, and I believe they can be made. But I
shall not be able to make them with you if I spend these days
here, for I must be at Chamounix on the 27th.
There was force
in what he said, and his words made me hesitate. I relied upon
his strong arms for some work which it was expected would be
unusually difficult. Snow began to fall; that settled the matter,
and I gave the word to retreat. We went back to Breil, and on
to the village of Val Tournanche, where we slept; and the next
I cannot but regret that the counsels of the guides prevailed. If Croz had not uttered his well-intentioned words, he might still have been living. He parted from us at Chamounix at the appointed time, but by a strange chance we met again at Zermatt three weeks later, and two days afterwards he perished before my eyes on the very mountain from which we turned away, at his advice, on the 21st of June.
On June 23 we mounted to the top of Mont Saxe, to scan the
Grandes Jorasses, with the view of ascending it. Five thousand
feet of glacier-covered precipices rose above us, and up all that
height we tracked a way to our satisfaction. Three thousand feet
more of glacier and forest-covered slopes lay beneath, and there,
there was only one point at which it was doubtful if we should
find a path. The glaciers were shrinking, and were surrounded
by bastions of rounded rock, far too polished to please the rough
mountaineer. We could not track a way across them. However,
at 4 A.M. the next day, under the dexterous leading of Michel Croz,
we passed the doubtful spot. Thence it was all plain sailing, and
at 1 P.M. we gained the summit. The weather was boisterous in the
upper regions, and storm-clouds driven before the wind, and wrecked
against our heights, enveloped us in misty spray, which danced
around and fled away, which cut us off from the material universe,
and caused us to be, as it were, suspended betwixt heaven and
earth, seeing both occasionally, but seeming to belong to neither.
The mists lasted longer than my patience, and we descended
without having attained the object for which the ascent was made.
At first we followed the little ridge shown upon the accompanying
engraving, leading from our summit towards the spectator, and
then took to the head of the corridor of glacier on its left, which in
the view is left perfectly white. The slopes were steep and covered
with new-fallen snow, flour-like and evil to tread upon. On the
Halt!
broke from all four, unanimously. The
axe-heads flew round as we started on this involuntary glissade.
It was useless, they slid over the underlying ice fruitlessly. Halt!
thundered Croz, as he dashed his weapon in again with superhuman
energy. No halt could be made, and we slid down slowly, but
with accelerating motion, driving up waves of snow in front, with
streams of the nasty stuff hissing all around. Luckily, the slope
eased off at one place, the leading men cleverly jumped aside out
of the moving snow, we others followed, and the young avalanche
which we had started, continuing to pour down, fell into a yawning
crevasse, and showed us where our grave would have been if we
had remained in its company five seconds longer. The whole affair
did not occupy half-a-minute. It was the solitary incident of a
long day, and at nightfall we re-entered the excellent house kept
by the courteous Bertolini, well satisfied that we had not met with
more incidents of a similar description.
[Illustration: THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, FROM THE ITALIAN VAL FERRET.]
Men willingly believe what they wish.
—Cæsar.
Freethinking mountaineers have been latterly in the habit of going
up one side of an Alp and coming down the other, and calling the
route a pass. In this confusion of ideas may be recognised the result
of the looseness of thought which arises from the absence of
technical education. The true believer abhors such heresies, and
observes with satisfaction that Providence oftentimes punishes the
offenders for their greediness by causing them to be benighted.
The faithful know that passes must be made between mountains,
and not over their tops. Their creed declares that between any
two mountains there must be a pass, and they believe that the end
for which big peaks were created—the office they are especially
designed to fulfil—is to point out the way one should go. This
is the true faith, and there is no other.
We set out upon the 26th of June to endeavour to add one more
to the passes which are strictly orthodox. We hoped, rather than
expected, to discover a quicker route from Courmayeur to Chamounix
than the Col du Géant, which was the easiest, quickest, and
most direct pass known at the time across the main chain of Mont
Blanc.A.M. At 4.30 we passed the
chalets of Prè du Bar, and thence, for some distance, followed the
track which we had made upon the ascent of Mont Dolent, over the
It was the beau-ideal of a pass. There was a gap in the mountains,
with a big peak on each side (Mount Dolent and the Aig. de
Triolet). A narrow thread of snow led up to the lowest point
between those mountains, and the blue sky beyond said, Directly
you arrive here you will begin to go down. We addressed ourselves
to our task, and at 10.15 A.M. arrived at the top of the pass.
Had things gone as they ought, within six hours more we should
have been at Chamounix. Upon the other side we knew that there
was a couloir in correspondence with that up which we had just
come. If it had been filled with snow all would have been well.
It turned out to be filled with ice. Croz, who led, passed over to
the other side, and reported that we should get down somehow, but
I knew from the sound of his axe how the somehow would be, and
settled myself to sketch, well assured that I should not be wanted
for an hour to come. What I saw is shown in the engraving. A
sharp aiguille (nameless), perhaps the sharpest in the whole range,
backed on the left by the Aig. de Triolet; queer blocks of (probably)
protogine sticking out awkwardly through the snow; and a huge
cornice from which big icicles depended, that broke away occasionally
and went
Croz was tied up with our good Manilla rope, and the whole 200
feet were payed out gradually by Almer and Biener before he ceased
working. After two hours’ incessant toil, he was able to anchor
himself to the rock on his right. He then untied himself, the rope
was drawn in, Biener was attached to the end and went down to
join his comrade. There was then room enough for me to stand by
the side of Almer, and I got my first view of the other side. For
the first and only time in my life I looked down a slope more than
a thousand feet long, set at an angle of about 50°, which was a sheet
of ice from top to bottom. It was unbroken by rock or crag, and
P.M., at the last place upon which we could
sit. Four hours’ incessant work had brought us rather more than
half-way down the gully. We were now approaching, although we
were still high above, the schrunds at its base, and the guides made
out, in some way unknown to me, that Nature had perversely placed
the only snow-bridge across the topmost one towards the centre of
the gully. It was decided to cut diagonally across the gully to the
point where the snow-bridge was supposed to be. Almer and Biener
undertook the work, leaving Croz and myself firmly planted on
the rocks to pay out the rope to them as they advanced.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT.]
It is generally admitted that veritable ice-slopes (understanding
by ice something more than a crust of hard snow over soft snow)
are only rarely met with in the Alps. They are frequently spoken
of, but such as that to which I refer are very rarely seen, and still
more seldom traversed. It is, however, always possible that they
may be encountered, and on this account, if for no other, it is
necessary for men who go mountaineering to be armed with ice-axes,
and with good ones. The form is of more importance than
[Illustration: MY ICE-AXE.]
[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE.]
[Illustration: THE LESLIE STEPHEN
AXE.]
LESLIE STEPHEN
AXE.
Mr. T. S. Kennedy (of the firm of Fairbairn & Co.), whose practical acquaintance with mountaineering, and with the use and manufacture of tools, makes his opinion particularly valuable, has contrived the best that I have seen; but even it seems to me to be deficient in rigidity, and not to be so powerful a weapon as the more common kind with the fixed head. The simple instrument which is shown in the annexed diagram is the invention of Mr. Leslie Stephen, and it answers the purposes for which he devised it, namely, for giving better hold upon snow and ice than can be obtained from the common alpenstock, and for cutting an occasional step. The amateur scarcely requires anything more imposing, but for serious ice-work a heavier weapon is indispensable.
To persons armed with the proper tools, ice-slopes are not so
dangerous as many places which appeal less to the imagination.
Their ascent or descent is necessarily laborious (to those who do the
work), and they may therefore be termed difficult. They ought not
to be dangerous. Yet they always seem dangerous, for one is profoundly
convinced that if he slips he will certainly go to the bottom.
Hence, any man, who is not a fool, takes particular care to preserve
his balance, and, in consequence, we have the noteworthy
The same slopes covered with snow are much less impressive,
and may be much more dangerous. They may be less slippery, the
balance may be more easily preserved, and if one man slips he may
be stopped by his own personal efforts, provided the snow which
over-lies the ice is consolidated and of a reasonable depth. But if,
as is more likely to be the case upon an angle of 50° (or anything
approaching that angle), there is only a thin stratum of snow which
is not consolidated, the occurrence of a slip will most likely take
the entire party as low as possible, and in addition to the chance of
broken necks, there will be a strong probability that some, at least,
will be smothered by the dislodged snow. Such accidents are far
too common, and their occurrence, as a rule, may be traced to the
want of caution which is induced by the apparent absence of danger.
I do not believe that the use of the rope, in the ordinary way,
affords the least real security upon ice-slopes. Nor do I think that
any benefit is derived from the employment of crampons. Mr.
Kennedy was good enough to present me with a pair some time
ago, and one of these has been
engraved. They are the best
variety I have seen of the
species, but I only feel comfortable
with them on my feet
in places where they are not
of the slightest use, that is in
situations where there is no
possibility of slipping, and would not wear them upon an ice-slope for
any consideration whatever. All such adventitious aids are useless
if you have not a good step in the ice to stand upon, and if you have
got that, nothing more is wanted except a few nails in the boots.
Almer and Biener got to the end of their tether; the rope no
longer assured their safety, and they stopped work as we advanced
and coiled it up. Shortly afterwards they struck a streak of snow
P.M. before the axes stopped work, and we
could at last turn back and look comfortably at the formidable
slope upon which seven hours had been spent.
The Col Dolent is not likely to compete with the Col du
Géant, and I would recommend any person who starts to cross it
to allow himself plenty of time, plenty of rope, and ample guide-power.
There is no difficulty whatever upon any part of the route,
excepting upon the steep slopes immediately below the summit on
each side. When we arrived upon the Glacier d’Argentière, our
work was as good as over. We drove a straight track to the chalets
of Lognan, and thence the way led over familiar ground. Soon
after dusk we got into the high road at les Tines, and at 10 P.M.
arrived at Chamounix. Our labours were duly rewarded. Houris
brought us champagne and the other drinks which are reserved
for the faithful, but before my share was consumed I fell asleep in
an arm-chair. I slept soundly until daybreak, and then turned
into bed and went to sleep again.
Few have the fortitude of soul to honour,
A friend’s success, without a touch of envy.
Michel Croz now parted from us. His new employer had not arrived at Chamounix, but Croz considered that he was bound by honour to wait for him, and thus Christian Almer, of Grindelwald, became my leading guide.
Almer displayed aptitude for mountaineering at an early age.
Whilst still a very young man he was known as a crack chamois-hunter,
and he soon developed into an accomplished guide. Those
who have read Mr. Wills’ graphic account of the first ascent of the
WetterhornWanderings among the High Alps, 1858.Thus the
pipe of peace was smoked, and tranquillity reigned between the
rival forces.
Christian Almer was one of these two men.
This was in 1854. In 1858-9 he made the first ascents of the
Eigher and the Mönch, the former with a Mr. Harrington (?), and
the latter with Dr. Porges. Since then he has wandered far and
[Illustration: CHRISTIAN ALMER.
Before recrossing the chain to Courmayeur, we ascended the Aiguille Verte. In company with Mr. Reilly I inspected this mountain from every direction in 1864, and came to the conclusion that an ascent could more easily be made from the south than upon any other side. We set out upon the 28th from Chamounix to attack it, minus Croz, and plus a porter (of whom I will speak more particularly presently), leaving our comrade very downcast at having to kick his heels in idleness, whilst we were about to scale the most celebrated of his native Aiguilles.
Our course led us over the old Mer de Glace—the glacier made
famous by De Saussure and Forbes. The heat of the day was
[Illustration: ON THE MER DE GLACE.]
We camped on the Couvercle (7800) under a great rock, and at
3.15 the next morning started for our aiguille, leaving the porter
in charge of the tent and of the food. Two hours’ walking over
crisp snow brought us up more than 4000 feet, and within about
1600 feet of the summit. From no other direction can it be
approached so closely with equal facility. Thence the mountain
steepens. After his late severe piece of ice-work, Almer had a
natural inclination for rocks; but the lower rocks of the final
peak of the Verte were not inviting, and he went on and on,
looking for a way up them, until we arrived in front of a great snow
couloir that led from the Glacier de Talèfre right up to the crest
of the ridge connecting the summit of the Verte with the mountain
called Les Droites. This was the route which I intended to be
taken; but Almer pointed out that the gully narrowed at the
lower part, and that, if stones fell, we should stand some chance
of getting our heads broken; and so we went on still more to the
east of the summit, to another and smaller couloir which ran up
side by side with the great one. At 5.30 we crossed the schrund
which protected the final peak, and, a few minutes afterwards,
saw the summit and the whole of the intervening route. Oh!
Aiguille Verte,
said my guide, stopping as he said it, you are
dead, you are dead;
which, being translated into plain English,
meant that he was cock-sure we should make its ascent.
Almer is a quiet man at all times. When climbing he is taciturn—and this is one of his great merits. A garrulous man is always a nuisance, and upon the mountain-side he may be a danger, for actual climbing requires a man’s whole attention. Added to this, talkative men are hindrances; they are usually thirsty, and a thirsty man is a drag.
Guide-books recommend mountain-walkers to suck pebbles, to
prevent their throats from becoming parched. There is not much
goodness to be got out of the pebbles; but you cannot suck them
and keep the mouth open at the same time, and hence the throat
does not become dry. It answers just as well to keep the mouth
swallowed their crystals. I am happy to say that they were able to
cough them up again.will not keep their mouths shut. They attempt to force
the pace,
they go faster than they can go without being compelled
to open their mouths to breathe, they pant, their throats and
tongues become parched, they drink and perspire copiously, and,
becoming exhausted, declare that the dryness of the air, or the
rarefaction of the air (everything is laid upon the air), is in fault.
On several accounts, therefore, a mountain-climber does well to
hold his tongue when he is at his work.
At the top of the small gully we crossed over the intervening
rocks into the large one, and followed it so long as it was filled
with snow. At last ice replaced snow, and we turned over to the
rocks upon its left. Charming rocks they were; granitic in
texture,
I have already spoken of the disappointing nature of purely
panoramic views. That seen from Mont Blanc itself is notoriously
unsatisfactory. When you are upon that summit you look down
upon all the rest of Europe. There is nothing to look up to; all
is below; there is no one point for the eye to rest upon. The
man who is there is somewhat in the position of one who has
attained all that he desires,—he has nothing to aspire to; his
position must needs be unsatisfactory. Upon the summit of the
Verte there is not this objection. You see valleys, villages, fields;
Even upon this mountain-top it was impossible to forget the
world, for some vile wretch came to the Jardin and made hideous
sounds by blowing through a horn. Whilst we were denouncing
him a change came over the weather; cumulous clouds gathered in
all directions, and we started off in hot haste. Snow began to fall
heavily before we were off the summit-rocks, our track was obscured
and frequently lost, and everything became so sloppy and slippery
that the descent took as long as the ascent. The schrund was recrossed
at 3.15 P.M., and thence we raced down to the Couvercle,
intending to have a carouse there; but as we rounded our rock a
howl broke simultaneously from all three of us, for the porter had
taken down the tent, and was in the act of moving off with it.
Stop, there! what are you doing?
He observed that he had
thought we were killed, or at least lost, and was going to Chamounix
to communicate his ideas to the guide chef. Unfasten the tent,
and get out the food.
Instead of doing so the porter fumbled in
his pockets. Get out the food,
we roared, losing all patience.
Here it is,
said our worthy friend, producing a dirty piece of
bread about as big as a halfpenny roll. We three looked solemnly
at the fluff-covered morsel. It was past a joke,—he had devoured
everything. Mutton, loaves, cheese, wine, eggs, sausages—all was
gone—past recovery. It was idle to grumble, and useless to wait.
We were light, and could move quickly,—the porter was laden
One would have thought that the ascent of this mountain,
which had been frequently assailed before without success, would
have afforded some gratification to a population whose chief
support is derived from tourists, and that the prospect of the
perennial flow of francs which might be expected to result from
it would have stifled the jealousy consequent on the success of
foreigners.per guide.
It was not so. Chamounix stood on its rights. A stranger
had ignored the regulations,
had imported two foreign guides,
and, furthermore, he had added injury to that insult—he had not
taken a single Chamounix guide. Chamounix would be revenged!
It would bully the foreign guides; it would tell them they had
lied,—that they had not made the ascent! Where were their
proofs? Where was the flag upon the summit?
Poor Almer and Biener were accordingly chivied from pillar to
post, from one inn to another, and at length complained to me.
Peter Perrn, the Zermatt guide, said on the night that we returned
that this was to happen, but the story seemed too absurd to be
true. I now bade my men go out again, and followed them
myself to see the sport. Chamounix was greatly excited. The
bureau of the guide chef was thronged with clamouring men.
Their ringleader—one Zacharie Cachat—a well-known guide, of
no particular merit, but not a bad fellow, was haranguing the
There were the materials for a very pretty riot; but they manage
these things better in France than we do, and the gensdarmes—three
strong—came down and dispersed the crowd. The guides
quailed before the cocked hats, and retired to cabarets to take little
glasses of absinthe and other liquors more or less injurious to the
human frame. Under the influence of these stimulants, they conceived
an idea which combined revenge with profit. You have
ascended the Aiguille Verte, you say.
We say we don’t believe it.
We say, do it again! Take three of us with you, and we will bet
you two thousand francs to one thousand, that you won’t make
the ascent!
This proposition was formally notified to me, but I declined it,
with thanks, and recommended Kennedy to go in and win. I
accepted, however, a hundred franc share in the bet, and calculated
upon getting two hundred per cent on my investment. Alas!
how vain are human expectations! Zacharie Cachat was put into
confinement, and although Kennedy actually ascended the Aiguille
a week later, with two Chamounix guides and Peter Perrn, the bet
came to nothing.
The weather arranged itself just as this storm in a teapot blew over, and we left at once for the Montanvert, in order to show the Chamouniards the easiest way over the chain of Mont Blanc, in return for the civilities which we had received from them during the past three days.
[Illustration: WESTERN SIDE OF THE COL DE TALÈFRE.]
’Tis more by art than force of numerous strokes.
The person who discovered the Col du Géant must have been a shrewd mountaineer. The pass was in use before any other was known across the main chain of Mont Blanc, and down to the present time it remains the easiest and quickest route from Chamounix to Courmayeur, with the single exception of the pass that we crossed upon the 3d of July, for the first time, which lies about mid-way between the Aiguille de Triolet and the Aiguille de Talèfre, and which, for want of a better name, I have called the Col de Talèfre.
When one looks toward the upper end of the Glacier de Talèfre
from the direction of the Jardin or of the Couvercle, the ridge that
bounds the view seems to be of little elevation. It is overpowered
by the colossal Grandes Jorasses, and by the almost equally magnificent
Aiguille Verte. The ridge, notwithstanding, is by no means
despicable. At no point is its elevation less than 11,600 feet. It
In 1864, when prowling about with Mr. Reilly, I instinctively
fixed upon a bent couloir which led up from the glacier to the
lowest part of the ridge; and when, after crossing the Col de
Triolet, I saw that the other side presented no particular difficulty,
it seemed to me that this was the one point in the whole of the
range which would afford an easier passage than the Col du Géant.
We set out from the Montanvert at 4 A.M. upon July 3, to see
whether this opinion was correct, and it fortunately happened that
the Rev. A. G. Girdlestone and a friend, with two Chamounix
guides, left the inn at the same hour as ourselves, to cross the Col
du Géant. We kept in company as far as our routes lay together,
and at 9.35 we arrived at the top of our pass, having taken the
route to the south of the Jardin. Description is unnecessary, as
our track is laid down very clearly on the engraving at the head
of this chapter.
Much snow had fallen during the late bad weather, and as we reposed upon the top of our pass (which was about 11,650 feet above the level of the sea, and 600 feet above the Col du Géant), we saw that the descent of the rocks which intervened between us and the Glacier de Triolet would require some caution, for the sun’s rays poured down directly upon them, and the snow slipped away every now and then from ledge to ledge just as if it had been water,—in cascades not large enough to be imposing, but sufficient to knock us over if we got in their way. This little bit of cliff consequently took a longer time than it should have done, for when we heard the indescribable swishing, hissing sound which announced a coming fall, we of necessity huddled under the lee of the rocks until the snow ceased to shoot over us.
We got to the level of the Glacier de Triolet without misadventure,
then steered for its left bank to avoid the upper of its two
formidable ice-falls, and after descending the requisite distance by
some old snow lying between the glacier and the cliffs which border
left bank is followed, one is compelled either to traverse this
howling waste or to lose much time upon the tedious and somewhat difficult rocks of
Mont Rouge.
Glissading is a very pleasant employment when it is accomplished
successfully, and I have never seen a place where it can be
more safely indulged in than
the snowy valley on the right
bank of the Glacier de Triolet.
In my dreams I glissade delightfully,
but in practice I
find that somehow the snow
will not behave properly, and
that my alpenstock will get
between my legs. Then my
legs go where my head should
be, and I see the sky revolving
at a rapid pace; the snow rises
up and smites me, and runs
away; and when it is at last overtaken it suddenly stops, and we
come into violent collision. Those who are with me say that I
tumble head over heels, and there may be some truth in what they
say. Streaks of ice are apt to make the heels shoot away, and stray
stones cause one to pitch headlong down. Somehow these things
always seem to come in the way, so it is as well to glissade only
when there is something soft to tumble into.
Near the termination of the glacier we could not avoid traversing
a portion of its abominable moraine, but at 1.30
Comparison of the Col de Triolet with the Col de Talèfre will show what a great
difference in ease there may be between tracks which are nearly identical. For a distance
of several miles these routes are scarcely more than half-a-mile apart. Nearly
every step of the former is difficult, whilst the latter has no difficulty whatever. The
route we adopted over the Col de Talèfre may perhaps be improved. It may be possible
to go directly from the head of the Glacier de Triolet to its right bank, and, if
so, at least thirty minutes might be saved.
The following is a list of the principal of the passes across the main ridge of
the range of Mont Blanc, with the years in which the first passages were effected, as
far as I know them:—1. Col de Trélatête (1864), between Aig. du Glacier and Aig.
de Trélatête. 2. Col de Miage, between Aig. de Miage and Aig. de Bionnassay. 3.
Col du Dôme (1865), over the Dôme du Goûter. 4. Col du Mont Blanc (1868), over
Mont Blanc. 5. Col de la Brenva (1865), between Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit.
6. Col de la Tour Ronde (1867), over la Tour Ronde. 7. Col du Géant, between la
Tour Ronde and Aigs. Marbrées. 8. Col des Grandes Jorasses (1873), between the
Grandes and Petites Jorasses. 9. Col de Leschaux (1877), between the Aig. de
l’Eboulement and the Aig. de Leschaux. 10. Col Pierre Joseph (1866), over Aig.
de l’Eboulement. 11. Col de Talèfre (1865), between Aigs. Talèfre and Triolet.
12. Col de Triolet (1864), between Aigs. Talèfre and Triolet. 13. Col Dolent (1865),
between Aig. de Triolet and Mont Dolent. 14. Col d’Argentière (1861), between
Mont Dolent and la Tour Noire. 15. Col de la Tour Noire (1863), between the
Tour Noire and the Aig. d’Argentière. 16. Col du Chardonnet (1863), between
Aigs. d’Argentière and Chardonnet. 17. Col du Tour, between Aigs. du Chardonnet
and Tour.
P.M. we were
vice versa, than will be found elsewhere, so long as
the chain of Mont Blanc remains in its present condition.
In almost every art, experience is worth more than
precepts.
Quintilian.
All of the excursions that were set down in my programme had
been carried out, with the exception of the ascent of the Matterhorn,
and we now turned our faces in its direction, but instead of
returning viâ the Val Tournanche, we took a route across country,
and bagged upon our way the summit of the Ruinette.
We passed the night of July 4, at Aosta, under the roof of the genial Tairraz, and on the 5th went by the Val d’Ollomont and the Col de la Fenêtre (9140) to Chermontane. We slept that night at the chalets of Chanrion (a foul spot, which should be avoided), left them at 3.50 the next morning, and after a short scramble over the slope above, and a half-mile tramp on the glacier de Breney, we crossed directly to the Ruinette, and went almost straight up it. There is not, I suppose, another mountain in the Alps of the same height that can be ascended so easily. You have only to go ahead: upon its southern side one can walk about almost anywhere.
Though I speak thus slightingly of a very respectable peak, I
will not do anything of the kind in regard to the view which it
gives. It is happily placed in respect to the rest of the Pennine
Alps, and as a stand-point it has not many superiors. You see
mountains, and nothing but mountains. It is a solemn—some
would say a dreary—view, but it is very grand. The great Combin
(14,164), with its noble background of the whole range of Mont
We gained the summit at 9.15,
The part of the glacier that we traversed was overspread with snow which completely concealed its numerous pitfalls. We marched across it in single file, and, of course, roped together. All at once Almer dropped into a crevasse up to his shoulders. I pulled in the rope immediately, but the snow gave way as it was being done, and I had to spread out my arms to stop my descent. Biener held fast, and said afterwards, that his feet went through as well; so, for a moment, all three were in the jaws of the crevasse. We now altered our course, so as to take the fissures transversely, and changed it again after the centre of the glacier was passed, and made directly for the summit of the Col d’Olen.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, after what I have said
You see these things, my good Croz, and
avoid them. I do
The
sharper one’s eyes get by use, the less is a rope required as a protective
against these hidden pitfalls; but, according to my experience,
the sight never becomes so keen that they can be avoided
with unvarying certainty, and I mentioned what occurred upon
the Otemma glacier to show that this is so.
not, except you point them out to me, and so
that which is not a danger to you, is a danger to me.
I well remember my first passage of the Col Théodule—the
easiest of the higher Alpine glacier passes. We had a rope, but
my guide said it was not necessary, he knew all the crevasses.
However, we did not go a quarter of a mile before he dropped
through the snow into a crevasse up to his neck. He was a heavy
man, and would scarcely have extricated himself alone; anyhow,
he was very glad of my assistance. When he got on to his legs
again, he said, Well, I had no idea that there was a crevasse
there!
He no longer objected to use the rope, and we proceeded;
upon my part, with greater peace of mind than before. I have
crossed the pass fourteen times since then, and have invariably
insisted upon being tied together.
Guides object to the use of the rope upon snow-covered glacier,
because they are afraid of being laughed at by their comrades;
and this, perhaps, is the more common reason. To illustrate this,
here is another Théodule experience. We arrived at the edge of
the ice, and I required to be tied. My guide (a Zermatt man of
repute) said that no one used a rope going across that pass. I
declined to argue the matter, and we put on the rope; though
very much against the wish of my man, who protested that he
should have to submit to perpetual ridicule if we met any of his
acquaintances. We had not gone very far before we saw a train
coming in the contrary direction. Ah!
cried my man, there
is R—— (mentioning a guide who used to be kept at the Riffel
Hotel for the ascent of Monte Rosa); it will be as I said, I shall
never hear the end of this.
The guide we met was followed by a
string of tom-fools, none of whom were tied together, and had his
face covered by a mask to prevent it becoming blistered. After
we had passed, I said, Now, should R—— make any observations
to you, ask him why he takes such extraordinary care to preserve
the skin of his face, which will grow again in a week, when he
neglects such an obvious precaution in regard to his life, which he
can only lose once.
This was quite a new idea to my guide, and
he said nothing more against the use of the rope so long as we
were together.
I believe that the unwillingness to use a rope upon snow-covered glacier which born mountaineers not unfrequently exhibit, arises—First, on the part of expert men, from the consciousness that they themselves incur little risk; secondly, on the part of inferior men, from fear of ridicule, and from aping the ways of their superiors; and, thirdly, from pure ignorance or laziness. Whatever may be the reason, I raise up my voice against the neglect of a precaution so simple and so effectual. In my opinion, the very first thing a glacier traveller requires is plenty of good rope.
A committee of the English Alpine Club was appointed in
1864 to test, and to report upon, the most suitable ropes for
Now, touching the use of the rope. There is a right way, and
there are wrong ways of using it. I often meet, upon glacier-passes,
elegantly got-up persons, who are clearly out of their
element, with a guide stalking along in front, who pays no
attention to the innocents
in his charge.
They are tied together
as a matter of
form, but they evidently
have no idea
why they are tied up,
for they walk side by
side, or close together, with the rope trailing on the snow. If one
tumbles into a crevasse, the rest stare, and say, La! what is the
matter with Smith?
unless, as is more likely, they all tumble in
together. This is the wrong way to use a rope. It is abuse of
the rope.
It is of the first importance to keep the rope taut from man to
man. If this is not done, there is no real security, and your risks
may be considerably magnified. There is little or no difficulty in
extricating one man who breaks through a bridged crevasse if the
sounds for them, in the
manner shown in the engraving, he usually loses half a step or more. The second
man should take a turn of the rope around his hand to draw it back in case the
leader goes through.
[Illustration: THE RIGHT WAY TO USE THE ROPE.]
The distance from man to man must neither be too great nor too small. About 12 feet between each is sufficient. If there are only two or three persons, it is prudent to allow a little more—say 15 feet. More than this is unnecessary, and less than 9 or 10 feet is not much good.
It is essential to examine your rope from time to time to see that it is in good condition. If you are wise you will do this yourself every day. Latterly, I have examined every inch of my rope overnight, and upon more than one occasion have found the strands of the Manilla rope nearly half severed through accidental grazes.
Thus far the rope has been supposed to be employed upon level, snow-covered glacier, to prevent any risk from concealed crevasses. On rocks and on slopes it is used for a different purpose (namely, to guard against slips), and in these cases it is equally important to keep it taut, and to preserve a reasonable distance one from the other. It is much more troublesome to keep the rope taut upon slopes than upon the level; and upon difficult rocks it is all but impossible, except by adopting the plan of moving only one at a time (see p. 115).
There is no good reason for employing a rope upon easy rocks,
and I believe that its needless use is likely to promote carelessness.
On difficult rocks and on snow-slopes (frequently improperly called
ice-slopes) it is a great advantage to be tied together, provided the
rope is handled properly; but upon actual ice-slopes, such as that
on the Col Dolent (p. 240), or upon slopes in which ice is mingled
with small and loose rocks, such as the upper part of the Pointe
des Ecrins, it is almost useless, because a slip made by one
person might upset the entire party.last
man cannot derive any assistance from the rope, and so might as well be untied.
Partly upon this account, it is usual to place one of the strongest and steadiest men
last. Now, although this cannot be termed a senseless precaution, it is obvious that
it is a perfectly useless one, if it is true that a single slip would upset the entire party.
The best plan I know is that which we adopted on the descent of the Col Dolent,
namely, to let one man go in advance until he reaches some secure point. This one
then detaches himself, the rope is drawn up, and another man is sent down to join
him, and so on until the last. The last man still occupies the most difficult post,
and should be the steadiest man; but he is not exposed to any risk from his comrades
slipping, and they, of course, draw in the rope as he descends, so that his position
is less hazardous than if he were to come down quite by himself.escalier cut in an ice-slope, I see no reason why he should be
There would be no advantage in discoursing upon the use of the rope at greater length. A single day upon a mountain’s side will give a clearer idea of the value of a good rope, and of the numerous purposes for which it may be employed, than any one will obtain from reading all that has been written upon the subject; but no one will become really expert in its management without much experience.
From the Col d’Olen we proceeded down the Combe of the
same name to the chalets of Prerayen, and passed the night of the
6th under the roof of our old acquaintance, the wealthy herdsman.
On the 7th we crossed the Va Cornère pass, en route for Breil.
My thoughts were fixed on the Matterhorn, and my guides knew
that I wished them to accompany me. They had an aversion to
the mountain, and repeatedly expressed their belief that it was
useless to try to ascend it.
said Almer; Anything but Matterhorn, dear sir!
He did not speak of
difficulty or of danger, nor was he shirking anything but Matterhorn.work. He offered to
go anywhere; but he entreated that the Matterhorn should be
abandoned. Both men spoke fairly enough. They did not think
that an ascent could be made; and for their own credit, as well as
for my sake, they did not wish to undertake a business which, in
their opinion, would only lead to loss of time and money.
I sent them by the short cut to Breil, and walked down to Val Tournanche to look for Jean-Antoine Carrel. He was not there. The villagers said that he, and three others, had started on the 6th to try the Matterhorn by the old way, on their own account. They will have no luck, I thought, for the clouds were low down on the mountains; and I walked up to Breil, fully expecting to meet them. Nor was I disappointed. About half-way up I saw a group of men clustered around a chalet upon the other side of the torrent, and, crossing over, found that the party had returned. Jean-Antoine and Cæsar were there, C. E. Gorret, and J. J. Maquignaz. They had had no success. The weather, they said, had been horrible, and they had scarcely reached the glacier du Lion.
I explained the situation to Carrel, and proposed that we,
with Cæsar and another man, should cross the Théodule by moonlight
on the 9th, and that upon the 10th we should pitch the tent
as high as possible upon the east face. He was unwilling to
abandon the old route, and urged me to try it again. I promised
to do so provided the new route failed. This satisfied him, and he
agreed to my proposal. I then went up to Breil, and discharged
Almer and Biener—with much regret, for no two men ever served
me more faithfully or more willingly.
The 8th was occupied with preparations. The weather was
stormy; and black, rainy vapours obscured the mountains. Towards
evening a young man came from Val Tournanche, and reported
that an Englishman was lying there, extremely ill. Now was the
time for the performance of my vow;Hullo!
I said,
what are you doing?
They explained that the foreigner had
arrived just as they were setting out, and that they were assisting
his porters. Very well; go on to Breil, and await me there; we
start at midnight as agreed.
Jean-Antoine then said that he
should not be able to serve me after Tuesday the 11th, as he was
engaged to travel with a family of distinction
in the valley of
Aosta. And Cæsar?
And Cæsar also.
Why did you not
say this before?
Because,
said he, it was not settled. The
engagement is of long standing, but
I could not object to the answer;
but the prospect of being left guideless was provoking. They
went up, and I down, the valley.
the day was not fixed. When
I got back to Val Tournanche on Friday night, after leaving you, I
found a letter naming the day.
The sick man declared that he was better, though the exertion
of saying as much tumbled him over on to the floor in a fainting fit.
He was badly in want of medicine, and I tramped down to Chatillon
to get it. It was late before I returned to Val Tournanche,
for the weather was tempestuous, and rain fell in torrents. A figure
passed me under the church porch. Qui vive?Jean-Antoine.
I thought you were at Breil.
No, sir: when the storms came
on I knew we should not start to-night, and so came down to sleep
here.
Ha, Carrel!
I said; this is a great bore. If to-morrow
is not fine we shall not be able to do anything together. I have
sent away my guides, relying on you; and now you are going to
leave me to travel with a party of ladies. That work is not fit for
you (he smiled, I supposed at the implied compliment); can’t you
send some one else instead?No, monsieur. I am sorry, but
my word is pledged. I should like to accompany you, but I
can’t break my engagement.
By this time we had arrived at the
inn door. Well, it is no fault of yours. Come presently with
Cæsar, and have some wine.
They came, and we sat up till
midnight, recounting our old adventures, in the inn of Val
Tournanche.
The weather continued bad upon the 10th, and I returned to
Breil. The two Carrels were again hovering about the above mentioned
chalet, and I bade them adieu. In the evening the sick man
crawled up, a good deal better; but his was the only arrival. The
Monday crowdheard
the news.
No; what news?
Why,
said he, a large party
of guides went off this morning to try the Matterhorn, taking with
them a mule laden with provisions.
I went to the door, and with a telescope saw the party upon
the lower slopes of the mountain. Favre, the landlord, stood by.
What is all this about?
I inquired, who is the leader of this
party?
Carrel.
What! Jean-Antoine?
Yes; Jean-Antoine.
Is Cæsar there too?
Yes, he is there.
Then I saw
in a moment that I had been bamboozled and humbugged; and
learned, bit by bit, that the affair had been arranged long beforehand.
The start on the 6th had been for a preliminary reconnaissance;
the mule, that I passed, was conveying stores for the attack;
the family of distinction
was Signor F. Giordano, who had just
despatched the party to facilitate the way to the summit, and who,
when the facilitation was completed, was to be taken to the top
along with Signor Sella!
I was greatly mortified. My plans were upset; the Italians had clearly stolen a march upon me, and I saw that the astute Favre chuckled over my discomfiture, because the route by the eastern face, if successful, would not benefit his inn. What was to be done? I retired to my room, and soothed by tobacco, re-studied my plans, to see if it was not possible to outmanœuvre the Italians.
They have taken a mule’s load of provisions.
one point
How is the weather?
I went to the window. The mountain was
smothered up in mist. Another point in my favour.
They are
to facilitate the way. Well, if they do that to any purpose, it will
be a long job.
Altogether, I reckoned that they could not possibly
ascend the mountain and come back to Breil in less than
seven days. I got cooler, for it was evident that the wily ones
might be outwitted after all. There was time enough to go to
Zermatt, to try the eastern face, and, should it prove impracticable,
to come back to Breil before the men returned; and then, it seemed
to me, as the mountain was not padlocked, one might start at the
same time as the Messieurs, and yet get to the top before them.
The first thing to do was to go to Zermatt. Easier said than done. The seven guides upon the mountain included the ablest men in the valley, and none of the ordinary muleteer-guides were at Breil. Two men, at least, were wanted for my baggage, but not a soul could be found. I ran about, and sent about in all directions, but not a single porter could be obtained. One was with Carrel; another was ill; another was at Chatillon, and so forth. Even Meynet, the hunchback, could not be induced to come; he was in the thick of some important cheese-making operations. I was in the position of a general without an army; it was all very well to make plans, but there was no one to execute them. This did not much trouble me, for it was evident that so long as the weather stopped traffic over the Théodule pass, it would hinder the men equally upon the Matterhorn; and I knew that directly it improved company would certainly arrive.
About midday on Tuesday the 11th a large party hove in sight
from Zermatt, preceded by a nimble young Englishman, and one of
old Peter Taugwalder’s sons.old Peter, to distinguish him from his
eldest son, young Peter. In 1865 the father’s age was about 45.
Favre could no longer hinder our departure, and lent us one of
his men. We crossed the Col Théodule on Wednesday morning
the 12th of July, rounded the foot of the Ober Théodulgletscher,
crossed the Furggengletscher, and deposited tent, blankets, ropes,
and other matters in the little chapel at the Schwarzsee.
We descended to Zermatt, sought and engaged old Peter, and
gave him permission to choose another guide. When we returned
to the Monte Rosa Hotel, whom should we see sitting upon the
wall in front but my old guide chef, Michel Croz. I supposed that
he had come with Mr. B——, but I learned that that gentleman
had arrived in ill health, at Chamounix, and had returned to
England. Croz, thus left free, had been immediately engaged by
the Rev. Charles Hudson, and they had come to Zermatt with the
Lord Francis Douglas and I dined at the Monte Rosa, and had
just finished when Mr. Hudson and a friend entered the salle à
manger. They had returned from inspecting the mountain, and
some idlers in the room demanded their intentions. We heard a
confirmation of Croz’s statement, and learned that Mr. Hudson intended
to set out on the morrow at the same hour as ourselves.
We left the room to consult, and agreed it was undesirable that
two independent parties should be on the mountain at the same
time with the same object. Mr. Hudson was therefore invited to
join us, and he accepted our proposal. Before admitting his friend—Mr.
Hadow—I took the precaution to inquire what he had done
in the Alps, and, as well as I remember, Mr. Hudson’s reply was,
Mr. Hadow has done Mont Blanc in less time than most men.
He then mentioned several other excursions that were unknown to
me, and added, in answer to a further question, I consider he is a
sufficiently good man to go with us.
Mr. Hadow was admitted
without any further question, and we then went into the matter
of guides. Hudson thought that Croz and old Peter would be
sufficient. The question was referred to the men themselves, and
they made no objection.
So Croz and I became comrades once more; and as I threw
myself on my bed and tried to go to sleep, I wondered at the
strange series of chances which had first separated us and then
brought us together again. I thought of the mistake through
which he had accepted the engagement to Mr. B——; of his unwillingness
to adopt my route; of his recommendation to transfer
our energies to the chain of Mont Blanc; of the retirement of
Almer and Biener; of the desertion of Carrel; of the arrival of
Lord Francis Douglas; and, lastly, of our meeting at Zermatt; and
as I pondered over these things I could not help asking, What
next?
If any one of the links of this fatal chain of circumstances
had been omitted, what a different story I should have to tell!
Had we succeeded well,
Are so disposed to judge from the event.
It is a thoroughly unfair, but an ordinary custom, to praise or blame designs
(which in themselves may be good or bad) just as they turn out well or ill. Hence
the same actions are at one time attributed to earnestness and at another to
vanity.
Pliny Min.
We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July, at half-past 5, on
a brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. We were eight in
number—Croz, old Peter and his two sons,
I remember speaking about pedestrianism to a well-known mountaineer some
years ago, and venturing to remark that a man who averaged thirty miles a-day might
be considered a good walker.
Charles Hudson, Vicar of Skillington in Lincolnshire, was considered by the
mountaineering fraternity to be the best amateur of his time. He was the organiser
and leader of the party of Englishmen who ascended Mont Blanc by the Aig. du
Goûter, and descended by the Grands Mulets route, without guides, in 1855. His
long practice made him surefooted, and in that respect he was not greatly inferior to
a born mountaineer. I remember him as a well-made man of middle height and age,
neither stout nor thin, with face pleasant—though grave, and with quiet unassuming
manners. Although an athletic man, he would have been overlooked in a crowd;
and although he had done the greatest mountaineering feats which have been done,
he was the last man to speak of his own doings. His friend Mr. Hadow was a young
man of nineteen, who had the looks and manners of a greater age. He was a rapid
walker, but 1865 was his first season in the Alps. Lord Francis Douglas was about
the same age as Mr. Hadow. He had had the advantage of several seasons in the
Alps. He was nimble as a deer, and was becoming an expert mountaineer. Just
before our meeting he had ascended the Ober Gabelhorn (with old Peter Taugwalder
and Jos. Viennin), and this gave me a high opinion of his powers; for I had examined
that mountain all round, a few weeks before, and had declined its ascent on account
of its apparent difficulty.
My personal acquaintance with Mr. Hudson was very slight—still I should have
been content to have placed myself under his orders if he had chosen to claim the
position to which he was entitled. Those who knew him will not be surprised to
learn that, so far from doing this, he lost no opportunity of consulting the wishes
and opinions of those around him. We deliberated together whenever there was
occasion, and our authority was recognised by the others. Whatever responsibility
there was devolved upon A fair walker,
he said, a
fair walker.What
then would you consider
good walking?Well,
he replied, I will tell you.
Some time back a friend and I agreed to go to Switzerland, but a short time afterwards
he wrote to say he ought to let me know that a young and delicate lad was
going with him who would not be equal to great things, in fact, he would not be able
to do more than fifty miles a-day!
What became of the young and delicate lad?
He lives.
And who was your extraordinary friend?
Charles Hudson.
I
have every reason to believe that the gentlemen referred to were equal to walking
more than fifty miles a-day, but they were exceptional, not good pedestrians.
us. I recollect with satisfaction that there was no difference
of opinion between us as to what should be done, and that the most perfect harmony
existed between all of us so long as we were together.
On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great
height, and we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely; picked up
the things which were left in the chapel at the Schwarzsee at
8.20, and proceeded thence along the ridge connecting the Hörnli
with the Matterhorn.A.M.; left it, 8.20; halted to examine route 9.30;
started again 10.25, and arrived at 11.20 at the cairn made by Mr. Kennedy in 1862
(see p. 59), marked 10,820 feet upon the map. Stopped 10 min. here. From the
Hörnli to this point we kept, when possible, to the crest of the ridge. The greater
part of the way was excessively easy, though there were a few places where the axe
had to be used.run about.
Before twelve o’clock we had found a good position for the
tent, at a height of 11,000 feet.CAMP (1865).
It was just upon a level with the Furggengrat, and its position is indicated upon the
engraving facing p. 227 by a little circular white spot, in a line with the word CAMP.P.M., we saw them coming down, evidently
much excited. What are they saying, Peter?
Gentlemen,
they say it is no good.
But when they came near we heard
a different story. Nothing but what was good; not a difficulty,
not a single difficulty! We could have gone to the summit
and returned to-day easily!
We passed the remaining hours of daylight—some basking in
the sunshine, some sketching or collecting; and when the sun went
down, giving, as it departed, a glorious promise for the morrow, we
returned to the tent to arrange for the night. Hudson made tea,
I coffee, and we then retired each one to his blanket-bag; the Taugwalders,
Lord Francis Douglas, and myself, occupying the tent, the
We assembled together outside the tent before dawn on the
morning of the 14th, and started directly it was light enough to
move. Young Peter came on with us as a guide, and his brother
returned to Zermatt.not fall to any great extent from the eastern face. The inward dip
of the beds retains the detritus in place. Hence the eastern face appears, when one
is upon it, to be undergoing more rapid disintegration than the other sides: in reality,
the mantle of ruin spares the mountain from farther waste. Upon the southern side,
rocks fall as they are rent off; each day’s work is cleared away
every day; and hence
the faces and ridges are left naked, and are exposed to fresh attacks.
We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the
Riffelberg or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging,
and could no longer continue upon the eastern side. For a little
distance we ascended by snow upon the arêteNow,
said Croz, as he led off, now for something altogether
different.
The work became difficult, and required caution. In
some places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that
those should be in front who were least likely to slip. The
general slope of the mountain at this part was less than 40°, and
snow had accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the
rock-face, leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and
there. These were at times covered with a thin film of ice,
produced from the melting and refreezing of the snow. It was
the counterpart, on a small scale, of the upper 700 feet of the
Pointe des Ecrins,—only there was this material difference; the
face of the Ecrins was about, or exceeded, an angle of 50°, and the
Matterhorn face was less than 40°.
This solitary difficult part was of no great extent.
You must now carry your thoughts back to the seven Italians
who started from Breil on the 11th of July. Four days had
passed since their departure, and we were tormented with anxiety
lest they should arrive on the top before us. All the way up
we had talked of them, and many false alarms of men on the
summit
had been raised. The higher we rose, the more intense
became the excitement. What if we should be beaten at the last
moment? The slope eased off, at length we could be detached,
and Croz and I, dashing away, ran a neck-and-neck race, which
ended in a dead heat. At 1.40 P.M. the world was at our feet, and
the Matterhorn was conquered. Hurrah! Not a footstep could
be seen.
It was not yet certain that we had not been beaten. The
summit of the Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge,
D on the outline on p. 85). This notch is very
conspicuous from below, but when we were upon the summit it was hardly noticed,
and it could be passed without the least difficulty.Where were the men?
I peered over the cliff, half doubting,
half expectant. I saw them immediately—mere dots on the ridge,
at an immense distance below. Up went my arms and my hat.
Croz! Croz!! come here!
Where are they, Monsieur?
There, don’t you see them, down there?
Ah! the
coquins,
they are low down.Croz, we must make those fellows hear us.
We yelled until we were hoarse. The Italians seemed to regard us—we
could not be certain. Croz, we
I seized a block of rock and hurled it down,
and called upon my companion, in the name of friendship, to do
the same. We drove our sticks in, and prized away the crags, and
soon a torrent of stones poured down the cliffs. There was no
mistake about it this time. The Italians turned and fled.must make them hear us;
they shall hear us!Cravate,
and twelve hundred and
fifty feet below us; or, as the crow flies, at a distance of about one-third of a mile.
[Illustration: CROZ! CROZ!! COME HERE!
]
CROZ! CROZ!! COME HERE!
Still, I would that the leader of that party could have stood
with us at that moment, for our victorious shouts conveyed to him
the disappointment of the ambition of a lifetime. He was the
man, of all those who attempted the ascent of the Matterhorn,
who most deserved to be the first upon its summit. He was the
first to doubt its inaccessibility, and he was the only man who
persisted in believing that its ascent would be accomplished. It
was the aim of his life to make the ascent from the side of Italy,
for the honour of his native valley. For a time he had the game
in his hands: he played it as he thought best; but he made a
false move, and he lost it. Times have changed with Carrel. His
supremacy is questioned in the Val Tournanche; new men have
arisen; and he is no longer recognised as the chasseur above all
others: though so long as he remains the man that he is to-day,
it will not be easy to find his superior.
The others had arrived, so we went back to the northern end
of the ridge. Croz now took the tent-pole, Signor Giordano was naturally disappointed at the result, and wished the men
to start again.
Whilst we were upon the southern end of the summit-ridge, we paid some attention
to the portion of the mountain which intervened between ourselves and the
Italian guides. It seemed as if there would not be the least chance for them if they
should attempt to storm the final peak directly from the end of the Yes,
we said, there is the flag-staff, but where
is the flag?
Here it is,
he answered, pulling off his blouse
Victory is ours!
They raised bravos
for
Carrel, and vivas
for Italy, and hastened to put themselves en
fête. On the morrow they were undeceived. All was changed;
the explorers returned sad—cast down—disheartened—confounded—gloomy.
It is true,
said the men. We saw them ourselves—they
hurled stones at us! The old traditions
are true,—there
are spirits on the top of the Matterhorn!They all refused to do so, with the exception of Jean-Antoine. Upon
the 16th of July he set out again with three others, and upon the 17th gained the
summit by passing (at first) up the south-west ridge, and (afterwards) by turning over
to the Z’Mutt, or north-western side. On the 18th he returned to Breil.
shoulder.
In
that direction cliffs fell sheer down from the summit, and we were unable to see
beyond a certain distance. There remained the route about which Carrel and I had
often talked, namely to ascend directly at first from the end of the shoulder,
and
afterwards to swerve to the left—that is, to the Z’Mutt side—and to complete the
ascent from the north-west. When we were upon the summit we laughed at this
idea. The part of the mountain that I have described upon p. 278, was not easy,
although its inclination was moderate. If that slope were made only ten degrees
steeper, its difficulty would be enormously increased. To double its inclination would
be to make it impracticable. The slope at the southern end of the summit-ridge,
falling towards the north-west, was much steeper than that over which we passed, and
we ridiculed the idea that any person should attempt to ascend in that direction, when
the northern route was so easy. Nevertheless, the summit was reached by that route
by the undaunted Carrel. From knowing the final slope over which he passed, and
from the account of Mr. F. C. Grove—who is the only traveller by whom it has been
traversed—I do not hesitate to term the ascent of Carrel and Bich in 1865 the most
desperate piece of mountain-scrambling upon record. In 1869 I asked Carrel if
he had ever done anything more difficult. His reply was, Man cannot do anything
much more difficult than that!
See Appendix D.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865 (NORTHERN END).]
We returned to the southern end of the ridge to build a cairn,
and then paid homage to the view.massifs. First came the Dent Blanche, hoary and grand; the
Gabelhorn and pointed Rothhorn; and then the peerless Weisshorn:
the towering Mischabelhörner, flanked by the Allaleinhorn,
Strahlhorn, and Rimpfischhorn; then Monte Rosa—with its many
Spitzes—the Lyskamm and the Breithorn. Behind was the Bernese
Oberland governed by the Finsteraarhorn, and then the Simplon
and St. Gothard groups; the Disgrazia and the Orteler. Towards
the south we looked down to Chivasso on the plain of Piedmont,
and far beyond. The Viso—one hundred miles away—seemed
close upon us; the Maritime Alps—one hundred and thirty miles
distant—were free from haze. Then came my first love—the Pelvoux;
the Ecrins and the Meije; the clusters of the Graians; and
lastly, in the west, gorgeous in the full sunlight, rose the monarch
of all—Mont Blanc. Ten thousand feet beneath us were the green
fields of Zermatt, dotted with chalets, from which blue smoke rose
lazily. Eight thousand feet below, on the other side, were the
pastures of Breil. There were black and gloomy forests, bright
and cheerful meadows; bounding waterfalls and tranquil lakes;
fertile lands and savage wastes; sunny plains and frigid plateaux.
There were the most rugged forms, and the most graceful outlines—bold,
perpendicular cliffs, and gentle, undulating slopes;
rocky mountains and snowy mountains, sombre and solemn, or
glittering and white, with walls—turrets—pinnacles—pyramids—domes—cones—and
spires! There was every combination that
the world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire.
We remained on the summit for one hour—
One crowded hour of glorious life.
It passed away too quickly, and we began to prepare for the descent.
[Illustration: THE ACTUAL SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865.]
Hudson and I again consulted as to the best and safest arrangement
of the party. We agreed that it would be best for Croz to
go first,last.
A few minutes afterwards I tied myself to young Peter, ran
down after the others, and caught them just as they were commencing
the descent of the difficult part.P.M., to
tie on to old Peter, as he feared, he said, that Taugwalder would
not be able to hold his ground if a slip occurred.
A few minutes later, a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa hotel, to Seiler, saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw.
Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr.
Hadow greater security, was absolutely taking hold of his legs, and
putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions.
At the moment of the accident, Croz, Hadow, and Hudson, were all close together.
Between Hudson and Lord F. Douglas the rope was all but taut, and the same
between all the others, who were
Mr. Hadow, at the moment of his slip, was not occupying a bad position. He
could have moved either up or down, and could touch with his hand the rock of
which I have spoken. Hudson was not so well placed, but he had liberty of motion.
The rope was not taut from him to Hadow, and the two men fell ten or twelve feet
before the jerk came upon him. Lord F. Douglas was not favourably placed, and
could neither move up nor down. Old Peter was firmly planted, and stood just
beneath a large rock which he hugged with both arms. I enter into these details to
make it more apparent that the position occupied by the party at the moment of the
accident was not by any means excessively trying. We were compelled to pass over
the exact spot where the slip occurred, and we found—even with shaken nerves—that
absolutely
makes the passage, perhaps, rather ambiguous. I retain it now, in order to offer the
above explanation.above. Croz was standing by the side of a rock
which afforded good hold, and if he had been aware, or had suspected, that anything
was about to occur, he might and would have gripped it, and would have prevented
any mischief. He was taken totally by surprise. Mr. Hadow slipped off his feet
on to his back, his feet struck Croz in the small of the back, and knocked him right
over, head first. Croz’s axe was out of his reach, yet without it he managed to get
his head uppermost before he disappeared from our sight. If it had been in his
hand I have no doubt that he would have stopped himself and Mr. Hadow.
it was not a difficult place to pass. I have described the slope generally as difficult,
and it is so undoubtedly to most persons; but it must be distinctly understood
that Mr. Hadow slipped at an easy part.
[Illustration: ROPE BROKEN ON THE MATTERHORN.]
So perished our comrades! For the space of half-an-hour we
remained on the spot without moving a single step. The two
men, paralysed by terror, cried like infants, and trembled in such
a manner as to threaten us with the fate of the others. Old Peter
rent the air with exclamations of Chamounix! Oh, what will
Chamounix say?
He meant, Who would believe that Croz
could fall? The young man did nothing but scream or sob, We
are lost! we are lost!
Fixed between
the two, I could neither
move up nor down. I begged
young Peter to descend, but he
dared not. Unless he did, we could
not advance. Old Peter became
alive to the danger, and swelled
the cry, We are lost! we are
lost!
The father’s fear was
natural—he trembled for his son;
the young man’s fear was cowardly—he
thought of self alone.
At last old Peter summoned up
courage, and changed his position
to a rock to which he could fix
the rope; the young man then descended,
and we all stood together.
Immediately we did so, I asked for the rope which had given way,
and found, to my surprise—indeed, to my horror—that it was the
weakest of the three ropes. It was not brought, and should not
have been employed, for the purpose for which it was used. It
was old rope, and, compared with the others, was feeble. It was
For more than two hours afterwards I thought almost every
moment that the next would be my last; for the Taugwalders,
utterly unnerved, were not only incapable of giving assistance, but
were in such a state that a slip might have been expected from
them at any moment. After a time we were able to do that which
should have been done at first, and fixed rope to firm rocks, in
addition to being tied together. These ropes were cut from time
to time, and were left behind.I cannot!
[Illustration: FOG-BOW SEEN FROM THE MATTERHORN ON JULY 14, 1865.
THE TAUGWALDERS THOUGHT THAT IT HAD SOME CONNECTION WITH THE ACCIDENT
]
THE TAUGWALDERS THOUGHT THAT IT HAD SOME CONNECTION WITH THE ACCIDENT
About 6 I paid very little attention to this remarkable phenomenon, and was glad when
it disappeared, as it distracted our attention. Under ordinary circumstances I should
have felt vexed afterwards at not having observed with greater precision an
occurrence so rare and so wonderful. I can add very little about it to that which is
said above. The sun was directly at our backs; that is to say, the fog-bow was
opposite to the sun. The time was 6.30
It has been suggested that the crosses are incorrectly figured in the accompanying
view, and that they were probably formed by the
intersection of other circles or ellipses, as shown in
the annexed diagram. I think this suggestion is
very likely correct; but I have preferred to follow
my original memorandum.
In Parry’s
It may be observed that, upon the descent of the Italian guides (whose expedition
is noticed upon p. 282, and again in the Appendix), upon July 17, 1865, the
phenomenon commonly termed the Brocken was observed. The following is the
account given by the Abbé Amé Gorret in the P.M. we arrived at the snow upon the ridge descending
towards Zermatt, and all peril was over. We frequently looked,
but in vain, for traces of our unfortunate companions; we bent
over the ridge and cried to them, but no sound returned. Convinced
at last that they were neither within sight nor hearing, we
ceased from our useless efforts; and, too cast down for speech,
silently gathered up our things, and the little effects of those who
were lost, preparatory to continuing the descent. When, lo! a
mighty arch appeared, rising above the Lyskamm, high into the
sky. Pale, colourless, and noiseless, but perfectly sharp and defined,
except where it was lost in the clouds, this unearthly apparition
seemed like a vision from another world; and, almost appalled,
we watched with amazement the gradual development of two vast
crosses, one on either side. If the Taugwalders had not been the
first to perceive it, I should have doubted my senses. They
thought it had some connection with the accident, and I, after a
while, that it might bear some relation to ourselves. But our
P.M. The forms were at once tender and
sharp; neutral in tone; were developed gradually, and disappeared suddenly. The
mists were light (that is, not dense), and were dissipated in the course of the
evening.
Narrative of an Attempt to reach the
North Pole, 4to, 1828, there is, at pp. 99-100, an
account of the occurrence of a phenomenon analogous
to the above-mentioned one. At half-past
five
etc. I follow Parry in using
the term fog-bow.
P.M. we witnessed a very beautiful natural
phenomenon. A broad white fog-bow first appeared
opposite to the sun, as was very commonly the case,Feuille d’Aoste, October 31, 1865:—Nous
étions sur l’épaule (the
This occurred at about 6.30 to 7 shoulder
) quand nous remarquâmes un phénomène
qui nous fit plaisir; le nuage était très-dense du côté de Valtornanche, c’était serein
en Suisse; nous nous vîmes au milieu d’un cercle aux couleurs de l’arc-en-ciel; ce
mirage nous formait à tous une couronne au milieu de laquelle nous voyions notre
ombre.P.M., and the Italians in question were at
about the same height as ourselves—namely, 14,000 feet.
I was ready to leave, and waiting for the others. They had
recovered their appetites and the use of their tongues. They
spoke in patois, which I did not understand. At length the son
Monsieur.
Yes.
We are poor men; we have
lost our Herr; we shall not get paid; we can ill afford this.
Stop!
I said, interrupting him, that is nonsense; I shall pay
you, of course, just as if your Herr were here.
They talked
together in their patois for a short time, and then the son spoke
again. We don’t wish you to pay us. We wish you to write in
the hotel-book at Zermatt, and to your journals, that we have not
been paid.
What nonsense are you talking? I don’t understand
you. What do you mean?
He proceeded—Why, next year
there will be many travellers at Zermatt, and we shall get more
voyageurs.
[Illustration: MONSIEUR ALEX. SEILER.]
Who would answer such a proposition? I made them no reply
in words,What is the
matter?
The Taugwalders and I have
returned.
He did not need more, and
burst into tears; but lost no time in useless lamentations, and set
to work to arouse the village. Ere long a score of men had started
We started at 2 A.M. on Sunday the 16th, and followed the
route that we had taken on the previous Thursday as far as the
Hörnli. From thence we went down to the right of the ridge,Z on the map.séracs of the Matterhorngletscher. By
8.30 we had got to the plateau at the top of the glacier, and
within sight of the corner in which we knew my companions must
be.whole of the boots of those
who had fallen were off, and were lying upon the snow near the bodies.
[Illustration: THE MANILLA ROPE.
All those who had fallen had been tied with the Manilla,
or with the second and equally strong rope, and, consequently,
there had been only one link—that between old Peter and Lord
F. Douglas—where the weaker rope had been used. This had a
very ugly look for Taugwalder, for it was not possible to suppose
that the others would have sanctioned the employment of a rope
so greatly inferior in strength when there were more than 250 feet
This is not the only occasion upon which M. Clemenz (who presided over the
inquiry) has failed to give up answers that he has promised. It is greatly to be
regretted that he does not feel that the suppression of the truth is equally against the
interests of travellers and of the guides. If the men are untrustworthy, the public
should be warned of the fact; but if they are blameless, why allow them to remain
under unmerited suspicion?
Old Peter Taugwalder is a man who is labouring under an unjust accusation.
Notwithstanding repeated denials, even his comrades and neighbours at Zermatt
persist in asserting or insinuating that he
I should rejoice to learn that his answers to the questions which were put to him
were satisfactory. Not only was his act at the
In respect to young Peter, it is not possible to speak in the same manner. The
odious idea that he propounded (which I believe emanated from cut the rope which led from him to Lord
F. Douglas. In regard to this infamous charge, I say that he could not do so at the
moment of the slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows that he did
not do so beforehand. There remains, however, the suspicious fact that the rope
which broke was the thinnest and weakest one that we had. It is suspicious, because
it is unlikely that any of the four men in front would have selected an old and weak
rope when there was abundance of new, and much stronger, rope to spare; and, on
the other hand, because if Taugwalder thought that an accident was likely to happen,
it was to his interest to have the weaker rope where it was placed.
him) he has
endeavoured to trade upon, in spite of the fact that his father was paid (for both) in
the presence of witnesses. Whatever may be his abilities as a guide, he is not one
to whom I would ever trust my life, or afford any countenance.
[Illustration: THE SECOND ROPE.]
[Illustration: THE ENGLISH CHURCH AT ZERMATT.]
Meanwhile, the administration sent strict injunctions to recover
the bodies, and upon the 19th of July, twenty-one men of Zermatt
sérac. The character of the work they undertook may
be gathered from a reference to p. 100.
So the traditional inaccessibility of the Matterhorn was vanquished,
and was replaced by legends of a more real character.
Others will essay to scale its proud cliffs, but to none will it
be the mountain that it was to its early explorers. Others may
tread its summit-snows, but none will ever know the feelings of
those who first gazed upon its marvellous panorama; and none,
I trust, will ever be compelled to tell of joy turned into grief, and
of laughter into mourning. It proved to be a stubborn foe; it
With the Ascent of the Matterhorn, my mountaineering in the Alps came to a close. The disastrous termination, though casting a permanent cloud over otherwise happy memories, and leaving a train of life-long regrets, has not altered my regard for the purest, healthiest and most manly of sports; and, often, in grappling with every day difficulties, sometimes in apparently hopeless tasks, encouragement has been found in the remembrance of hard-won victories over stubborn Alps.
We who go mountain-scrambling have constantly set before us the superiority of fixed purpose or perseverance to brute force. We know that each height, each step, must be gained by patient, laborious toil, and that wishing cannot take the place of working; we know the benefits of mutual aid; that many a difficulty must be encountered, and many an obstacle must be grappled with or turned, but we know that where there’s a will there’s a way: and we come back to our daily occupations better fitted to fight the battle of life, and to overcome the impediments which obstruct our paths, strengthened and cheered by the recollection of past labours, and by the memories of victories gained in other fields.
I have not made myself an apologist for mountaineering, nor
do I now intend to usurp the functions of a moralist; but my
Some hold these virtues in less estimation, and assign base and contemptible motives to those who indulge in our innocent sport.
Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
Others, again, who are not detractors, find mountaineering, as
a sport, to be wholly unintelligible. It is not greatly to be
wondered at—we are not all constituted alike. Mountaineering is
a pursuit essentially adapted to the young or vigorous, and not to
the old or feeble. To the latter, toil may be no pleasure; and it is
often said by such persons, This man is making a toil of pleasure.
Let the motto on the title-page be an answer, if an answer be
required. Toil he must who goes mountaineering; but out of the
toil comes strength (not merely muscular energy—more than that),
an awakening of all the faculties; and from the strength arises
pleasure. Then, again, it is often asked, in tones which seem to
imply that the answer must, at least, be doubtful, But does it
repay you?
Well, we cannot estimate our enjoyment as you
measure your wine, or weigh your lead,—it is real, nevertheless.
If I could blot out every reminiscence, or erase every memory,
still I should say that my scrambles amongst the Alps have repaid
me, for they have given me two of the best things a man can
possess—health and friends.
The recollections of past pleasures cannot be effaced. Even
now as I write they crowd up before me. First comes an endless
series of pictures, magnificent in form, effect, and colour. I see the
Still, the last, sad memory hovers round, and sometimes drifts across like floating mist, cutting off sunshine, and chilling the remembrance of happier times. There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say, Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.
On February 28, 1864, Mr. P. C. Gosset and Mr. B—— started from the village of Ardon (about mid-way between Sion and Martigny), to make the ascent of the Haut-de-Cry (9688 feet), with the guides J. J. Nance, F. Rebot, A. Bevard, and J. J. Bennen. They arrived within a few hundred feet of the summit before mid-day, and determined to complete the ascent by following the crest of a ridge leading towards the east. Before this could be done it was necessary to cross some steep snow; and, while passing this, an avalanche was unfortunately started. Bennen and Mr. B—— perished; the others happily escaped. The following narrative, from the pen of Mr. Gosset, illustrates, in a very impressive manner, the danger of traversing new-fallen snow at considerable inclinations:—
We had to go up a steep snow-field, about 800 feet high, as well as I
remember. It was about 150 feet broad at the top, and 400 or 500 at the
bottom. It was a sort of couloir on a large scale. During the ascent we
sank about one foot deep at every step. Bennen did not seem to like the
look of the snow very much. He asked the local guides whether avalanches
ever came down this couloir, to which they answered that our position was
perfectly safe. We had mounted on the northern side of the couloir, and
having arrived at 150 feet from the top, we began crossing it on a horizontal
curve, so as to gain the E. arête. The inflexion or dip of the couloir was
slight, not above 25 feet, the inclination near 35°. We were walking in the
following order:—Bevard, Nance, Bennen, myself, B., and Rebot. Having
crossed over about three-quarters of the breadth of the couloir, the two leading
men suddenly sank considerably above their waists. Bennen tightened the
rope. The snow was too deep to think of getting out of the hole they had
made, so they advanced one or two steps, dividing the snow with their
bodies. Bennen turned round and told us he was afraid of starting an avalanche;
we asked whether it would not be better to return and cross the
couloir higher up. To this the three Ardon men opposed themselves; they
mistook the proposed precaution for fear, and the two leading men continued
their work. After three or four steps gained in the aforesaid manner, the
snow became hard again. Bennen had not moved—he was evidently undecided
what he should do; as soon, however, as he saw hard snow again, he
advanced and crossed parallel to, but above, the furrow the Ardon men had
made. Strange to say, the snow supported him. While he was passing I
observed that the leader, Bevard, had ten or twelve feet of rope coiled round
his shoulder. I of course at once told him to uncoil it and get on the arête,
from which he was not more than fifteen feet distant. Bennen then told me
to follow. I tried his steps, but sank up to my waist in the very first. So
I went through the furrows, holding my elbows close to my body, so as not
to touch the sides. This furrow was about twelve feet long, and as the snow
was good on the other side, we had all come to the false conclusion that
We are all lost.
His words were slow and solemn, and those who
knew him felt what they really meant when spoken by such a man as Bennen.
They were his last words. I drove my alpenstock into the snow, and brought
the weight of my body to bear on it. I then waited. It was an awful moment
of suspense. I turned my head towards Bennen to see whether he had done
the same thing. To my astonishment I saw him turn round, face the valley,
and stretch out both arms. The snow on which we stood began to move
slowly, and I felt the utter uselessness of any alpenstock. I soon sank up to
my shoulders, and began descending backwards. From this moment I saw
nothing of what had happened to the rest of the party. With a good deal of
trouble I succeeded in turning round. The speed of the avalanche increased
rapidly, and before long I was covered up with snow. I was suffocating when
I suddenly came to the surface again. I was on a wave of the avalanche,
and saw it before me as I was carried down. It was the most awful sight I
ever saw. The head of the avalanche was already at the spot where we
had made our last halt. The head alone was preceded by a thick cloud of
snow-dust; the rest of the avalanche was clear. Around me I heard the
horrid hissing of the snow, and far before me the thundering of the foremost
part of the avalanche. To prevent myself sinking again, I made use of my
arms much in the same way as when swimming in a standing position. At last
I noticed that I was moving slower; then I saw the pieces of snow in front
of me stop at some yards’ distance; then the snow straight before me stopped,
and I heard on a large scale the same creaking sound that is produced when
a heavy cart passes over frozen snow in winter. I felt that I also had stopped,
and instantly threw up both arms to protect my head in case I should again
be covered up. I had stopped, but the snow behind me was still in motion;
its pressure on my body was so strong, that I thought I should be crushed
to death. This tremendous pressure lasted but a short time; I was covered
up by snow coming from behind me. My first impulse was to try and uncover
my head—but this I could not do, the avalanche had frozen by pressure
the moment it stopped, and I was frozen in. Whilst trying vainly to move
my arms, I suddenly became aware that the hands as far as the wrist had
the faculty of motion. The conclusion was easy, they must be above the
snow. I set to work as well as I could; it was time, for I could not have
held out much longer. At last I saw a faint glimmer of light. The crust
above my head was getting thinner, but I could not reach it any more with
my hands; the idea struck me that I might pierce it with my breath. After
several efforts I succeeded in doing so, and felt suddenly a rush of air towards
my mouth. I saw the sky again through a little round hole. A dead silence
reigned around me; I was so surprised to be still alive, and so persuaded at
the first moment that none of my fellow-sufferers had survived, that I did not
even think of shouting for them. I then made vain efforts to extricate my arms,
P.M.
we came to my poor friend’s face.... I wished the body to be taken out
completely, but nothing could induce the three guides to work any longer, from
the moment they saw that it was too late to save him. I acknowledge that they
were nearly as incapable of doing anything as I was. When I was taken out of
the snow the cord had to be cut. We tried the end going towards Bennen, but
could not move it; it went nearly straight down, and showed us that there was
the grave of the bravest guide the Valais ever had, and ever will have. The cold
had done its work on us; we could stand it no longer, and began the descent.
[Mr. B. B. Heathcote, of Chingford, Essex, whilst attempting to ascend the
Matterhorn by the southern route, was unfortunately used as a lightning-conductor,
when he was within 500 feet of the summit of the mountain. It may
be observed that the Matterhorn (like all isolated Alpine rock summits) is
frequently struck by lightning. Signor Giordano has pointed out elsewhere
that he found numerous traces of electric discharges upon its summit.]Annales des Voyages, April 1869.
On July 30, 1869, in company with Peter Perrn,
Shoulder
and the summit.cabane I
found that Perrn had a long sore on his arm; next morning his leg was much
swollen and very weak. We descended to Breil on the following day, and
crossed to Zermatt. The same day my hand began to swell, and it continued
very weak for about a week. Maquignaz’s neck was much swollen on each side;
the lightning hitting him (according to his account) on the back, and upon each
side of the neck. Taugwalder’s leg was also slightly swollen. The thunder was
tremendous—louder than I have ever heard it before. There was no wind, nor
rain, and everything was in a mist.
It was stated in the commencement of this chapter that the Pointe des Ecrins was the highest mountain in France. I have learned, since that paragraph was written, that Captain Mieulet has determined that the height of the Aiguille Verte is 13,540 feet; that mountain is consequently 78 feet higher than the Pointe des Ecrins, and is the highest in France.
The Val Tournanche natives who started to facilitate the way up the south-west
ridge of the Matterhorn for MM. Giordano and Sella, pitched their tent
upon my third platform, at the foot of the Great Tower (12,992 feet), and
enjoyed several days of bad weather under its shelter. On the first fine day
(13th of July) they began their work, and about midday on the 14th got on to
the shoulder,
and arrived at the base of the final peak (the point where Bennen
stopped on July 28, 1862). The counsels of the party were then divided. Two—Jean-Antoine
Carrel and Joseph Maquignaz—wished to go on; the others
were not eager about it. A discussion took place, and the result was they all
commenced to descend, and whilst upon the cravate
(13,524) they heard our
cries from the summit.Feuille d’Aoste, Oct. 1865), who was at Breil when the men returned.Until
now I have striven for the honour of making the first ascent,—fate has decided
The majority of the men (in fact the whole of them with the exception of Jean-Antoine)
refused point-blank to have anything more to do with the mountain.
Carrel, however, stepped forward, saying, As for me, I have not given it up;
if you (turning to the Abbé Gorret) or the others will come, I will start again
immediately.
Not I!
said one. No more for me,
cried a second. If
you would give me a thousand francs I would not go back,
said a third. The
Abbé Gorret alone volunteered. This plucky priest was concerned in the very
first attempts upon the mountain,E, attempt No. 1.
These four men left Breil at 6.30 A.M. on July 16, at 1 P.M. arrived at the
third tent-platform, and there passed the night. At daybreak on the 17th they
continued the ascent by the route which had been taken before; passed successively
the Great Tower, the crête du coq,
the cravate,
and the shoulder,
A.M. gained the point at the foot of the final peak from which the
explorers had turned back on the 14th.E upon the lower of the
two outlines facing p. 44.nous allions entrer en pays inconnu, aucun
n’étant jamais allé aussi loin.
The passage of the cleft which stopped Bennen was accomplished, and then
the party proceeded directly towards the summit, over rocks which for some
distance were not particularly difficult. The steep cliffs down which we had
hurled stones (on the 14th) then stopped their way, and Carrel led round to the
left or Z’Mutt side. The work at this part was of the very greatest difficulty,
and stones and icicles which fell rendered the position of the party very
precarious;almost perpendicular.
He added, This part occupied the most time, and gave us the greatest
trouble.
At length they arrived at a fault in the rocks which formed a
roughly horizontal gallery. They crept along this in the direction of a ridge
that descended towards the north-west, or thereabouts, and when close to the
easy route, they galloped,
comparatively easy.
The time of their arrival does not appear to have been noticed. It was
late in the day, I believe about 3 P.M. Carrel and his comrade only waited
long enough to plant a flag by the side of the cairn that we had built three
days previously, then descended at once, rejoined the others, and all four hurried
down as fast as possible to the tent. They were so pressed for time that they
could not eat! and it was 9 P.M. before they arrived at their camp at the foot of
the Great Tower. In descending they followed the gallery above mentioned
throughout its entire length, and so avoided the very difficult rocks over which
they had passed on the ascent. As they were traversing the length of the
shoulder
they witnessed the phenomenon to which I have already adverted
at the foot of p. 289.
When Carrel and Bich were near the summit they saw our traces upon
the Matterhorngletscher, and suspected that an accident had occurred; they
did not, however, hear of the Matterhorn catastrophe until their return to Breil,
at 3 P.M. upon the 18th. The details of that sad event were in the mouths of
all, and it was not unnaturally supposed, in the absence of correct information,
that the accident was a proof that the northern side was frightfully dangerous.
The safe return of the four Italians was regarded, on the other hand, as evidence
that the Breil route was the best. Those who were interested (either personally
or otherwise) in the Val Tournanche made the most of the circumstances, and
trumpeted the praises of the southern route. Some went farther, and instituted
comparisons between the two routes to the disadvantage of the northern one,
and were pleased to term our expedition on the 13-14th of July precipitate, and
so forth. Considering the circumstances which caused us to leave the Val
Tournanche on the 12th of July, these remarks were not in the best possible
taste, but I have no feeling regarding them. There may be some, however, who
may be interested in a comparison of the two routes, and for their sakes I will
place the essential points in juxtaposition. We (that is the Taugwalders and
myself) were absent from Zermatt 53 hours. Excluding halts and stoppages of
one sort or another, the ascent and descent occupied us 23 hours. Zermatt is
5315 feet above the level of the sea, and the Matterhorn is 14,780; we had
therefore to ascend 9465 feet. As far as the point marked 10,820 feet the
way was known, so we had to find the way over only 3960 feet. The members
of our party (I now include all) were very unequal in ability, and none of us
could for a moment be compared as cragsmen with Jean-Antoine Carrel. The
four Italians who started from Breil on the 16th of July were absent during
shoulder
the way was known
to Carrel, and he had to find the way over only about 800 feet. All four
men were born mountaineers, good climbers, and they were led by the most
expert cragsman I have seen. The weather in each instance was fine. It is
seen, therefore, that these four nearly equally matched men took a longer time
to ascend 1500 feet less height than ourselves, although we had to find the
way over more than four times as much untrodden ground as they. This
alone would lead any mountaineer to suppose that their route must have been
more difficult than ours.much
more difficult than ours.
This was not the opinion in the Val Tournanche at the end of 1865, and
the natives confidently reckoned that tourists would flock to their side in
preference to the other. It was, I believe, the late Canon Carrel of Aosta (who
always took great interest in such matters) who first proposed the construction
of a cabane upon the southern side of the Matterhorn. The project was taken
up with spirit, and funds for its execution were speedily provided—principally
by the members of the Italian Alpine Club, or by their friends. The indefatigable
Carrel found a natural hole upon the ledge called the cravate
(13,524), and this, in course of time, was turned, under his direction, into a
respectable little hut. Its position is superb, and gives a view of the most
magnificent character.
Whilst this work was being carried out, my friend Mr. F. Craufurd Grove
consulted me respecting the ascent of the Matterhorn. I recommended him
to ascend by the northern route, and to place himself in the hands of Jean-Antoine
Carrel. Mr. Grove found, however, that Carrel distinctly preferred the
southern side, and they ascended accordingly by the Breil route. Mr. Grove
has been good enough to supply the following account of his expedition. He
carries on my description of the southern route from the highest point I attained
on that side (a little below the cravate
) to the summit, and thus renders
complete my descriptions of the two sides.
In August 1867 I ascended the Matterhorn from Breil, taking as guides
three mountaineers of the Val Tournanche—J. A. Carrel, J. Bich, and S. Meynet,—Carrel
being the leader. At that time the Matterhorn had not been scaled
since the famous expedition of the Italian guides mentioned above.
Our route was identical with that which they followed in their descent
when, as will be seen, they struck out on one part of the mountain a different
line from that which they had taken in ascending. After gaining the Col
du Lion, we climbed the south-western or Breil
arête by the route which has
been described in these pages, passing the night at the then unfinished hut
concravate.
Starting from the hut
at daylight, we reached at an early hour the summit of the shoulder,
and then
traversed its arête to the final peak of the Matterhorn. The passage of this
arête was perhaps the most enjoyable part of the whole expedition. The ridge,
worn by slow irregular decay into monstrous and rugged battlements, and
guarded on each side by tremendous precipices, is grand beyond all description,
but does not, strange to say, present any remarkable difficulty to the climber,
save that it is exceedingly trying to the head. Great care is of course necessary,
but the scramble is by no means of so arduous a nature as entirely to absorb
the attention; so that a fine climb, and rock scenery, of grandeur perhaps
unparalleled in the Alps, can both be appreciated.
It was near the end of this
arête, close to the place where it abuts against
the final peak, that Professor Tyndall’s party turned in 1862,arête, looking
upward at the crest of the mountain, and thinking that it must be a good 1000
feet above me.
When the Italian guides made their splendid ascent, they traversed the
arête of the shoulder to the main peak, passed the cleft which has been mentioned
(p. 90), clambered on to the tremendous north-western face of the
mountain (described by Mr. Whymper at pp. 277 and 282), and then endeavoured
to cross this face so as to get on to the Z’Mutt arête.arête, but still separated from it
by a barrier, to outflank which it was necessary to descend a perpendicular
gully. Carrel and Bich were lowered down this, the other two men remaining
at the top to haul up their companions on their return, as otherwise they could
not have got up again. Passing on to the Z’Mutt arête without further difficulty,
Carrel and Bich climbed by that ridge to the summit of the mountain.
In returning, the Italians kept to the ledge for the whole distance across the
north-western face, and descended to the place where the arête of the shoulder
abuts against the main peak by a sort of rough ridge of rocks between the
north-western and southern faces. When I ascended in 1867, we followed this
route in the ascent and in the descent. I thought the ledge difficult, in some
places decidedly dangerous, and should not care to set foot on it again; but
[Illustration: THE HUT (CABANE) ON THE ZERMATT SIDE OF THE MATTERHORN.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY THE AUTHOR.]
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY THE AUTHOR.
The credit of making the
Italian ascent of the Matterhorn belongs undoubtedly
to J.-A. Carrel and to the other mountaineers who accompanied him.
Bennen led his party bravely and skilfully to a point some 750 feet below the
top. From this point, however, good guide though he was, Bennen had to retire
defeated; and it was reserved for the better mountain-craft of the Valtournanche
guide to win the difficult way to the summit of the Matterhorn.
Mr. Craufurd Grove was the first traveller who ascended the Matterhorn
after the accident, and the natives of Val Tournanche were, of course, greatly
delighted that his ascent was made upon their side. Some of them, however,
were by no means well pleased that J.-A. Carrel was so much regarded. They
feared, perhaps, that he would acquire the monopoly of the mountain. Just
a month after Mr. Grove’s ascent, six Valtournanchians set out to see whether
they could not learn the route, and so come in for a share of the good things
which were expected to arrive. They were three Maquignaz’s, Cæsar Carrel
(my old guide), J.-B. Carrel, and a daughter of the last named! They left
Breil at 5 A.M. on Sept. 12, and at 3 P.M. arrived at the hut, where they passed
the night. At 7 A.M. the next day they started again (leaving J.-B. Carrel
behind), and proceeded along the shoulder
to the final peak; passed the
cleft which had stopped Bennen, and clambered up the comparatively easy
rocks on the other side until they arrived at the base of the last precipice,
down which we had hurled stones on July 14, 1865. They (young woman
and all) were then about 350 feet from the summit! Then, instead of turning
to the left, as Carrel and Mr. Grove had done, Joseph and J.-Pierre Maquignaz
paid attention to the cliff in front of them, and managed to find a means of
passing up, by clefts, ledges, and gullies, to the summit. This was a shorter
(and it appears to be an easier) route than that taken by Carrel and Grove, and
it has been followed by all those who have since then ascended the mountain
from the side of Breil.all the difficult parts of the mountain as high as the shoulder, before the advent of
these persons. This explains the facility with which they moved over ground which
had been found very trying in earlier times. The young woman declared that the ascent
(as far as she went) was a trifle, or used words to that effect; if she had tried to get to
the same height before 1862, she would probably have been of a different opinion.
In the meantime they had not been idle upon the other side. A hut was
constructed upon the eastern face, at a height of 12,526 feet above the sea,
near to the crest of the ridge which descends towards Zermatt (north-east
ridge). This was done at the expense of Monsieur Seiler and of the Swiss
Alpine Club. Mons. Seiler placed the execution of the work under the direction
of the Knubels, of the village of St. Nicholas, in the Zermatt valley; and
Peter Knubel, along with Joseph Marie Lochmatter of the same village, had
the honour of making the second ascent of the mountain upon the northern
side with Mr. Elliott. This took place on July 24-25, 1868. Since then
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL AT THE SCHWARZSEE.]
Mr. Elliott supposed that he avoided the place where the accident occurred,
and that he improved the northern route. This, however, is not the case.
Both he and the others who have succeeded him have followed in all essential
points the route which we took upon July 13-15, 1865, with the exception of
the deviations which I will point out. Upon leaving Zermatt, the traveller
commences by crossing a bridge which is commonly termed the Matterhorn
bridge, and proceeds to the chapel at the Schwarzsee. Thence he mounts the
Hörnli, and follows its ridge along its entire length right up to the foot of the
Matterhorn. There is now a good path along the whole of this ridge, but when
we traversed it for the First Ascent there was not even so much as a faintly
marked track. The first steps which are taken upon the mountain itself follow
the exact line over which I myself led upon the first ascent, and the track
presently passes over the precise spot upon which our tent was placed in 1865.
In 1874, and again in 1876, I saw the initials which I marked on the rock by
the side of our tent. The route now taken passes this rock, and then goes
round the corner of the buttress to which I referred upon p. 276. At this point
the route now followed deviates somewhat from the line of our ascent, and goes
more directly up to the part of the north-east ridge upon which the Cabane is
placed. We bore more away on to the face of the mountain, and proceeded
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1874 (NORTHERN END).]
So far as the Cabane there is now a strongly marked track, almost a path,
Cabane itself is like
will be seen by reference to the illustration which faces p. 309. It is placed in
a very insecure position, and will probably one of these days disappear by
disintegration. It is not easy at this part of the mountain to find a good
situation for a hut, though there is plenty of choice both higher up and lower
down.
Amongst the ascents that have been made which are most worthy of note,
that made by Signor Giordano may be mentioned first. This gentleman came
to Breil several times after his famous visit in 1865, with the intention of
making the ascent, but he was always baffled by the weather. In July 1866
he got as high as the cravate
(with J. A. Carrel and other men) and was
detained there five days and nights, unable to move either up or down. At last,
upon Sept. 3-5, 1868, he was able to gratify his desires, and accomplished the
feat of ascending the mountain on one side and descending it upon the other.
Signor Giordano is, I believe, the only geologist who has ascended the mountain.
He spent a considerable time in the examination of its structure, and became
benighted on its eastern face in consequence. I am indebted to him for the
valuable note and the accompanying section which follow the Table of Ascents.
Signor Giordano carried a mercurial barometer throughout the entire distance,
and read it frequently. His observations have enabled me to determine with
confidence and accuracy the heights which were attained upon the different
attempts to ascend the mountain, and the various points upon it which have
been so frequently mentioned throughout this volume.
Questions having been frequently put to me respecting the immediate
summit of the Matterhorn, and difficulties having been expressed as to the
recognition of the two views given upon pp. 279 and 281, I made an ascent of
the mountain in 1874 to photograph the summit, in order that I might see what
changes had occurred since our visit of ten years before. The summits of all
high mountains vary from time to time, and I was not surprised to find that
the Matterhorn was no exception to the general rule. It was altogether sharper
and narrower in 1874 than 1865. Instead of being able to run about,
every
step had to be painfully cut with the axe; and the immediate summit, instead
of being a blunt and rounded eminence, was a little piled-up cone of snow which
went to a very sharp point. Our photographic operations were conducted with
difficulty, for a furious north wind was blowing which would have whisked away
the camera immediately if it had been set up in the most convenient position for
taking a view; and we were compelled to cut a great gash in the snow and to
work down upon the edge of the cliff overlooking Breil before we could escape
from the gusts which were whirling away the snow in writhing eddies. My
guides J. A. Carrel, Bic, and Lochmatter formed a strong party, and eventually
we gained a position, protected from the wind, whence there was a good view of
the summit; but our ledge was so small that we could not venture to unrope,
and Carrel had to squat down whilst I photographed over his head. The
engraving upon p. 311 has been made from the photograph so taken. It will
interest some of my readers to know that the nearest peak, seen below, is the
summit of the Dent d’Hérens.
The light was not favourable for photographing the Cabane when we returned
from the summit, and I stopped alone with Carrel in it for a second night in
order to get the morning light on the next day. Whilst quietly reposing inside,
I was startled to hear a rustling and crackling sound, and jumped up, expecting
that the building was about to take itself off to lower quarters; and presently I
perceived that the hut had a tenant to whom I certainly did not expect to be
introduced. A little, plump mouse came creeping out over the floor, being
apparently of opinion that there ought not to be any one there at that time of
day. It wandered about picking up stray fragments of food, occasionally
crunching a bit of egg-shell, totally unaware of my presence, for I made out that
the little animal was both blind and deaf. It would have been easy to capture
it, but I would not do so, and left it there to keep company with other solitary
tourists.
The view from the Cabane extends from the Bietschhorn on the north to the
Grand Tournalin in the south; and includes the Mischabel group, the Allalleinhorn
and Alphubel, Mont Rosa, etc. etc. Its situation is not high enough to
overlook those mountains, and so the prospect is very similar to the northern
and eastern half of the view from the Riffel. The uppermost 800 feet of the
Matterhorn can be seen from the hut, but the rest of the part above it is not
visible, being hidden by a small ridge which projects from the face. Whilst
stopping in the Cabane we had the insecurity of its position forcibly impressed
upon us by seeing a huge block break away from the rock at its side, and go
crashing down over the very route which is commonly pursued by tourists.
The year 1879 is a memorable one in the history of the Matterhorn, for in it
there occurred two deaths upon the mountain, and two new routes were discovered.
Sufficient information has not come to hand at the time I write upon
what is termed the
to enable one to form a correct opinion
about that lamentable business, and it is enough to say that upon August 12 a
party started from Breil, composed of Dr. Lüscher, Prof. Schiess, and the guides
J. M. Lochmatter, Jos. Brantschen, and Petryson of Evolena. They gained the
hut on the affaire Brantschencravate
in due course, and on the following day the party crossed
the mountain to Zermatt, with the exception of Brantschen, who was left behind
in the hut, some say only slightly ill, and others at the point of death. Which
of these was the case is only known by those concerned. They sent back
assistance to their comrade in a somewhat tardy fashion, and when the relief
party gained the hut Brantschen was found dead.
At the time that this was taking place on the southern side of the Matterhorn,
an accident occurred on the north-east face by which a life was lost.
Messrs. A. E. Craven and Dr. Moseley (of Boston), with the guides Peter Rubi
and C. Inabnit, left Zermatt at 10.30 P.M. on the night of August 13, and
ascended the mountain by the usual northern route without stopping at the
hut. They reached the summit at 9 A.M. on the 14th, and had returned to
within a short distance of the hut, when Dr. Moseley (who had found it irksome
to be tied up, and had frequently wished to go unroped) untied himself from the
rest, doing so entirely upon his own responsibility. A few minutes later, and
within quite a short distance of the hut, the party had to cross a projecting
piece of rock. Rubi went over first, and planted his axe in position to give
Many persons have talked at different times about the possibility of finding
a way up the Matterhorn from the side of the Z’Mutt glacier; but it was not
until the year 1879 that a way was found. On September 2-3, Mr. A. F. Mummery,
with the guides ? and ? , succeeded in gaining the summit by first
going up the long buttress of snow which runs out from the mountain to the
Z’Mutt glacier, and then up the rocks above. I have been unable to procure
any details respecting this expedition and my only information about it has
been derived from Mr. Baumann, who followed in Mr. Mummery’s traces three
days later. Mr. Baumann says: We followed the long ice-slope to its extreme
upper end, then the jagged arête above it for a short distance, and then deviated
a little to the right, climbing by a secondary rocky ridge descending towards
the Stockhi until within an hour of the summit, when we struck the main Z’Mutt
arête and so completed the ascent by joining the Breil route.
At the very time that Mr. Mummery was occupied in his expedition, Mr. W. Penhall, with the guides F. Imseng and L. Sorbriehen, was engaged in a similar enterprise, and also ascended the Matterhorn from the direction of the Stockhi. He, however, at the first took a route closer to the Tiefenmatten glacier, though he at last, like the others, eventually got upon the main Z’Mutt arête and completed the ascent by following a portion of the Breil route.
Neither Mr. Mummery, nor Messrs. Baumann and Penhall, descended by the routes which they struck out, and in each case the respective parties descended by the northern or Zermatt route. It is therefore at present impossible to determine the relative difficulty of the various routes up the mountain. Still, I think that the great majority of tourists will, as heretofore, prefer the ordinary Zermatt route, and that comparatively few will patronize the newly-discovered ones.
The ascent of the Matterhorn has now taken its place amongst those which are considered fashionable, and many persons get upon it who ought not to be upon a mountain at all. Although much has been done on both sides of it to facilitate the routes, and although they are much easier to traverse than they were in years gone by, it is still quite possible to get into trouble upon them, and to come utterly to grief. Considering how large a number of entirely incompetent persons venture upon the mountain, it is surprising so few meet with accidents; but if the number of accidents continues to increase at its present rate it will, ere long, not be easy to find a place of interment in the English churchyard at Zermatt.
No. of Date. Names. Side upon Greatest REMARKS. Attempt. which Height the Attempt attained. was made, and Place arrived at. 1 1858-9. J.-Antoine Breil side 12,650 Several attempts Carrel. “Chimney.” were made before J.-Jacques this height was Carrel attained; the men Victor Carrel. concerned cannot Gab. Maquignaz. remember how many. Abbé Gorret. See p. 46. 1860. 2 July Alfred Zermatt 11,500? Without guides. Parker. side P. 46-7. Charles East face. Parker. Sandbach Parker. 3 August V. Hawkins. Breil side 12,992 Guides—J. J. J. Tyndall. Hawkins got 13,050? Bennen and to foot of J.-Jacques “Great Tower,” Carrel. Pp. 47-9. Tyndall a few feet higher. 1861. 4 July Messrs. Zermatt 11,700? No guides. Parker side P. 49. East face. 5 Aug. 29 J.-Antoine Breil side 13,230 See p. 57. Carrel. “Crête du J.-Jacques Coq.” Carrel. 6 Aug. 29-30 Edward Breil side 12,650 Camped upon the Whymper “Chimney.” mountain, with an Oberland guide. Pp. 51-7. 1862. 7 January T. S. Zermatt 11,000? Winter attempt. Kennedy side Pp. 58-9. East face. 8 July 7-8 R. J. S. Breil side 12,000 Guides—Johann zum Macdonald. Arête below Taugwald and Edward “Chimney.” Johann Kronig. Whymper. Pp. 64-5. 9 July 9-10 R. J. S. Breil side 12,992 Guides—J.-A. Macdonald. “Great Carrel and Edward Tower.” Pession. P. 66. Whymper. ” July 18-19 ” ” Breil side 13,400 Alone. Pp. Somewhat 67-79. higher than the lowest part of the “Cravate.” 10 July 23-24 ” ” Breil side 13,150 Guides—J.-A. “Crête du Carrel, Cæsar Coq.” Carrel, and Luc Meynet. P. 80. 11 July 25-26 ” ” Breil side 13,460 With Luc Meynet. Nearly as Pp. 81-2. high as the highest part of the “Cravate.” 12 July 27-28 J. Tyndall Breil side 13,970 Guides—J. J. “The Bennen and Anton Shoulder,” Walter; porters— to foot of J.-Antoine final peak. Carrel, Cæsar Carrel, and another. Pp. 83-87, 90-92. 1863. 13 Aug. 10-11 Edward Breil side 13,280 Guides—J.-A. Whymper “Crête du Carrel, Cæsar Coq.” Carrel, Luc Meynet, and two porters. Pp. 114-123. 1865. 14 June 21. ” ” South-east 11,200? Guides—Michel face Croz, Christian Almer, Franz Biener; porter—Luc Meynet. Pp. 231-235.
No. of Date. Names. Route taken. REMARKS. Ascent 1865. 1 July 13-15 Lord Francis Douglas. Zermatt Guides—Michel D. Hadow. (Or Northern Croz, Peter Charles Hudson. route.) Taugwalder Edward Whymper. _père_, Peter Taugwalder _fils_. See pp. 271-290. 2 July 16-18 Jean-Antoine Carrel. Breil The first two J. Baptiste Bich. (Or Southern named only Amé Gorret. route.) ascended to the J.-Augustin Meynet. summit. See pp. 282, 304-6. 1867. 3 Aug. 13-15 F. Craufurd Grove Breil Guides—J. A. Carrel, Salamon Meynet, and J. B. Bich. 4 Sept. 12-14 Jos. Maquignaz. Breil An easier route J.-Pierre Maquignaz. was discovered Victor Maquignaz. by this party Cæsar Carrel. than that taken J.-B. Carrel. upon July 17, 1865. The first two named only ascended to the summit. See p. 309. 5 Oct. 1-3 W. Leighton Jordan Breil Guides—the Maquignaz’s just named, Cæsar Carrel, and F. Ansermin. The Maquignaz’s and Mr. Jordan alone reached the summit. 1868. 6 July 24-25 J. M. Elliott Zermatt Guides—Jos. Marie Lochmatter and Peter Knubel. 7 July 26-28 J. Tyndall Up Breil Guides—Jos. and side and Pierre Maquignaz, down Zermatt and three others. side. 8 Aug. 2-4 O. Hoiler. ” ? Account given in F. Thioly. hotel-book at Breil is not very clear. Guides seem to have been Jos. and Victor Maquignaz and Elie Pession. 9 Aug. 3-4 G. E. Foster Zermatt Guides—Hans Baumann, Peter Bernett, and Peter Knubel. 10 Aug. 8 Paul Guessfeldt Zermatt Guides—Jos. Marie Lochmatter, Nich. Knubel, and Peter Knubel. 11 Sept. 1-2 A. G. Girdlestone. Zermatt Guides—Jos. Marie F. Craufurd Grove. Lochmatter and W. E. U. Kelso. the two Knubels. 12 Sept. 2-3 G. B. Marke Zermatt Guides—Nich. Knubel and Pierre Zurbriggen (Saas). 13 Sept. 3-5 F. Giordano Up Breil Guides—J. A. side and Carrel and down Zermatt Jos. Maquignaz. side. See p. 310. 14 Sept. 8-9 Paul Sauzet Breil Guides—J. A. Carrel and Jos. Maquignaz. 1869. 15 July 20 James Eccles Breil Guides—J. A. Carrel, Bich, and two Payots (Chamounix). 16 Aug. 26-27 R. B. Heathcote Breil Guides—The four Maquignaz’s (Val Tournanche). 1870. 17 July 20 (?) ? Zermatt No details have come to hand. 1871. 18 July 16-17 E. R. Whitwell Zermatt Guides—Ulrich and Ch. Lauener. 19 July 21-22 F. Gardiner. Zermatt Guides—Peter F. Walker. Perrn, P. Knubel, Lucy Walker. N. Knubel, Melchior Anderegg, and Heinrich Anderegg. 20 ? — Fowler Zermatt Guides—C. Knubel and J. M. Lochmatter. 21 Aug. 2-3 W. E. Utterson-Kelso Breil Guides—Victor and Emmanuel Maquignaz and Joseph Gillioz. 22 Aug. 7-8 R. S. Lyle Breil Guides—J. J. Maquignaz and ? 23 Aug. 18-19 C. E. Mathews. Breil Guides—J. A. F. Morshead. Carrel and Melchior Anderegg, with two porters. 24 Sept. 4-5 M. C. Brevoort. Zermatt to Breil Guides—Ch. W. A. B. Coolidge. Almer, Ulr. Almer, and N. Knubel. 25 Sept. 7-8 R. Fowler Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter and P. Knubel. 1872. 26 July 22-23 F. Gardiner. Zermatt to Breil Guides—J. T. Middlemore. Maquignaz, Peter Knubel, and Johann Jaun. 27 July 21 H. Bicknell ? Guides—Not known. 28 July 24-25 R. Pendlebury. Zermatt to Breil Guides—Peter W. M. Pendlebury. Taugwalder C. Taylor. _fils_, Gabriel Spechtenhauser, and F. Imseng. 29 July 26 J. Jackson Breil to Zermatt Guides—Jos. Maquignaz and Anton Ritz. 30 July ? F. A. Wallroth ? Guides—Not known. 31 Aug. 29-30 A. Rothschild Zermatt Guides—Franz Biener and two Knubels. 32 Sept. 1-2 G. A. Passingham Zermatt Guides—F. Imseng and Franz Andermatten. 33 Sept. 9-10 H. Denning. Zermatt Guides—Melchior E. Hutchins. Schlapp, Peter J. Young. Rubi, and two Knubels. 34 Sept. 10-11 L. Saunderson Zermatt Guides—Peter Bohren and Peter Knubel. 35 Sept. 11-12 E. Millidge Zermatt Guide— — Pollinger. 36 Sept. 11-12 D. J. Abercromby Zermatt Guides—N. Knubel and P. J. Knubel. 37 Sept. 16-17 C. Bronzet Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel, F. Truffer, and J. Truffer. 1873. 38 July 6-7 T. Cox. Zermatt Guides—Peter J. Gardiner. Knubel and J. M. Lochmatter. 39 July 6-7 C. Théraulaz Zermatt Guides—J. Gillot and Ignace Sarbach. 40 July 21-22 A. F. Leach Zermatt Guides—P. Taugwalder _fils_ and J. M. Kronig. 41 July 21-22 T. A. Bishop Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel, P. J. Knubel, and F. Devouassoud. 42 July 23-24 H. Salmond Breil Guides—Not known. 43 July 23-24 A. G. Puller. Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel and Jos. Maquignaz. 44 July 25-26 E. Leatham Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel and Joseph Imboden. 45 July 25-27 W. W. Simpson Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel, P. Maquignaz, and a Chamounix guide. 46 July 29-30 M. Déchy Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel and P. Taugwalder _fils_. 47 Aug. 3 J. Bischoff. Zermatt Guides— E. Burckhardt. 48 Aug. 6-7 Emile Veyrin Zermatt Guides—P. J. Knubel; porter, Joh. Knubel. 49 Aug. 9-10 L. Ewbank Zermatt Guides—J. M. and Alex. Lochmatter. 50 Aug. 11 G. E. Hulton. Zermatt Guides—Ch. F. C. Hulton. Lauener, Johann Fischer, and Peter Rubi. 51 Aug. 11-12 Marquis Maglioni Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel, Edouard Capelin; porter H. Knubel. 52 Aug. 14-15 F. Dawkins Zermatt Guides—Franz Andermatten, A. Burgener; porter, Abraham Imseng. 53 Aug. 15-16 J. F. Bramston. Zermatt Guides—Melchior F. Morshead. Anderegg, B. C. H. Hawkins. Nageli, and J. M. Lochmatter. 54 Aug. 16 H. S. Hoare Zermatt Guides—Johann von Bergen and A. Pollinger. 55 Aug. 18-22 E. Pigeon. Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. — Pigeon. Carrel, V. Maquignaz, and J. Martin. This party was confined in the hut on the Italian side from the 18th to the 21st of August, by bad weather; and in descending upon the Zermatt side it was surprised by night before the _cabane_ could be reached, and had to pass the night on the open mountain-side. 56 Aug. 22-23 F. P. Barlow Zermatt Guides—Jakob Anderegg and P. Taugwalder _fils_. 57 Oct 2-3 W. W. Stuart Breil to Zermatt Guides—Jos. Maquignaz, F. Bic, and Jos. Balmat. 1874. 58 July 14-15 T. G. Bonney Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter and J. Petrus. 59 July 17-18 F. Wolf Zermatt Guides—A. Pollinger and Jos. Lauber. 60 July 18-19 A. Millot and wife Zermatt Guides—Melchior Anderegg, A. Maurer, and P. Taugwalder _fils_. 61 July ? H. Lamb ? Guides—Not known. 62 July 19-20 J. Baumann Zermatt Guide-Ulrich Lauener. 63 July 23-24 ? E. Javelle Breil to Zermatt Guides— 64 July 27-29 L. K. Rankine Zermatt Guides—A. Pollinger and Jos. Längen. 65 Aug. 7 J. Birkbeck, Jun. Breil to Breil Guides—J. Petrus and J. B. Bic. Mr. Birkbeck and his guides started from Breil, crossed the mountain to the northern side, and returned to Breil, in 19 hours. 66 Aug. 7-8 G. F. Cobb. Zermatt Guides—P. S. Forster. Taugwalder A. M. Tod. _fils_, Jos. Taugwalder, and A. Summermatter. 67 Aug. 7-8 M. Bramston Zermatt Guide—B. Nageli. 68 Aug. 12 G. Dévin Zermatt Guides—L. Pollinger and Henri Séraphin. 69 Aug. 19-20 L. N. Walford Zermatt Guides—Alex. Burgener and B. Venetz. 70 Aug. 20-21 A. D. Puckle Zermatt Guides—J. Petrus and N. Knubel. 71 Aug. 20-21 R. Lindt Zermatt Guides—Ig. Sarbach and Peter Sulzer. 72 Aug. 20-22 Edward Whymper Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel, J. B. Bic, and J. M. Lochmatter. An ascent made for the sake of photography. Passed two nights in the Zermatt _cabane_. 73 Aug. 22-23 W. E. Davidson Zermatt Guides—Laurent Lanier and Ig. Sarbach. 74 Aug. 23 Prof. G. B—— ? Guides—P. Prof. K—— Maquignaz, E. Pession, and Chas. Gorret. Account is illegible. 75 Aug. 25 F. W. Headley. Zermatt Guides—A. E. P. Arnold. Pollinger and J. J. Truffer. 76 Aug. 25 H. J. Smith Zermatt Guides—Alex. Lochmatter and Jos. Längen. 77 Aug. 25 M. J. Boswell Zermatt Guides—Jos. Imboden and Jos. Sarbach. 78 Aug. 26 W. J. Lewis Zermatt Guides—Moritz Julen and Jos. Taugwalder. 79 Aug. 27 W. Stirling Zermatt Guides—Johann Petrus and Franz Burgener. 80 Aug. 28 J. H. Pratt. Zermatt Guides—J. A. — Prothero. Carrel and P. Knubel. Ascent made in one day. 81 Aug. 31 H. N. Malan Zermatt Guides—Jean Martin and A. Lochmatter. 82 Sept. 1-2 W. A. Lewis Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter and P. Imboden. 83 Sept. 2 E. Dent. Zermatt Guide—A. C. T. Dent. Burgener. 84 Sept. 2 J. W. Borel Zermatt Guides—A. Pollinger and J. J. Truffer. 85 Sept. 3 Ernst Calbenla Zermatt Guides—P. Bohren and P. Müller. 86 Sept. 8 A. H. Simpson. Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel, M. Cullinan. P. J. Knubel, and P. Truffer. 87 Sept. 8 A. H. Burton Zermatt Guides—P. Baumann, P. Taugwalder, and B. Nageli. 88 Sept. 9 E. Pigeon. Zermatt Guides—N. and — Pigeon. J. Knubel, and F. Sarbach. 89 Sept. 16-17 W. Nägeli Zermatt Guides—J. and P. Knubel. 1875. 90 May 10 — Corona ? Guides—J. A. Carrel and J. J. Maquignaz. Account is perfectly illegible. 91 Aug. 2-3 L. Brioschi Zermatt Guides—F. and A. Imseng and P. J. Andermatten. 92 Aug. 10 J. W. Hartley Zermatt Guides—P. Rubi and J. Moser. 93 Aug. 10-11 F. T. Wethered Zermatt Guides—Ch. Almer and A. Pollinger. 94 Aug. 11 A. Fairbanks. Zermatt Guide—J. Perrn, W. Fairbanks. and a porter. 95 Aug. 12 D. L. Pickman Zermatt Guides—J. Taugwalder and F. Biener. Ascent made in one day. 96 Aug. 16 D. Merritt Zermatt Guides—No information. 97 Aug. 16 E. Hornby Zermatt Guides—A. and F. Pollinger. 98 Aug. 16 J. J. Morgan. Zermatt Guides—J. C. L. Morgan. Imboden and J. Sarbach. 99 Aug. 16 A. W. Payne Zermatt Guide—J. Taugwalder. 100 Aug. 17 J. H. Pratt. Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. W. Leaf. Carrel and N. Knubel. 101 Aug. 19-20 F. Tendron. Zermatt Guides—F. and G. F. Vernon. P. Sarbach and J. Taugwalder. 102 Aug. 23-24 H. R. Whitehouse Zermatt Guides—P. J. Knubel and P. T. Truffer. 103 Aug. 26-27 F. Morshead. Zermatt Guides—M. A. O. Prickard. Anderegg, Ch. H. S. Wilson. Lauener, and J. Moser. 104 Sept. 7 H. G. Gotch Zermatt Guides—Ig. and Jos. Sarbach. 105 Sept. 8 R. King Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel and Jos. Coulter, and (porter) A. Payot. 106 Sept. 8 H. Loschge Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. Petrus and A. Ranier. 107 Sept. 9 P. Methuen Zermatt Guides—Johann Jaun and A. Maurer. 108 Sept. 14 — Butter Zermatt Guides—Jos. Imboden and J. Brantschen. 109 Sept. 15 W. Kittan Zermatt Guides—J. Petrus and Franz Burgener. 1876. 110 July 22-23 A. H. Cawood. Zermatt Without guides, J. B. Colgrove. and with two A. Cust. porters. 111 July 29 J. Hazel. Zermatt Guides—P. W. F. Loverell. Maquignaz and F. Zuber. 112 July 30 Eug. Dacqué Zermatt Guides—Borren (Bohren?) and Platter (?). 113 Aug. 3-4 F. Corbett. Zermatt Guides—F. M. Courtenay. Burgener, P. Taugwalder _fils_, and J. Taugwalder. 114 Aug. 3-4 P. A. Singer. Zermatt Guides—J. P. A. Singer. Imboden, Jos. Perrn, P. Perrn, and F. Perrn (porter). 115 Aug. 6-7 D. E. Cardinal Zermatt Guides—Pierre Carrel and Louis Carrel. 116 Aug. 7 F. Reiners. Zermatt Guides—P. and M. Haushofer. J. Knubel. 117 Aug. 8-9 H. de Saussure Zermatt Guides—A. Burgener and J. Knubel. 118 Aug. 8-9 W. Cooke Zermatt Guides—Louis Carrel and Pierre Carrel. 119 Aug. 8-9 J. J. Bischoff Zermatt Guides—J. Petrus, P. T. Truffer, and another. 120 Aug. 9 Joseph Seiler Zermatt Guides— — Lauber and ? An one day ascent. 121 Aug. 9-10 W. J. Whelpdale. Zermatt Guides—J. M. C. Weightmann. Lochmatter, A. Ritz, and Jos. Brantschen as porter. 122 Aug. 10 P. Watson Zermatt Guides—Alex. Burgener and B. Venetz. 123 Aug. 12 S. Waller. Zermatt Guides—J. M. G. Fitzgerald. Lochmatter and J. Lauber. 124 Aug. 12 H. Meyer. Zermatt Guides—Jos. C. Estertag. Brantschen, P. J. Knubel, and Jos. Taugwalder. 125 Aug. 12 J. Jackson. Zermatt Guides—Christian T. H. Kitson. and Ulrich Almer. Ascent in one day. 126 Aug. 12 Jos. Nantermod Zermatt Guides—A. Pollinger and B. Andenmatten. 127 Aug. 14 C. E. Mathews. Zermatt Guides—M. F. Morshead. Anderegg and ? Ascent made in one day. 128 (?) — Dent. Zermatt Guide—Alex. Burgener. 129 Aug. 28-29 G. W. Prothero. Zermatt to Breil Guide—J. A. Carrel. 1877. 130 Aug. 4 O. Boenaud. Zermatt Guides—No G. Mermod. information. L. Mermod. 131 Aug. 13-14 Q. Sella. Zermatt to Breil Guides—J. A. L. Biraghi. Carrel, — Imseng, J. B. Carrel, Louis Carrel, Jos. and Vict. Maquignaz, etc. etc. 132 Aug. 19 W. H. Grenfell. Breil Guides— — Imseng J. H. A. Peebles. and ? 133 Aug. 20 W. Penhall Zermatt Guides—Jos. Imboden and P. Taugwalder _fils_. 134 Aug. 24-25 G. Fitzgerald Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter and Joseph Lauber. 135 Aug. 29 J. A. Cooper Zermatt Guides—Alex and Alois Burgener. 136 Aug. 30 J. D. Griffiths Zermatt Guides—Basile Andenmatten and ? 137 Aug. 30 J. F. Yearsley Zermatt Guides—F. Burgener, P. Andenmatten, and (porter) — Blumenthal. 138 Aug. 30-31 J. C. Leman Zermatt Guides— — Pollinger and ? 139 Aug. 30-31 T. de Cambray Digny Zermatt to Breil Guides—J. A. Carrel and Henri Séraphin. 140 Sept. 4 J. Freitschke Zermatt Guide—Basile Andenmatten. 141 Sept. 4-5 H. Loschge Zermatt to Breil Guides—Alex. Burgener and a Tyrol guide. 142 Sept. 6-7 J. Nérot Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel, a Chamounix guide, and a porter. 1878. 143 ? T. Jose Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter, P. Knubel, and Pierre Truffer. 144 Sept. 7 Carl Hecke Zermatt Guide—Basile Andenmatten. 145 Sept. 9 Jules Seiler Zermatt Guides—P. Knubel and Basile Andenmatten. 146 Sept. 21 Dr. Minnigerode Zermatt Guides—J. M. Lochmatter and J. Taugwalder. 147 Sept. 11-12 C. J. Thompson Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel and — Imseng. 1879. 148 Aug. 12-13 Dr. Lüscher. Up Breil side Guides—J. M. Prof. Schiess. and down Zermatt Lochmatter, Jos. side. Brantschen, and Petryson (Evolena). Brantschen was left behind in the hut on the “_cravate_,” and died there. 149 Aug. 13 W. W. R. Powell Zermatt Guides—Peter Taugwalder _fils_ and A. Imseng. 150 Aug. 13-14 C. E. Freeman Breil to Zermatt Guides—J. A. Carrel and—Sopersac (Saas). 151 Aug. 13-14 A. E. Craven. Zermatt Guides—P. Rubi W. O. Moseley. and C. Inabnit. Dr. Moseley lost his life in descending the mountain. See Appendix *D*. 152 Aug. 28-29 C. E. B. Watson Zermatt to Breil Guides—P. Anderegg and A. Imboden. 153 Aug. G. H. Savage Zermatt Guides—Jos. 30-Sept. 1 Imboden and Franz Andermatten. Dr. Savage slept on the Hörnli Aug. 30; began the ascent by moonlight at a little before 2 A.M. on Sept. 1, reached the summit at 6.30 A.M., and returned to Zermatt by 12.30 P.M. 154 Sept. 2-3 A. F. Mummery Z’Mutt side Mr. Mummery was the first to ascend the Matterhorn from the side of the Z’Mutt Glacier. No details have been received. 155 Sept. 2-3 W. Penhall Z’Mutt side Guides—Ferdinand Imseng and Louis Sorbrichen. Mr. Penhall also made his ascent upon the Z’Mutt side, but took a route more to the south than that followed by Mr. Mummery. 156 Sept. 4-5 B. Wainewright Zermatt to Breil Guides—Jos. Imboden and Peter Sarbach. 157 Sept. 4-5 H. Hoare Zermatt Guide—J. Anderegg and (porter) Jos. Chanton. 158 Sept. 5-6 J. Baumann Z’Mutt side Guides—Petrus (Stalden) and Emile Rey. Mr. Mummery’s route was followed. 159 ? J. Maurer Breil to Zermatt Guides—? No information.
The above table is known to be imperfect, and the Author will be obliged if
correspondents will enable him to correct and extend it. Communications should
be addressed to him Care of the Publisher.
Le Matterhorn ou Mont Cervin est formé depuis la base jusqu’au sommet de roches stratifiées en bancs assez réguliers, qui sont tous légèrement rélevés vers l’Est, savoir vers le Mont Rose. Ces roches quoiqu’évidemment d’origine sédimentaire ont une structure fortement cristalline qui doit être l’effet d’une puissante action de métamorphisme très développée dans cette région des Alpes. Dans la série des roches constituantes du Mont Cervin l’on peut faire une distinction assez marquée, savoir celles formant la base inférieure de la montagne, et celles formant le pic proprement dit.
Les roches de la base qu’on voit dans le Val Tournanche, dans le vallon de Z’Mutt, au col de Théodule et ailleurs, sont en général des schistes talqueux, serpentineux, chloriteux, et amphiboliques, alternant fort souvent avec des schistes calcaires à noyaux quartzeux. Ces schistes calcaires de couleur brunâtre alternent ça et là avec des dolomies, des cargueules, et des quartzites tégulaires. Cette formation calcaréo-serpentineuse est très étendue dans les environs. Le pic au contraire est tout formé d’un gneiss talqueux, souvent à gros éléments, alternant parfois à quelques bancs de schistes talqueux et quartzeux, mais sans bancs calcaires. Vers le pied ouest du pic, le gneiss est remplacé par de l’euphotide granitoïde massive, qui semble y former une grosse lentille se fondant de tous côtés dans le gneiss même. Du reste, les roches du Cervin montrent partout des exemples fort instructifs de passages graduels d’une structure à l’autre, résultant du métamorphisme plus ou moins avancé.
Le pic actuel n’est que le reste d’une puissante formation géologique ancienne, triasique peut-être, dont les couches puissantes de plus de 3500 mètres enveloppaient tout autour comme un immense manteau le grand massif granitoïde et feldspathique du Mont Rose. Aussi son étude détaillée, qui par exception est rendue fort facile par la profondeur des vallons d’où il surgit, donne la clef de la structure géologique de beaucoup d’autres montagnes des environs. On y voit partout le phénomène assez curieux d’une puissante formation talqueuse très cristalline, presque granitoïde, régulièrement superposée à une formation schisteuse et calcarifère. Cette même constitution géologique est en partie la cause de la forme aiguë et de l’isolement du pic qui en font la merveille des voyageurs. En effet, tandis que les roches feuilletées de la base, étant facilement corrodées par l’action des météores et de l’eau, ont été facilement creusées en vallées larges et profondes, la roche supérieure qui constitue la pyramide donne lieu par sa dureté à des fendillements formant des parois escarpées qui conservent au pic ce profil élancé, et caractéristique alpin. Les glaciers qui entourent son pied de tous les côtés, en emportant d’une manière continue les débris tombant de ses flancs, contribuent pour leur part à maintenir cet isolement de la merveilleuse pyramide qui sans eux serait peut-être déjà ensevelie sous ses propres ruines.
References to the Geological Section of the Matterhorn.
[Illustration: GEOLOGICAL SECTION OF THE MATTERHORN. (MONT CERVIN)
BY SIGNOR
F. GIORDANO.]
BY SIGNOR
F. GIORDANO.
In the second edition of Tyndall’s Hours of Exercise in the Alps the Professor
made some additional remarks upon his defeat in 1862, and to these
remarks I replied in No. 35 of the Alpine Journal. I do not feel that the
additional information afforded in these publications possesses the least interest
to the majority of my readers, and therefore I do not reprint it; and I refer to
it only for the sake of those who may be desirous to pursue the subject.
The things which tumble about the ears of unwary travellers
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET
AND CHARING CROSS.
Italic type is marked by underscore (_), boldface by asterisk (*).
The illustrations have been placed between paragraphs in the electronic text. This may result in a changed page number in comparison to the List of Illustrations.
The following changes have been made to the text:
firechanged to
fir
Cormayeurchanged to
Courmayeur
regelechanged to
regale,
Pernnchanged to
Perrn
naturrallychanged to
naturally
That
crriticalchanged to
critical
47-9
Andermatten
Taugwalder
Variations
in accentuation (chalet
/châlet
), hyphenation (e.g. commonplace
/common-place
,
midday
/mid-day
) and spelling (Ortler
/Orteler
)
have not been changed.