“DEAR HEART,” said Tommy, when Mr Barlow had finished his narrative, “what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world!”

“It is very true,” answered Mr Barlow, “but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every possible manner, so that we may be able to struggle against them.”

Thus quoted, from Sandford and Merton, a president of the Alpine Club. The following True Tales from the Hills, if they serve to emphasise not only the perils of mountaineering but the means by which they can be lessened, will have accomplished the aim of their editor.

This book is not intended for the climber. To him most of the tales will be familiar in the volumes on the shelves of his library or on the lips of his companions during restful hours in the Alps. But the non-climber rarely sees The Alpine Journal and the less popular books on mountaineering, nor would he probably care to search in their pages for narratives likely to interest him.

To seek out tales of adventure easily intelligible to the non-climber, to edit them in popular form, to point out the lessons which most adventures can teach to those who may climb themselves one day, has occupied many pleasant hours, rendered doubly so by the feeling that I shall again come into touch with the readers who gave so kindly a greeting to my True Tales of Mountain Adventure. In that work I tried to explain the principles of mountaineering and something of the nature of glaciers and avalanches. Those chapters will, I think, be found helpful by non-climbers who read the present volume.

For much kindly advice and help in compiling this work I am indebted to Mr Henry Mayhew, of the British Museum, and to Mr Clinton Dent. Mrs Maund has enabled me to quote from a striking article by her late husband. Sir W. Martin Conway, Sir H. Seymour King, Messrs Tuckett, G. E. Foster, Cecil Slingsby, Harold Spender, and Edward Fitzgerald have been good enough to allow me to make long extracts from their writings. Messrs Newnes have generously permitted me to quote from articles which appeared in their publications, and the editor of The Cornhill has sanctioned my reprinting portions of a paper from his magazine. I am also indebted to the editor of M‘Clure’s Magazine for a similar courtesy.

Mons. A. Campagne, Inspector of Water and Forests (France), allows me to make use of two very interesting photographs from his work on the Valley of Barège. Several friends have lent me photographs for reproduction in this work, and their names appear under each of the illustrations I owe to them. Messrs Spooner have kindly allowed me to use several by the late Mr W. F. Donkin. When not otherwise stated, the photographs are from my own negatives.

I take this opportunity of heartily thanking those climbers, some of them personally unknown to me, whose assistance has rendered this work possible.

E. LE BLOND.

67 The Drive,
BRIGHTON, December 1903.

ADVENTURES ON THE ROOF
OF THE WORLD

IN a former work, I have given some details of the training of an Alpine guide, so I will not repeat them here.

The party were making the ascent of Mount Sefton, and were much troubled by the looseness of the rock on the almost vertical face which they had to climb. However, at last they reached a ridge, “along which,” writes Mr Fitzgerald, “we proceeded between two precipices, descending to the Copland and to the Mueller valleys—some 6000 feet sheer drop on either hand.

“We had next to climb about 300 feet of almost perpendicular cliff. The rocks were peculiarly insecure, and we were obliged to move by turns, wherever possible throwing down such rocks as seemed most dangerous. At times even this resource was denied us, so dangerous was the violent concussion with which these falling masses would shake the ridge to which we clung. I carried both the ice axes, so as to leave Zurbriggen both hands free to test each rock as he slowly worked his way upwards, while I did my utmost to avoid being in a position vertically beneath him.

“After the rope had jerked me up I felt it again slip and give way, and I came down slowly for a couple of yards. I took this to mean that Zurbriggen was being wrenched from his foot-hold, and I was just contemplating how I should feel dashing down the 6000 feet below, and wondering vaguely how many times I should strike the rocks on the way. I saw the block that I had dislodged going down in huge bounds; it struck the side three or four times, and then, taking an enormous plunge of about 2000 feet, embedded itself in the glacier now called the Tuckett Glacier.

“His first fear was that I had been half killed, for he saw the rock fall almost on top of me; but, as a matter of fact, after striking my chest it had glanced off to the right and passed under my right arm; it had started from a point so very near to me that it had not time to gain sufficient impetus to strike me with great force. Zurbriggen’s first words were, ‘Are you very much hurt?’ I answered, ‘No,’ and again I asked him whether he were firmly placed. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I am very badly situated here. Turn round as soon as you can; I cannot hold you much longer.’ I gave a kick at the rocks with one foot, and with a great effort managed to swing myself round.

The remainder of the way was far from easy, but without further mishap the party eventually gained the summit.

That there are many grades of Alpine guides was amusingly exemplified once upon a time at the Montanvert, where in front of the hotel stood the famous Courmazeur guide, Emil Rey (afterwards killed on the Dent du Géant), talking to the Duke of Abruzzi and other first-rate climbers, while a little way off lounged some extremely indifferent specimens of the Chamonix Societé des Guides. Presently a tourist, got up with much elegance, and leaning on a tall stick surmounted by a chamois horn, appeared upon the scene, and addressed himself to Emil Rey. “Combien pour traverser la Mer de Glace?” he enquired.

“Monsieur,” replied Rey, removing his hat with one hand and with the other indicating the group hard by, “voila les guides pour la Mer de Glace! Moi, je suis pour la grande montagne!”

Both Mr Sloggett and Gentinetta made an excellent recovery, though they were laid up for many weeks after their memorable descent of the Matterhorn.

The qualities found in a first-class guide include not only skill in climbing, but the ability to form a sound conclusion when overtaken by storm and mist. The following experience which took place in 1874, and which I am permitted by Mrs Maund to quote from her late husband’s article in The Alpine Journal, proves, by its happy termination, that Maurer’s judgment in a critical position was thoroughly to be relied on. Mr Maund had just arrived at La Bérarde, in Dauphiné, and he writes:—

“A little before six the snow ceased, and for a moment the sun tried to wink at us through a chink in his snow-charged blanket, before he went to bed—long enough, however, for us to see La Grave far below, with every alp almost down to the village itself covered with its white mantle.

“And then, as our second night closes in, the snow recommences, and we draw closer together even than before; for we feel that during the long hours to come we must economise to the fullest the little animal heat left in us.

“I woke Martin, and at a quarter to six, after thirty-five hours’ burial, we crawled out of our shelter. At first neither of us could stand, so chilled were we by long exposure, and so cramped by our enforced position, but after a good thaw in the hot sun we managed to hobble about, and pack the knapsacks. After eating the few scraps that remained, we started at seven o’clock up the ridge that we had descended two days before.

“We were very shaky on our legs at first, but at each step the stiffness seemed to wear off, and after half an hour we quite recovered their use; but there remained an all-pervading sense of emptiness inside that was not exhilarating. After ascending a short distance, and with my telescope carefully examining the rocks, we determined to descend to the glacier below us (the western branch), and crossing this get on to some more rocks beneath the lower ice-fall. If we could get down these our way seemed clear.

“After a hot bath, and some bread-crumbs soaked in warm wine, I went to bed, and the next morning I awoke as well as I am now, with the exception of stiffness in the knees, and a slight frost-bite on one hand. Martin, however, who, I suspect, had eaten a good deal on his arrival, was seized with severe cramp, and for some hours was very ill.

“Two days’ rest put us all to rights again.”

THERE are few instances so striking of the capacity of a party of thoroughly experienced mountaineers to get out of a really tight place, as was the outcome of the two days spent by Messrs Mummery, Slingsby, and Ellis Carr, on an ice slope in the Mont Blanc district. The party intended trying to ascend the Aiguille du Plan direct from the Chamonix valley. Mr Ellis Carr has generously given me permission to make use of his account, which I quote from The Alpine Journal. He relates the adventures of himself and his two friends, whose names are household words to climbers, as follows:—

“I am not aware that any authority has fixed the exact degree of steepness at which it becomes impossible to use the ice axe with both hands, but, whatever portion of a right angle the limit may be, Mummery very soon reached it, and commenced excavating with his right hand caves in the ice, each with an internal lateral recess by which to support his weight with his left. Slingsby and I, meanwhile possessing our souls in patience, stood in our respective steps, as on a ladder, and watched his steady progress with admiration, so far as permitted us by the falling ice dislodged by the axe.

“Above our heads the top of the wall was crowned by a single projecting stone towards which the leader cut, and which, when reached, just afforded sufficient standing-room for both feet. The ice immediately below this stone, for a height of 12 or 14 feet, was practically perpendicular, and Slingsby’s definition of it as a ‘frozen waterfall’ is the most appropriate I can find. Here and there Mummery found it necessary to cut through its entire thickness, exposing the face of the rock behind.